“Where have you been?” Wren asks her, rubbing her thumb over the enormous scrape across the side of Emma’s left foot. “Did he take you where he took me?”
She hears Leroux coming down the hallway now, his voice echoing across the corridor while he jokes with a couple of techs. He lets out an infectious laugh, and Wren’s scrambled thoughts suddenly click into place. Leroux presses the button to activate the sliding door to the autopsy suite.
“All right, Muller, what’s going on?” he asks as he steps through the doors. The look on his face is one of genuine concern, but Wren struggles to sort out which bomb to drop first. She turns to look at him, still holding the metal clipboard with Emma’s external examination records.
“John, do you guys have any leads about where the killer pursued his victims?” she answers with a question of her own.
“You sure you’re ready to get into it?”
She clears her throat and reaches out her hand to grip the cool metal table in front of her.
She nods. “You have no idea.”
Leroux takes a seat on a rolling stool.
“Well, when you recorded the same types of wounds that one would get from running across a densely forested area in all our latest victims, we flagged it. He’s clearly drawn to the chase, or rather, the hunt.” He stops to take a breath and pushes on. “But what we can’t figure out is where he’s able to do this.”
“A controlled environment,” Wren finishes his thought. Leroux smiles.
“Exactly. There’s not a chance in hell that this guy doesn’t control the whole ordeal. It has to be a place where he can do what he wants without any real fear of them escaping. It’s simulated risk.”
“He has a house,” she says without looking at Leroux, who nods along.
“For sure. He’s got to have a pretty decent plot of undeveloped land because the injuries we are seeing aren’t from running through a manicured backyard.”
Leroux stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he often does when he’s thinking through something. He begins to wander, pausing to look at anatomical models. Wren swallows hard.
“He inherited his parents’ home,” she says finally, almost in a whisper.
“Make sure you stretch next time you make a leap like that!” He chuckles, looking at her with a furrowed brow.
Wren bites at a piece of skin on her lip, taking a second to collect her thoughts enough to convey information coherently. After a beat, she turns to look at Leroux.
“I’m not plucking it out of the air, John. I know who is doing this.”
Leroux’s face twists into an incredulous smirk.
“What? Muller, is this what you were talking about on the phone?”
“Part of it. I know this man—he’s capable, he is intelligent, and I imagine he’s currently set up on his dead parents’ land.” She glances at Leroux, who looks as if she just told him she can fly. “It’s Cal.”
“Cal? Who the hell is Cal? Should I know that name? Cal who?” he stammers.
“John, do you remember the girl who survived the Bayou Butcher seven years ago?”
“Yeah, Emily something. I remember reading about her in my father’s files. What does that have to do with this?”
Wren sucks in a breath, then meets his eyes. “It’s Maloney. And it’s me. I’m Emily Maloney.”
It’s like a ghost walked into the room. Leroux’s face goes white as he struggles to find the correct words. He shifts his gaze down, clearly trying to connect it all in his head. He looks at her anew, trying to find confirmation in her eyes. Wren nods. He is silent, allowing her the space to continue when she’s ready.