Riley turned off the engine and sat before Bill's house, admiring his pleasant two-story bungalow. She'd always wondered how he managed to keep that front lawn such a healthy green and those ornamental shrubs so immaculately trimmed. Bill's domestic life might be in turmoil, but he sure did keep a nice yard, a perfect fit for this picturesque residential neighborhood. She couldn't help wondering what all the backyards looked like in this little community so close to Quantico.
Bill came out, his wife, Maggie, appearing behind him and giving Riley a ferocious glare. Riley looked away.
Bill got in and slammed the door behind him.
"Let's get the hell out of here," he growled.
Riley started the car and pulled away from the curb.
"I take it all is not well at home," she said.
Bill shook his head.
"We had a big fight when I got home so late last night. It all started up again this morning."
He was silent for a moment, then added grimly, "She's talking about divorce again. And she wants full custody of the boys."
Riley hesitated, but then she went ahead and asked the question that was on her mind, "And I'm part of the problem?"
Bill was silent.
"Yeah," he finally admitted. "She wasn't happy to hear that we're working together again. She says you're a bad influence."
Riley didn't know what to say.
Bill added, "She says I'm at my worst when I'm working with you. I'm more distracted, more obsessed with my job."
True enough, Riley thought. She and Bill were both obsessed with their jobs.
Silence fell again as they drove. After a few minutes, Bill opened up his laptop.
"I've got some details about the guy we're going to talk to. Ross Blackwell."
He scanned the screen.
"A registered sex offender," he added.
Riley's lip curled in disgust.
"What charges?"
"Possession of child pornography. He was suspected of more but nothing was ever proved. He's in the database but no restrictions on his activity. It was ten years back, and this photo is pretty old."
Sneaky, she thought. Maybe hard to trap.
Bill continued reading.
"Fired from several jobs, for vague reasons. The last time he was working in a chain store in a big mall in the Beltway—really mainstream commercial stuff, and its market is mostly families with kids. When they caught Blackwell posing dolls in kinky positions, they fired and reported him."
"A man with a quirk about dolls and a record of child pornography," Riley muttered.
So far, Ross Blackwell fit the profile that she was starting to put together.
"And now?" she asked.
"He's got a job in a hobby and model shop," Bill replied. "Another chain store in another mall."
Riley was a bit surprised.
"Didn't the managers know about Blackwell's record when they hired him?"
Bill shrugged.
"Maybe they don't care. His interests seem to be entirely heterosexual. Maybe they don't figure he'll do much harm in a place that's all about model cars and airplanes and trains."
She felt a chill run through her body. Why would a guy like that even be able to get another job? This man seemed likely to be a vicious killer. Why would he be let out every day to cruise around among those who were vulnerable?
They finally made their way through the relentless traffic to Sanfield. The D.C. suburb struck Riley as a typical example of an "edge city," largely made up of malls and corporate headquarters. She found it to be soulless, plastic, and depressing.
She parked outside the huge shopping mall. For a moment, she just sat in the driver's seat and stared at the old photograph of Blackwell on Bill's laptop. There was nothing distinctive about his face, just a white guy with dark hair and an insolent expression. Now he would be in his fifties.
She and Bill got out of the car and made their way on foot through the consumers' utopia, until they saw the scale model store.
"I don't want to let him get away," Riley said. "What if he spots us and bolts?"
"We should be able to corner him inside," Bill replied. "Immobilize him and get the customers out."
Riley put one hand on her gun.
Not yet, she told herself. Don't cause a panic if we don't have to.
She stood there for a moment, watching the store's customers coming and going. Was one of those guys Blackwell? Was he already escaping them?
Riley and Bill walked in through the door of the model shop. Most of the space was taken up by a sprawling and detailed reproduction of a small town, complete with a running train and flashing traffic lights. Model airplanes hung from the ceiling. There wasn't a doll in sight.
Several men seemed to be working in the store, but none of them fit the image she held in her mind.
"I can't spot him," Riley said.
At the front desk Bill asked, "Do you have a certain Ross Blackwell working here?"
The man at the cash register nodded and pointed toward a rack with scale modeling kits. A short, pudgy man with graying hair was sorting the merchandise. His back was to them.
Riley touched her gun again, but left it in the holster. She and Bill spread out so they could block any escape attempt Blackwell might make.
Her heart beat faster as she approached.
"Ross Blackwell?" Riley asked.
The man turned around. He wore thick glasses and his belly protruded over his belt. Riley was especially struck by the dull, anemic pallor of his skin. She thought that he didn't seem likely to run, but her judgment of "creep" fit him just fine.
"It depends," Blackwell replied with a wide smile. "What's your business?"
Riley and Bill both showed him their badges.
"Wow, the Feds, huh?" Blackwell said, sounding almost pleased. "This is new. I'm used to dealing with the local authorities. You're not here to arrest me, I hope. Because I really thought all those weird misunderstandings were a thing of the past."
"We'd just like to ask you a few questions," Bill said.
Blackwell smirked a little and tilted his head inquiringly.
"A few questions, huh? Well, I know the Bill of Rights pretty much by heart. I don't have to talk to you if I don't want to. But hey, why not? It might even be fun. If you'll buy me a cup of coffee, I'll go along with it."
Blackwell walked toward the front desk, and Riley and Bill followed close behind him. Riley was alert for any attempt at evading them.
"I'm taking a coffee break, Bernie," Blackwell called out to the cashier.
Riley could tell by Bill's expression that he was wondering if they'd gotten the right guy. She understood why he might feel that way. Blackwell didn't seem the least bit upset to see them. In fact, he seemed to be rather pleased.
But as far as Riley was concerned, this made him seem all the more amoral and sociopathic. Some of the vilest serial killers in history had displayed plenty of charm and self-assurance. The last thing she expected was for the killer to seem the least bit guilty.
It was only a short way to the food court. Blackwell escorted Bill and Riley straight to a coffee counter. If the man was nervous about being with two FBI agents, he didn't show it.
A little girl who was trailing along behind her mother stumbled and fell just in front of them.
"Whoops!" Blackwell cried out cheerfully. He bent over and lifted the child to her feet.
The mother said an automatic thanks, then led her daughter off by the hand. Riley watched Blackwell eye the little girl's bare legs beneath her short skirt, and she felt sick to her stomach. Her suspicion deepened.
Riley grabbed Blackwell's arm hard, but he gave her a look of bewilderment and innocence. She shook his arm and let him go.
"Get your coffee," she said, nodding to nearby the cafe counter.
"I'd like a cappuccino," Blackwell said to the young woman behind the counter. "These folks are buying."
Then, turning to Bill and Riley, he asked, "What are you two having?"
"We're fine," Riley said.
Bill paid for the cappuccino, and the three of them headed toward a table that didn't have other people seated nearby.
"Okay, so what do you want to know about me?" Blackwell asked. He seemed relaxed and friendly. "I hope you're not going to get all judgmental, like the authorities I'm used to. People are so closed-minded these days."
"Closed-minded about putting dolls in obscene poses?" Bill asked.
Blackwell looked sincerely hurt. "You make it sound so dirty," he said. "There wasn't anything obscene about it. Have a look for yourselves."
Blackwell got out his cell phone and started showing photographs of his handiwork. They included little pornographic tableaus he had created inside of dollhouses. The little human figures were in various states of undress. They had been posed in an imaginative array of groupings and positions in different parts of the houses. Riley's mind boggled at the variety of sex acts portrayed in the pictures—some of them quite probably illegal in many states.
Looks plenty obscene to me, Riley thought.
"I was being satirical," Blackwell explained. "I was making an important social statement. We live in such a crass and materialistic culture. Somebody's got to make this kind of protest. I was exercising my right to free speech in a thoroughly responsible way. I wasn't abusing it. It's not like I was yelling 'fire' in a crowded theater."
Riley noticed that Bill was starting to look indignant.
"What about the little kids who stumbled across these little scenes of yours?" Bill asked. "Don't you think you were harming them?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I don't," Blackwell said rather smugly. "They get worse things out of the media every single day. There's no such thing as childhood innocence anymore. That's exactly what I was trying to tell the world. It breaks my heart, I tell you."
He actually sounds like he means it, Riley thought.
But it was obvious to her that he didn't mean it at all. Ross Blackwell didn't have a single moral or empathetic bone in his body. Riley suspected his guilt more and more with every passing moment.
She tried to read his face. It wasn't easy. Like all true sociopaths, he masked his feelings with amazing skill.
"Tell me, Ross," she said. "Do you like the outdoors? I mean like camping and fishing."
Blackwell's face lit up with a broad smile. "Oh, yeah. Ever since I was a kid. I was an Eagle Scout back in the day. I sometimes go off into the wilderness alone for weeks at a time. Sometimes I think I was Daniel Boone in a previous life."
Riley asked, "Do you like to go hunting, too?"
"Sure, all the time," he said enthusiastically. "I've got lots of trophies at home. You know, mounted heads of elks and deer. I mount them all myself. I've got a real flare for taxidermy."
Riley squinted at Blackwell.
"Do you have any favorite places? Forests and such, I mean. State and national parks."
Blackwell stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"I go to Yellowstone a lot," he said. "I suppose that's my favorite. Of course, it's hard to beat the Great Smoky Mountains. Yosemite, too. It's not easy to choose."
Bill put in, "How about Mosby State Park? Or maybe that national park near Daggett?"
Blackwell suddenly looked a bit wary.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked uneasily.
Riley knew that the moment of truth—or its opposite—had finally arrived. She reached into her purse and pulled out photographs of the murder victims, taken when they were alive.
"Can you identify any of these women?" Riley asked.
Blackwell's eyes widened with alarm.
"No," he said, his voice shaking. "I've never seen them in my life."
"Are you sure?" Riley prodded. "Maybe their names will refresh your memory. Reba Frye. Eileen Rogers. Margaret Geraty."
Blackwell seemed on the edge of sheer panic.
"Nope," he said. "I've never seen them. Never heard their names."
Riley studied his face closely for a moment. Finally, she fully understood the situation. She knew all she needed to know about Ross Blackwell.
"Thank you for your time, Ross," she said. "We'll be in touch if we need to know anything else."
Bill looked dumbfounded as he followed her out of the food court.
"What was going on back there?" he snapped. "What are you thinking? He's guilty and he knows that we're on to him. We can't let him out of our sight until we can nail him."
Riley let out a sigh of mild impatience.
"Think about it, Bill," she said. "Did you get a look at that pale skin of his? Not even a solitary freckle. That guy's scarcely spent a whole day outdoors in his life."
"So he's not really an Eagle Scout?"
Riley chuckled slightly. "Nope," she said. "And I can promise you he's never been to Yellowstone or Yosemite or the Great Smoky Mountains. And he doesn't know a thing about taxidermy."
Bill looked positively embarrassed now.
"He really had me believing him," Bill said.
Riley nodded in agreement.
"Of course he did," she said. "He's a great liar. He can make people believe he's telling the truth about anything. And he just loves to lie. He does it whenever he gets a chance—and the bigger the lies, the better."
She paused for a moment.
"The trouble is," Riley added, "he's lousy at telling the truth. He's not used to it. He loses his cool when he tries to do it."
Bill walked silently beside her for a moment, trying to take this in.
"So you're saying—?" he began.
"He was telling the truth about the women, Bill. That's why he sounded so guilty. The truth always sounds like a lie when he tries to tell it. He really and truly never saw any of those women in his life. I'm not saying he's not capable of murder. He probably is. But he didn't do these murders."
Bill growled under his breath.
"Damn," he said.
Riley didn't say anything the rest of the way to the car. This was a serious setback. The more she thought about it, the more alarmed she felt. The real killer was still out there, and they still didn't have a clue who or where he was. And she knew, she just knew, that he would soon kill again.
Riley was getting frustrated with her inability to figure this case out, but as she wracked her brain, it suddenly occurred to her who she needed to talk to. Right now.
