I Can Kill: An FBI Thriller (The O'Reilly Files Book 1)

  I CAN KILL

  Copyright © 2018 by Angela Kay, all rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form (stored or transmitted) without written permission from Angela Kay or Stained Glass Publishing. An exception is granted to the use of brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction, and all characters are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 0692065032

  ISBN-13: 978-0692065037

  First printing, March 30, 2018

  Cover design by Elizabeth MacKey

  Also by Angela Kay

  Jim DeLong Mysteries

  The Murder of Manny Grimes

  Blood Runs Cold

  The Aidan O’Reilly Files

  I Can Kill

  In Memoriam

  To my grandfather, Roy Scarborough, Jr.

  “Serial killers kill for the power and control they experience during the murders and for the added ego boost they get in the aftermath from community fears, media coverage, and the police investigations.”

  —Pat Brown

  “Evil hiding among us is an ancient theme.”

  —John Carpenter

  1

  LIEUTENANT CHRISTENSON STARED at the lifeless body of a young woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. Her eyes were closed, and her French braided hair looked like a mass of blonde spider webs. The bruising on her body was prominent, and he could tell she’d endured a great amount of torture. Her wrists and ankles held deep gashes, as though she’d once been bound by a thin wire. She had two puncture wounds on her neck indicating a taser had been used.

  She appeared to have been posed: her legs straight in front of her, head facing the sky, arms positioned over her chest. She held a bouquet of white carnations in her hands, which stood in contrast against her black dress.

  Christenson noticed her fingernails were broken and rugged. She had splinters and blood underneath them. He guessed it was possible she’d tried escaping from wherever she was originally held.

  But what struck his interest the most was the envelope resting against the carnations. It read: FBI Special Agent Aidan O’Reilly.

  Christenson had one of his men contact the Resident Agency in Augusta to notify them of the note singling out one of their agents. After hearing the details of the crime, Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge Monroe informed him she would get in touch with Agent O’Reilly and dispense a team of agents to the location.

  As he waited for the FBI to arrive, the medical examiner was finishing her first-glance examination of the body.

  One of his men interviewed the teenage couple who called it in, while two divers searched beneath the Clarks Hill Lake, and the rest of the men scoured the surrounding areas.

  So far, no other evidence had been found.

  He watched as his divers pushed their heads out from underneath the water and returned to shore. They reported to him that nothing unusual was found. He received the same from the land squad.

  Christenson frowned at the body as the medical examiner rose.

  “From what I can tell based on the body temp,” she began, removing her latex gloves, “she’s been dead for about six or seven hours. I’ll know more once I perform the autopsy. I’d have to say the cause of death was strangulation by a thin wire of some sort.”

  Christenson nodded. “I’ve been instructed by the FBI to leave the body as she was found. But once she’s released to you, she’s your first priority.”

  “Understood.”

  He stepped over to where the teenage couple stood. As he neared, he heard the young man say, “Can’t believe I actually found a dead body.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” the girl whined. The light wind bristled through her brown hair, sweeping a strand in her eyes. She brushed it to the side with a frown and hugged herself. “It’s so awful.”

  “It’s very CSI-y, isn’t it?” The boy let out a scoff.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Christenson said, frowning. “A woman’s dead.”

  The boy swallowed as his gaze settled on the lieutenant. “I didn’t mean—I was just saying—”

  Christenson ignored him with a wave of his hand and looked at the officer who interviewed the couple. “What did you get?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” the officer replied. “They planned on spending the day here but found her instead.”

  “Are you going to arrest us?” the boy asked.

  “No,” Christenson assured him. “Thank you for calling it in. You’re free to go home, but the feds may need to speak with you later.”

  “Thanks,” the girl muttered. She tugged her boyfriend’s hand and pulled him from the scene. He followed with reluctance, his eyes glued to the body by the water.

  “All right, men, listen up,” Christenson called out. His officers looked his way, giving him their attention. “When the FBI arrives, I want us to be as cooperative as possible. Understood?”

  His men muttered their agreements.

  Christenson returned to where the body rested. He wondered what her name was, who her family was. She had a wedding band, and he wondered if she and her husband had any children.

  “It’s tragic,” Sergeant Taylor stated, standing next to him.

  Christenson didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. During the thirty years he spent as a police officer, he’d seen unimaginable things.

  And he knew it wouldn’t be his last.

  All he knew to do to compensate for the evil deeds of the world was his job.

  2

  SPECIAL AGENT AIDAN O’Reilly heard the vibration of the cell phone somewhere in his deep sleep, but he still couldn’t wake himself. It had been a long week for him, and his mind was still on vacation, recuperating from the long drive home. It had been a strenuous work year so far, and it was only June. His two-week vacation was primarily hectic, preparing for his sister’s wedding yesterday morning.

  Now that he and his girlfriend were home, he had made a silent promise to himself to not answer the phone until Monday when he officially returned to duty. Because a good night’s rest wasn’t easy to come by, he liked taking advantage when he could.

  But the cell phone had other ideas and continued to vibrate, rousing both him and his girlfriend from dreamland.

  “Aidan,” he heard Cheyenne mumble. “Are you going to get that?”

  Rather than answering, he groaned, searching through the darkness for the phone and glanced at the caller ID. The blurry words read SAC Hansford. He frowned as he touched the screen to answer the call. He knew the special agent-in-charge of his field office in Atlanta wouldn’t be calling unless it was an emergency.

  “O’Reilly.” He sat up and rested his back against the headboard of the bed. After a few blinks of his eyes, he became lucid enough to focus on his boss’s voice.

  “I’m sorry to call you on your vacation, but are you back in town? I need you to report to me ASAP.”

  Aidan glanced at the red numbers on the bedside table and saw it was seven thirty in the morning. He frowned again, realizing they’d only returned home an hour ago, and he had slept a little more than thirty minutes. Even on a rare good night’s rest, he never did sleep well after a road trip. But he didn’t tell that to Hansford.

  Instead, Aidan replied, “It’s no problem, sir. What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been notified of a murder in Augusta.”

  He hesitated, and Aidan sensed something more was on his mind.

  “What is it?” Aidan asked. “You wouldn’t be calling me in for jus
t a murder. What’s going on?”

  “As I understand it, the local authorities found an envelope addressed to you.”

  Aidan’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Me? Why?” Aidan asked Hansford, his throat feeling raw.

  “I was also informed this particular body had...” Hansford paused again, “...been tased.”

  Aidan’s heart leaped to his throat, and he clambered out of bed to leave the room, so Cheyenne didn’t wake up to overhear the conversation.

  “Tased?” he repeated, keeping his voice low.

  Hansford’s silence was all Aidan needed for confirmation.

  He sat at the kitchen table in the darkness. Memories of a case he worked as a rookie agent came rushing back.

  He’d worked the investigation on and off throughout the years.

  Most members of law enforcement had the one case they went to bed dreaming of every night.

  The one case that just wouldn’t let go.

  The Carnations Killer was his first serial, and he’d been killing every year for almost ten years. Unfortunately, he had managed to outsmart even the best of the best.

  “I need you to come in. I’ll brief you on what Lieutenant Christenson of the Columbia County Sheriff’s Office said. I also already forwarded his email to you.”

  Hansford’s words were muted as Aidan considered the information.

  “Agent O’Reilly?” Hansford said after a while of silence.

  “I’m here,” Aidan replied. “I’m on my way in now.”

  After he ended the call with Hansford, he made a pot of coffee, which thankfully took only three minutes to brew, then hurried through the hall to his room. He didn’t bother with a shower, but splashed cold water on his face and ran three strokes of his comb through his hair.

  Aidan threw on a white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks, then shook Cheyenne’s shoulder. Her snoring, the only thing about her that seemed to ever bother him, slowly ceased, and she moaned, her eyes fluttering open.

  “Hey, sorry to wake you, babe,” he whispered. “But I’ve got to cut my vacation short.”

  “Why?” she muttered half-asleep.

  “I’ve been called in,” he told her. “I’ll explain later.” He kissed her cheek, telling her he loved her.

  She mumbled a response and turned over.

  Coffee thermos in hand, Aidan stepped into the hallway of their apartment complex and made his way down the stairs toward the Mazda.

  Although the Atlanta traffic was beginning to spread thick, it took him only twenty minutes to arrive to the massive building which housed the Federal Bureau of Investigations team.

  Aidan was now sitting in Hansford’s office looking over crime scene photos the lieutenant from Augusta had emailed.

  Hansford spoke as Aidan studied the photos. The victim’s name was Maya Gibson, aged twenty-eight. She was married to Clark Gibson, an elementary school teacher. Like the other victims he had investigated in The Carnations Killer murders, she was blonde and in excellent shape. She was also posed as though she were sleeping, holding a bouquet of white carnations against her chest.

  Aidan’s hands began to shake, and he tried to conceal it.

  “Where’s the scene?”

  “Clarks Hill Lake in Evans,” Hansford answered, his throat scratchy from years of chain smoking two packs a day. He scratched his curly gray hair. “I already have a helicopter ready for you. Lieutenant Christenson is sending a car to collect you and take you to the crime scene.”

  Aidan nodded. “Thank you, sir. Anything else?”

  Hansford heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to ruin your vacation, O’Reilly.”

  He forced a weak smile. “Comes with the job, sir. Maybe after ten years, I’ll get lucky.”

  “Let us hope.”

  They rose simultaneously and shook hands.

  “I'll see what I can do on my end to help catch this guy once for all.”

  Aidan never told him—or anyone for that matter—how deeply the Carnations Killer affected him, but he knew he never could. Hansford would remove him from further investigations and that was one thing Aidan refused to permit.

  With the file containing the details about Maya Gibson clutched tight in his hand, Aidan turned to leave the office and made his way to the helipad.

  3

  AFTER THE HELICOPTER ride, Aiden was escorted by two officers to Clarks Hill Lake. He showed his credentials to the officer standing behind the crime scene tape. When he was waved through, Aidan continued his way to where a crowd of police investigators was still surveying the scene. A petite man with a receding hairline, wearing a pinstriped suit stood next to a tall, dark-skinned man near the body. Aidan assumed the small man was Lieutenant Christenson.

  After introducing himself, he found he was right, and the other man was Agent Shaun Henderson, the senior resident of the field office in downtown Augusta.

  Aidan shook their hands—Christenson’s shake was wilted, while Henderson almost crushed his fingers.

  When Aidan politely referred to Henderson as “agent,” he’d requested to be called by his first name, stating they were going to be working long days together trying to track the killer.

  With an affirming nod, Aidan turned his attention to the body, kneeling for a closer look. He took note of every bruise, the black dress, white carnations, the taser marks.

  He knew right away the killer he had hunted for the past ten years had returned, and Augusta was his new hunting ground. The memories made Aidan’s heart drum against his rib cage. He balled his fists in anger, then released them, hoping his new peers didn't take notice.

  Aidan remembered the chilling call he received the night before his final victim year. It was a simple phrase meant to taunt them.

  To taunt him.

  And he remembered his cold laughter.

  I can kill, and you can’t catch me.

  Aidan wanted nothing more than to erase the voice from his memory, but it was something he thought about almost every day. He wondered if he would spend the rest of his life hearing that voice.

  “Do we know the approximate time of death?” Aidan asked, trying to push his thoughts to the back of his head.

  “M.E. believes it to be around seven hours ago, more or less,” Christenson replied.

  “Any personal belongings?”

  “No. And my forensic team combed through every inch of this place. It’s clean.”

  Aidan nodded. He knew the offender planned the murders long before he ever approached his victims.

  Aidan imagined the offender studied his victims’ daily routines. He knew who they were with. He likely knew what grocery store they frequented and the day of the week they took out the trash.

  He planned it to the tiniest detail.

  But Aidan also knew after eluding capture for so long, most killers were bound to make a mistake. He hoped this would be the case with The Carnations Killer.

  “The husband?” Aidan pressed.

  “I have men questioning him as we speak,” Shaun replied.

  Aidan asked about the letter, the reason he was personally called.

  Christenson passed it over.

  They hadn’t opened it but had slipped it into an evidence bag. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Aidan pulled it out of the protective bag and removed the letter from the envelope.

  He glanced between Christenson and Shaun before reading the letter’s contents.

  FBI Special Agent O’Reilly—

  How good it is to see you again. I’ve really missed you. Have you missed me? Well, I left a present for you in hopes to make up for that. I do hope you enjoy her. You always seem to have to come to me, don’t you? Well, I decided I’d do you a little favor and come to you for once. Ah, it’s so good to be back in your acquaintance, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to us continuing our little game.

  Your friend—

  The Carnations Killer

>   Every part of him wanted to rip the letter into pieces. Aidan noticed his hands beginning to shake, so he replaced the letter in the bag in order to mask it. It had been hard enough returning to Boston for his sister’s wedding. He hadn’t been back since he first came across The Carnations Killer ten years ago. And now to come home to this?

  “Do you know why he’s singling you out, Agent O’Reilly?” Christenson burst into his thoughts, drawing him back to the real world.

  Aidan hesitated as he looked at Christenson, then Shaun, and back again.

  “He’s killed fifty women,” he told him, clearing his throat. “That we know of. He likes to leave me notes. He’s always seemed to be fascinated by me.”

  Christenson frowned. “Are you telling me we really have a serial killer in my city?”

  Aidan nodded glumly, still looking at the note the offender left for him.

  “They are all blonde, in excellent shape,” he continued. “That’s the only link our victims seem to have. As far as we can tell, none of them knew the other. He first uses a taser in order to subdue them. Then he takes his victims elsewhere. I think he gets off on the abuse. He uses a rod or something of that nature. After holding them for about a week, he strangles his victims with a thin wire in order to finish them off. He dumps the bodies where he knows they will be found. The offender redresses his victims in a black dress, leaving off their undergarments. He usually poses them in this manner, except for the last victim. He seems to enjoy going out with a bang. Last year, he chained his victim to cement and dumped her in the middle of the Hudson River. He had anchored the boat, called to give us the tip, and when we came to it, a note told us to ‘look down.'“

  Aidan pushed to his feet, his eyes on the lifeless shell of the young woman.

  “What’s with the carnations?” Christenson said.