Chapter 6 Check Every Road

Elena

Owen’s head snapped toward me.

Daniel spoke before he could. “She’s right.”

The support came without hesitation.

Owen turned on him. “You haven’t even verified the names.”

“Which is why we verify them.”

“Our job is to catch the person who killed Kline.”

“Our job is to understand the homicide,” Daniel said. “Victimology matters.”

“This isn’t victimology. This is the murderer’s excuse.”

“It may be both.”

Owen stared at him. “You’re letting her drag you into this.”

Daniel’s expression cooled. “I’m standing beside my partner.”

The words were simple. Their effect was not.

Owen looked from Daniel to me, resentment tightening every line of his face.

There were detectives who viewed partnership as convenience. Daniel viewed it as a promise. It did not mean he always agreed with me. Usually, it meant he disagreed before everyone else had the nerve.

But once a room turned hostile, he stood beside me first and argued later. I had not realized how much I depended on that until the thought of losing it crossed my mind.

Pike stepped nearer to the table. “The names get checked,” he said.

Owen looked at him. “Captain—”

“All eleven.”

“That could take days.”

“Then work quickly.”

“We’ll be wasting resources proving whether a serial killer had a moral justification.”

“No,” Pike said. “You’ll be establishing his selection process.”

The room went quiet.

Pike’s eyes moved over the confession. “If Kline’s rulings are unrelated, then the killer constructed a story from coincidence and public record. If the cases share missing evidence, altered statements, common attorneys, officers, or medical personnel, then we have a pattern.”

Daniel nodded. “And potentially another target.”

Owen looked unconvinced.

Pike’s gaze hardened. “You wanted the case, Vance. This is what the case requires.”

Owen looked away first.

I returned my attention to the confession. The list had not been arranged chronologically. The dates moved backward, then forward, then backward again.

“Why this order?” I murmured.

Daniel leaned in. “Severity?”

“No. Tarrow’s assault case is above Calder’s trafficking charge.”

“Alphabetical?”

“Not by defendant or victim.”

Pike studied the list. “Judge’s ruling?”

“Possible.”

I scanned the descriptions again. The first three referenced evidence suppression. The next two mentioned witness recantations. Then altered medical documentation.

Maybe the grouping was procedural. Or maybe the order meant something only the killer understood.

I read Patrick Donnelly’s name again. The note had directed me to Case 17-402. The confession did not list case numbers in full, only abbreviated docket references. Patrick Donnelly’s line ended with 17-402.

I felt Pike watching me.

“Do you remember the name?” I asked him.

“Donnelly?”

“Yes.”

He considered it. “No.”

“Attempted murder. Charges dismissed.”

“I heard you read it.”

“You were a lieutenant when the case was investigated.”

“I was a lieutenant for seven years.”

“That is not a no.”

His gaze settled on me. Neither was my question neutral. The note had changed the room.

Before it, Pike had been my captain examining a murder scene. Now he was also a name left by the killer.

I hated that the distinction mattered. I hated more that it did.

Pike folded his arms. “I do not remember Patrick Donnelly.”

“And Case 17-402?”

“I don’t catalog cases by number in my head.”

“The note says evidence disappeared.”

“The note was written by a murderer.”

“That doesn’t make it false.”

“No.” His voice remained even. “It makes it unverified.”

There was no defensiveness in his face. No anger. No sign that the accusation unsettled him.

He looked exactly as he had during every difficult case review of my career: calm, attentive, and mildly disappointed whenever emotion threatened to outrun evidence.

It should have reassured me. Instead, it made him impossible to read.

“What did your position involve then?” I asked.

“Evidence approvals, personnel assignments, warrant reviews, interdepartmental coordination. The same work every homicide lieutenant handles.”

“Did you sign destruction orders?”

“Thousands.”

“Transfers?”

“Thousands.”

“Could you have signed something related to this case?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.

Owen shifted, perhaps surprised by it. I was too.

Pike continued. “A signature proves I authorized a process. It does not prove I personally handled every item attached to it.”

“Convenient.” The word left my mouth before I softened it.

Daniel glanced at me.

Pike did not. His expression remained level. “Accurate,” he corrected. “You’ll learn that distinction if you survive long enough in command.”

A familiar ache moved through my chest.

He had used almost the same tone when I was a newly promoted detective and accused a lieutenant of burying a warrant request. Pike had made me rebuild the entire timeline before allowing me to confront anyone.

I had been right then. But I had nearly ruined the case by moving too quickly. He had never let me forget it.

Pike gestured toward the note sealed beside Elliot’s equipment. “You have permission to examine Case 17-402 and every related transfer, destruction order, and personnel assignment.”

“Permission?”

One eyebrow lifted. “Would you prefer an obstruction?”

“No.”

“Then don’t manufacture one.”

I held his gaze. The answer sounded supportive. It also placed him in control of how deeply I looked.

Pike stepped closer, lowering his voice enough that Owen could still hear if he tried. “A murderer gives you a destination, Elena. You check every road before following him there.”

The words settled heavily. They were good advice. They were exactly the kind of words I expected from him. Yet they did not answer the only question that mattered.

Why had the killer used Pike’s name?

I looked back at Kline. The judge’s red hands rested beneath the lights, palms open as if offering proof of nothing.

“We’ll check the roads,” I said.

Pike nodded once. “Good.”

Elliot moved along the bench with a narrow-beamed flashlight, examining the underside inch by inch.

The restored furniture complicated everything.

Each piece had its own history of prints, dents, scratches, and old contamination. The killer had cleaned many of the surfaces, but not aggressively enough to erase the wood’s finish or strip away every trace.

“He knew how much to clean,” I said.

Elliot did not look up. “That sounds like admiration.”

“It’s observation.”

“Detectives confuse those often.”

“What are you seeing?”

“Very little.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

He angled the light beneath the judge’s chair. “The bench has been wiped where a person would naturally grip it during movement. Edges, corners, lower rail. But he did not bleach the entire surface. Whoever cleaned this understood that overcleaning creates its own evidence.”

“Professional?”

“Or educated.”

“Gloves?”

“Likely.”

“Cleaning product?”

“Low-residue solvent. I’ll test it.”

I looked around the courtroom. “No dragged dust.”

Daniel followed my line of sight. “What?”

“The floor.”

The old courtroom had been abandoned long enough for dust to collect along the walls and beneath the radiators. Yet the central walkways were clean. Not recently mopped, but swept and wiped.

The killer had moved furniture into place without leaving obvious drag lines.

“He lifted it,” Daniel said.

“Not alone.”

Owen overheard. “Or used dollies.”

“Where are the wheel marks?” I asked.

“Cleaned.”

“All of them?”

He gestured broadly. “He cleaned the entire room.”

“No. He cleaned where he worked.”