Last Summer's Evil: The Last Cold Case

By MJ LaBeff

A fearful city lies in wait. Summer is here. The solstice is near. Each time the serial killer strikes there are two more victims. One woman has already disappeared. It's only a matter of time before another woman is murdered.

 

Homicide Detective Rachel Hood, a psychic empath, feels every ounce of a victim's pain but is powerless to save her.

 

Psychic FBI Agent Nick Draven is a skilled profiler, specializing in occult crimes. Together, they must race against the clock to capture the psychopath terrorizing Snug Harbor, Ohio. Only one victim has escaped, but she can't ID her attacker. Authorities don't know if they're tracking a male or female predator. What they do know is the sick signature the killer leaves behind. A handmade ragdoll crafted out of the previous victim's clothes is found in the clutches of the deceased women.

 

Rachel's obsession with the case deepens, and she devises a rogue plan to outsmart the killer. The risky plot puts her life in jeopardy. The serial killer has had years to master the crime. Nick only has hours to track down the killer and rescue Rachel before she dies in a ritualistic sacrifice at the hand of a knife wielding, blood thirsty murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ LaBeff
• Release date: Jul 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201857950

MJ LaBeff

MJ LaBeff is an American author best described as the girl-next-door with a dark side. MJ grew up in northeastern Ohio but traded snow for sunshine and moved to southern Arizona where she lives with her husband and three dogs. She’s drawn to writing suspense novels, featuring complicated characters and twisted plot lines that will keep readers turning page after page. When she’s not writing or plotting her next novel, MJ enjoys reading, running, lifting weights, and volunteering for the American Cancer Society.

Book preview

Chapter One

June 20, 2011

11:00 a.m.

One by one the open windows on the computer screen closed. What the... Homicide Detective Rachel Hood slammed a foot against the linoleum and scooted the chair closer to the desk’s edge. She leaned toward the monitor. Stupid, since the black screen wouldn’t reveal anything about the abrupt shut down.

The dark glossy window reflected her tired face. Maybe spending a few more minutes in front of the mirror and investing in a little eye concealer to hide the dark circles would do the trick? She touched the unfamiliar face’s features fascinated by the strange woman with sunken, foreign brown eyes and razor sharp cheekbones. Where had this woman come from? The serious girl with plump rosy cheeks, shoulder length brown hair, and easy smile was gone. Looking away forced several strands of hair to fall from the messy but practical ponytail, binding thick shoulder length hair. She tucked back the loose pieces. At twenty-eight, she looked and felt older.

That will happen when you lose someone you love.

Don’t go there. Force the thought away. There were more important things to worry about.

Had the Cyber Crimes Unit lost its Internet connection? She started checking connections and pressing keys on the computer’s keyboard, looking up from the desk monitor to the three monitors mounted on the wall. She’d heard the call go out, summoning the real cops to the scene of the crime and now this. What if they called and needed information? This computer issue posed a huge problem.

Her personal laptop, still in its carrying case, rested against the interior desk wall, well hidden from roaming eyes. The rules prohibited having the computer at work, but she needed it off duty. She grunted. Off duty, yeah right. Working the computers didn’t exactly rev a detective’s motor. She missed the streets. Desk duty sucked.

She released a disgusted breath, shook her head and rolled her eyes at the black monitor. Maybe some cords dislodged from the CPU tower. She crawled under the U-shaped desk. Heat radiated from the tower. The faint smell of burning plastic mingled with the constant presence of stale coffee wafting throughout the small police station. Fuzzy, gray powder covered the cables and cords under the desk and the top of the tower.

She started playing with the color coded connections, unplugging and plugging cables. Dust kicked up around her. The nasty stink brought tears to her eyes, and the fine debris made her choke. Rubbing at her stinging eyes only made it worse.

For chrissakes, did the cleaning crew ever think about wiping this stuff off? A dust-bunny ran out from the corner of the desk. She coughed and maneuvered the CPU from the wall to have a closer look. Check. Nothing wrong here.

Crawling out from beneath the dust cave, she slumped into the desk chair and stared at the glossy black monitors again, drumming sooty fingertips against the top of the desk. What had caused the computer shut-down?

Could someone have hacked into the mainframe? But, how?

Her personal computer was off, still hidden underneath the desk. She’d already broken a rule by having it there; turning it on in the office would have been a major offense.

She pushed back the desk chair and walked to the covered rear window with a view into the main area of the station, slipping an index finger between two slats on the drawn metal shade. Deputies milled around their work areas but no one seemed to pay particular attention to the office. It didn’t appear that anyone needed her at the moment.

But, that could change. Weren’t the other work stations down? She wasn’t IT but normally when anyone at the station had a computer problem they checked with her. One case and look who gets to wear the crown of computer geek.

She glanced back. The monitors were still black. What the hell? She dropped the opened slat in the blinds, making sure no one could see in and then rushed to the stashed laptop.

The zipper teeth slid apart, jangling her nerves. Get busted with this and Lord knows what would happen. Beads of perspiration erupted across her forehead. Suspension? Fired? A lifetime of desk duty?

She pulled the thin computer from the nylon confines of the black case, gasping at the blinking green light illuminating the bottom right corner. Who turned this on? She held down the off button, the time stamp in the corner flashed 12:00 p.m. and that’s when all hell broke loose.

PIGS GET SLAUGHTERED...PIGS GET SLAUGHTERED...PIGS GET SLAUGHTERED...PIGS GET SLAUGHTERED

The words repeated in heavy black block letters against the white background of the station monitors.

She’d been hacked.

She swiped at the beads of perspiration blistering along both eyebrows.

How could this have happened?

Multiplying rows of words stretched across the desk monitor and the monitors mounted on the wall.

What the hell did the message mean?

The ugly term pig, referring to cops, made her heart race.

Was this a personal threat?

Her stomach coiled into a tight knot. She’d have to go to Captain Thane about this. If this didn’t get her suspended or fired...

And, just when things couldn’t get any worse, a tremble vibrated from the pit of her coiling stomach, tightening around each hip bone and reaching up the length of her stiff spine. The tremor shimmied up, making the hairs on the back of her neck and arms slither and spring to life. Her head tingled.

She’d had this odd sensation before, and she’d never forgotten it.

She braced herself, gripping the arms of the desk chair.

The computer fiasco could possibly lead to a reprimand but telling superiors about a feeling that her missing sister was still alive would garner an invitation to the front door and to the police psychologist. Again.

Her heart fired in rapid succession, a popping of bullets dislodging from a machine gun. The pain exploded and demanded the trapped heart break free. More beads of anxious sweat broke. She could hardly breathe, sucking in short, ragged breaths. The burning ache increased. Her heart throbbed so hard. The skin stretched like plastic wrap across her chest, tighter and tighter with each pulse beat. Would the taut flesh split open and demanding heart break free from its prison, sliding across the dingy linoleum floor in a bloody pulsating mass?

The lively heart’s blood spatter would be unlike typical blood spatter police encountered at a murder scene. Rivers of blood would streak across the floor from vital veins that had been severed, while the torn carotid artery sprayed the walls. This would be one for the books. The local newspaper’s black and white headline would read: Homicide Detective’s Heart Explodes from Chest.

Lub-Dub-Lub-Dub-Lub-Dub... Both ears clogged from the awful pounding. Lub-Dub-Lub-Dub-Lub-Dub...

It was happening again. The prolific pain paralyzed her.

A warm sensation pulsed against the front of her left shoulder and then the right. Almost soothing, massaging at her thudding heart, but more pain would soon follow. Heat surged between her ribcage and heart rate accelerated. An uncomfortable and foreboding cold sweat erupted, causing more labored breathing. The warm pressure points resting on both shoulders turned to fiery coals. Searing white-hot heat rippled across her chest, and an intense heart-burn like sizzle singed the back of her throat. Hot, oh, so hot. She waited for the smell of burning flesh to punctuate the air. Thinking of the cold, frozen tundra of winter, snow piled high, icicles hanging from roof tops to alleviate the pain, ignoring the physical distress would help overcome the panic riddling her thoughts to save the next victim.

She couldn’t breathe from the intense heat. The first dart of pain inflicted her left shoulder, then the right, pinning her against the desk chair. She tried to raise a hand to pull out the invisible hot shard, looking down from one shoulder to the other, half expecting to find the source of heat branding her flesh. Move. Get away from the heat and repetitive pain. The piercing shards stabbed away. Digging, twisting, singeing. The needles burrowed deeper.

Think about the winter beach, icy water crashing against the break walls and cold stones. Feel the flakes of snow melting over the tattoo needles riddling your body. Fight or flight, fight or flight. Fight, fight, fight, stay conscious. Find a clue. The killer is on the loose.

Without warning something punctured the center of her chest and forced all of the air from her lungs. The fantasy snowy shores disappeared. Suffocating and gasping for breath, the intense throbbing coiled around the points of pains, breathing life into the flames, igniting skin, blazing down the center of her body.

But, the worst was yet to come.

* * * *

She had to hurt these women. Hurting them only eased the need for vengeance. Unlike the boys and men who’d sneak into the room at night; the girls lingered longer. Males rammed in to the vessel but finished quickly with a satisfied grunt. Females wanted titillation, stimulation.

She hated the females the most, especially the one who got away and could cause the most damage, by telling them things about her.

The one man she’d trusted confirmed the time to act was near. He didn’t always supply answers to questions but encouraged practicing patience and in time the answer would make itself clear. Listen, he had said, listen. Now was the time. She’d waited long enough to take her.

The woman pulled back the door. She wedged a foot between it and the frame. She smiled at the recognition of fear flashing across the woman’s round, pale green eyes. Ah, you do remember me. I’m touched. Shocked by the intrusion, the woman froze unable to defend herself. This prey was so much like the first, with flaming, twisted red hair, soft milky, lightly freckled skin, a vulnerable beauty. She forced the door open, pushing the woman into the small alcove. Then kicked the door shut with finality.

Hello, Amy. Bet you never thought you’d see me again.

The woman reached for the keypad. I’m not Amy.

Don’t bother to sound the alarm. I’ve disarmed it. Technology. Her teeth clucked at the frightened woman. Can’t trust it, honey.

The woman backed away from her. Big green eyes darted back and forth, body quaking like a frisky rat searching for a way out. She’d play cat to the rat for a little while.

Ah, Amy, there’s nowhere to run.

Stop calling me Amy.

The woman’s jaw unhinged, releasing the scream trapped behind wide eyes. Taking several deliberate steps, she smiled at the woman searching desperately for a way out.

Nowhere to run, and no one can hear you scream.

Terrified eyes continued to glance from one end of the room to the other. Then the woman stopped screaming.

What’s wrong, honey? Cat got your tongue? Go on, let it out. On the count of three, One...two...three... Releasing a sinister scream, she rushed toward the woman.

The woman ran to the sliding glass door. Let her run. She’d secured the door from the outside. The woman pulled and pushed on the handle, watching with teary and panicked eyes from over her shoulder.

The cat inched forward.

The rat yanked at the door, throwing weight and might at it.

Come on, come on. Open, open!

Meooow. Are we having fun yet?

Why are you doing this? Why? I’m not Amy.

The cat smiled and kept coming. The rat ran. The cat leapt. The woman screamed. Let her wail. The house sat back far from the road. Privacy. Something this woman would pay for now. No one would hear her screams for help. No one.

The cat chased the rat, mimicking scream after scream. They ran the maze together. Until...the cat got bored with its toy and wanted its dinner.

Her paw squeezed the pressure point between the woman’s shoulder and neck. The woman slumped to the floor. Such a pretty face contorted against a dirty shoe. She removed the soil covered shoe from underneath the woman’s chin and smiled. You should worship the ground I walk on.

Sinner.

She touched the case of the concealed knife. Her heart revved, caressing the leather sheath hiding the blade. No time to fantasize about the heart ritual, soon enough, soon enough.

Taking a deep breath, she crouched down and then hoisted up the slouching woman, carrying the limp body into the alcove. She lowered the dead weight to the tile floor then grabbed a clump of flaming hair in one hand, and reached beneath the woman’s armpit with the other, dragging the body a few feet toward the front door. Thinking about the heart ritual pumped mad adrenaline, fueling her strength. She pulled open the door then bent into a low squat and dragged the woman to the van.

With the woman secured in back, she jumped behind the steering wheel and calmly drove away. Eyes focused on the road, ignoring the population around her, until the traffic thinned. She drove from the posh peninsula with homes like this woman’s nestled in the distance from the main road. The safety of the neighborhood faded. The thicket of deserted cottages in a less desirable part of town came into view. Not all lake front property spelled luxury.

Recession, housing-downturn, high unemployment rates, abandoned homes, closed businesses etcetera, etcetera, etcetera these signs of the time were friends. Out of desperate times emerged desperate people looking for love, looking for hope, looking for solutions, looking for something to believe in, but searching for answers in all the wrong places.

Finally, they arrived. The abandoned three story cottage where she kept the others. But, this woman would die. She’d waited all year, and finally summer was here.

Groggy moans echoed from the back of the van.

She had to get busy. The violent urge to kill the woman niggled but the satisfaction of watching another suffer would ease the grudge. And, until the burden she carried lifted, she’d kill and kill again. Only thirty-six hours to complete the ritual but she’d make time for this deserving bitch.

Come on, honey. She dragged the body through the front door, kicked it shut, and turned the deadbolt. Your heart belongs to me.

The stones and needles slowly heated. She turned the boiler plate switch to the hottest setting. The woman trembled. Wide rat eyes darted around the room.

Lovely. She removed the knife from the leather sheath and admired the gleaming silver, pointing the pristine blade under the woman’s chin. Take off your clothes.

The woman sobbed but disrobed without a fuss.

Lie down. She wielded the blade from the woman to the cement slab spotted with drops of blood. The woman’s eyes cautiously regarded the wheelbarrow at the head of the ritual table. Lie down.

The woman scampered onto the hard, cold surface. She shackled her wrists above her head, leveling the rat with a hard stare. Meow. She cooed into the woman’s ear and licked the side of her face. She pressed the blade against the woman’s inner thigh, tracing a slow path down the insides of quaking legs, careful not to cut her. Spread ’em.

The woman’s naked body and sex didn’t intrigue her. It was the frantic pounding of the woman’s heart. She was fixated on each rising and falling pulse beat. The woman’s legs shook with fear.

Trauma, trauma, everywhere, trauma, trauma, lots to spare, dissolve the trauma in her heart, so I can receive all of her love.

She placed the hot stones on the woman’s body—left shoulder, right shoulder, and beneath milky white breasts to contract the heart’s energy. Smoke sizzled from her flesh, body flinching and shaking.

Constrict her sorrow, fear and grief, now your heart belongs to me.

She stabbed a pin into pale flesh near each of the hot rocks, twisting the longest pin between ribs and lodging it closest to the heart. Next, pieces of rose quartz and pink tourmaline were placed on the woman’s trembling body. She placed the rose quartz down the center of the woman’s chest, careful not disturb the protruding pin near the heart, and then placed six pink tourmaline chips in an arc above the cross.

The pins released the woman’s grief. The crystals balanced physical and emotional energy. The process would unfold the woman’s past, most likely forgotten experiences that created turmoil for her. Tears started to flow, releasing suppressed feelings.

She continued to perform emotional surgery on the woman’s heart, expelling all that plagued her, purifying the pounding organ. Placing an amethyst crystal on the forehead and a citrine on the navel would contain the emerging, distressing energy.

Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks.

She didn’t acknowledge the cries, whimpers, or pleading.

She never really heard any of them anyway.

She grabbed an eye-dropper and collected tear specimens, bottling the sorrow into a small glass vial, sealing the lid and placing it on the shelf next to the others. Giddy the work had nearly been completed and that very soon the plan would be put into motion. Jolts of excitement raced through her, thinking about the woman’s end.

Tiny pools of blood coagulated around the pins.

It was time to anoint her.

The wide mouth glass bottle filled with balsam oil warmed on the boiler plate. She’d fashioned a brush made of human hair, believing the hair imparted the strength of Samson. A strong heart radiated more love, and she wanted to tap into the well spring of the woman’s emotions.

She dipped the brush into the oil and lightly stroked the woman’s body in long sweeping motions from the tops of each fingertip, across open palms, down both shoulders and along the sides of the ribcage, basting the legs, and caressing the exterior and interior thighs. She admired the woman’s trembling and glistening body, causing the crystals to catch and reflect in the room’s dim light. Next, she swatted at the woman’s breasts and sex with the human strands of hair.

She couldn’t complete the offering here. The Summer Solstice called for the great outdoors. The circle would not be complete until blood was spilled.

Carefully, she removed the stones and then the crystals, pausing long enough to take in the beautiful, fleshy curves covered in hot oil. She pushed the pins deeper, excited when blood leaked from the tiny pin pricks, and then reached for the salt shaker filled with sand and mica, consisting of a potion to subdue the woman.

The woman’s eyes rolled back, blinked and fluttered closed for good. She sprinkled the sand and mica over her. The wiggling body went limp. Nighty-nighty.

She took a deep breath, pleased with the masterpiece, admiring the body one last time before removing the gem stones and then covering it with a thin white sheet. Pulling the dead weight up from the table, she lowered the bleeding woman into the wheelbarrow.

She drove deep into a cove. To the special, secluded, wooded area by the beach. The elements were perfect for completing the circle and soon she would bring the others, but not until the woman’s blood was shed. Cattails fought to outgrow the dandelion weeds and tall grass. Big maples, weeping willows, fallen timber...the vegetation was ripe.

She pushed the wheelbarrow through the thick muck and mud clogging the path, plowing forward, anticipating the special clearing. The place shrouded in darkness except for the soft rays of light filtering through the canopy of tree leaves. Gnats swarmed her sweaty face. This haven of earth was hers for the taking. The worship circle was here. She hoisted the woman from the wheelbarrow and lay the body down onto the soft circle of dirt, spreading the sheet open.

Five energy points surrounded the circle. Heart Chakra crystals marked by a piece of rose quartz, kunzite, and pink tourmaline were placed in an arc at the top. Two pieces of jade completed the energy field at the bottom intended to purify the heart and detoxify the blood.

She placed the woman’s arms above her head so that the back of each hand touched a heart Chakra crystal, and spread her legs so that each heel touched the jade stones. The pins remained firmly embedded into flesh.

She turned away and undressed.

The purification process started at seven a.m. Essential oils and herbs cascaded down her body, purifying her. Today marked the first day of the three day fast. Necessary to rid the body of toxins and allow its natural pheromones to emerge, drawing the women closer to her.

The cool air revived and excited her. She basked in the shivers running up each vertebrae and caressing her body in waves. Thoughts of the minions’ keeping watch over her desires sent a surge of adrenaline. The spell she’d cast bound them all in love. She stretched to the sky, her head tilted, eyes closed. The brief peeks of the sun’s warm rays chased the chills away. She dropped down and kissed the earth.

Energy radiated from the circle. She crawled up the length of the woman’s body and affixed her hands and feet around the naked form. Hovering, like the countless bodies that had languished over her. Had she looked this near death before the covetous men, boys and girls peering down at her, plunging inside of her? Bad memories crept in to the times she had tried to fight back. Even got the law involved, a lot of good that did. The punishment for telling had been severe. And so they came, night after night, and playing dead was easier.

Unable to linger longer, she frowned and pushed herself up, scrambling for the clothes lying in a pile on the ground. Tossing them into the wheelbarrow, she then pulled the sharp, shiny blade from the leather sheath.

It was time.

With force, she drove the blade into the woman’s left shoulder near the pin crusted with blood, and then the right. The body stirred on the ground. Gripping the knife in both hands, she raised it high and then plunged it into the center of the woman’s chest.

The body jerked forward. Eyes and mouth jolted open, pleading, gasping. Blood spurted. Gurgling noises strangled her slack mouth.

She yanked back the blade, purified blood dripping down the handle. The woman’s body shook, and eyes closed. Red streams poured over the woman’s shoulders and into the earth, cleansing the ground.

She raised the blade and thrust the sharp point into the woman’s mutilated flesh. Marveling at the gush of red but always maintaining precise control, stabbing and splitting open the fair skin. In and out. In and out. Up and down. Up and down. The knife obeyed each commanding thrust. Covered in blood spatters, she tasted the metallic, sweet and acidic essence of death. She stepped back in admiration.

The Grand River, a tributary of Lake Erie, flowed nearby. At the inlet made from the river she washed off the blood and soaked the knife, sinking her feet into the mucky mud of the earth laced with blood. Touching the oily, purified mixture of balsam oil and herbs on her body, a familiar need after killing stirred. She massaged at her arousal. Waiting wasn’t easy, but disciplined and bound by love for the others, forced the pleasure seeking desire to an abrupt stop.

She walked back to the wheelbarrow and set the knife on the ground, fished a rubber band from the front pocket of the pants and bound the severed locks. Sweat cloying with fruity scented shampoo wafted past her. She pulled the clump of hair closer, breathing in the fragrant strands before brushing off the dried herbs, taking time to feel the silky, bouncing locks glide across her breasts, torso, arms, legs, and sex.

Breaking out in a hot heat, excitement reared and her private parts gorged. Soon she would satisfy the urge to make love. Before losing control, she dressed, taking one last, admiring glance at the dead body.

Time to move on.

The next ritual awaited her.

* * * *

Claudia Resner wanted to fight, but the subhuman had cast some sort of twilight sleep. A soft, raspy voice, spoke in tongues or maybe it was English; semi-conscious she didn’t know.

Thick fear paralyzed and pinned her to the ground.

Despite the torture and haze, an insistent voice echoed. Move, move, move.

Another voice threatened a warning. Lie still.

She’d proceed with caution.

Warm, sticky blood leaked from her wounds. At first the pain had been non-existent. Had the shock and suffering protected her from feeling? A weird, foggy haze clouded every attempt at judgment after the subhuman launched the vicious attack and muttered strange words. Lacerated skin, crushed bones, severed veins and crippling pain made it impossible to move.

The voice warned. Play dead.

Deliberate footsteps cracked along the forest floor coming up behind her. Her heart thudded harder, forcing more blood to spew from the gaping wounds. Tasting blood, and nearly choking, instinct kicked in and she spit.

The voice urged. Don’t panic.

The subhuman stared and smiled at the suffering. Claudia wheezed for air but took in more gulps of clogging, choking blood. The subhuman walked away and left her to die.

Move, move, move.

Chapter Two

June 20, 2011

1:30 p.m.

FBI Special Agent Nick Draven arrived in Snug Harbor a day before the rendezvous. He had not come back to visit the city, former colleagues in the Detective’s Bureau, or college alma mater in three years. Guilt settled in for not staying in touch and multiplied with the reason for the visit now.

The turbulent flight from Virginia to Cleveland added to the fatigue about coming home, coupled with the short drive to Snug Harbor that would have been more comfortable if the car rental place had an SUV to rent. Instead, he was forced to cram six feet and three inches of himself into a compact sized car. His irritability stemmed from a number of things, but none of them was the real root of the problem. To alleviate some stress, he’d decided to work out at Metro Flex.

Now irritated and sore from the ambitious workout, he lumbered up the gym stairs and headed for the double glass doors. The cute brunette receptionist at the front counter worked hard to catch his eye. She flashed a smile and twirled a pen.

Have a nice day...uh.

She didn’t know his name, and Nick wasn’t about to throw it. He nodded and kept on going. He pushed open the glass door and left the gym and the young girl’s eager eyes devouring him from head to toe.

Nick didn’t look his age and didn’t like the female attention misperceived youth seemed to attract. Relationships led to commitment and Nick wasn’t ready for that, for many reasons, some out of his control. Besides, the focus had always been work; until he and Rachel had become involved and that turned out disastrously.

Sore muscles evaporated thoughts of Rachel. Pumping heavy weights posed possible injuries on top of those already in existence. Torn rotator cuff, knee surgery to repair his left ACL, yep, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, he’d sustained enough self-inflicted injuries brought on by a relentless sense of competition with weight lifting buddies and over-zealous take downs to collar criminals. Perhaps that’s why the danger that went along with being in law enforcement was so appealing. He’d been shot at, slashed at, punched and kicked at, but ran down more violent criminals than he cared to remember.

Nick blinked away the erupting pain in his fragile knee, regretting the wind-sprints he’d done. He ignored it and focused on the pending case.

A serial killer with a penchant for committing ritualistic murders lurked in north-eastern Ohio. First striking in 2007, a woman had been found murdered in an abandoned cottage. Multiple stab wounds proved she’d died a slow and torturous death. The woman’s naked body had been left as though to humiliate her in front of authorities.

The medical examiner, Dr. Thomas Klinger, had confirmed the victim had not been sexually assaulted. He’d also confirmed the body had been bathed in some sort of essential oils. Considering the stab wounds, the attack on the victim appeared personal and not a mere robbery or sexual assault gone bad.

She’d been stripped of all belongings. The killer left nothing behind. The position of the body, suggested the killer’s need to humiliate. The same night, another woman had been reported missing. That’s when the Ohio Detectives Bureau had been contacted.

During the summer of 2008, the serial killer butchered another woman, leaving her naked body in an abandoned cottage. The ME confirmed the same findings as the first victim in the 2007 homicide. Another woman also went missing that same summer. Just like Amy had disappeared the year before without a trace.

He’d worked the first four cases with the Bureau, but with little evidence, the cases went cold. He’d relived these cases over and over again. The distraught victims’ families were permanently seared into his memory.

Prior to leaving Quantico, he’d been given vague but new information about the case and handed a condensed file.

Only one woman had survived the serial killer’s attack, having been left for dead in the summer of 2009. She had reported the attacker hid behind a disguise and baggy clothes, never revealing his or her sexual orientation. Their only living victim didn’t know if a man or woman had brutalized her. The minimal information hadn’t offered Nick the help he’d hoped for to start developing a profile of the serial killer. That same night another female had been reported missing.

Now, four missing women and three dead females later, local authorities feared the murders and abductions over the last four summer’s were linked to the murder and missing person case dating back to 2007. Every summer it was the same. The serial abducted one woman and killed another. The string of June dates buzzed around Nick’s head. It was only a matter of time before the serial killer would strike again. That’s when the FBI had been contacted. Hence, Nick’s involvement as a special agent to analyze the cold case files and develop a profile.

What he did know was this. The Summer Time Slayer, the name dubbed the serial killer by the press, better known as Slayer by local authorities, had travelled through the small towns dotted along north-eastern Ohio and Lake Erie’s shore, leaving a sick signature along the way. The victims had been brutally stabbed and their bodies had been riddled with thick gauge pins and treated like human voodoo dolls. The thickest pin stuck in their chest over their hearts.

Each victim’s hair had been severed at the nape of the neck with a serrated hunting knife. Pin pricks of the blade’s edge had dotted the victim’s skin.

The Metro County Sheriff’s Department believed the serial killer kept the hair as a souvenir.

Nick wasn’t so sure and wondered about the significance of the hair and why the creep would keep it?

Documented cases and profiles of serial