Savannah Savior: Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers, #0.5

By E.H. Vick

HE HUNTS WOMEN. SHE HUNTS HIM.

FBI Agent Meredeth Connelly tracks The Savannah Strangler by day. At night, she mimics his prey. She has little to go on. He's crafty and smart - he dumps bodies in the Savannah River after stoning his victims to death. But he won't escape. She won't let him. She will do anything to make Savannah safe again. She will do anything to stop him.

The dead pile up. Pressure, a hellish headache, desperate secrets. Heat, stiletto heels, fear. She won't let anything stop her.

Not the detective who thinks she's a drunk.
Not the good old boys club.
Not the mystery man cyberstalking her.

She will get the killer. One way or another.

Her pounding head is going to kill her - unless he gets to her first…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Triad Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201200794

Book preview

Savannah Savior

Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers

Prequel

E.H. Vick

Dedication

For the men and women who stand between us and the darkness

I hope you enjoy Savannah Savior. If so, please consider joining my online community—details can be found at the end of the last chapter.

Chapter 1

Going Home

Quantico, VA

James McCutchins swept into the conference room, his familiar frown twisting his lips, his salt and pepper flattop perfect as always. He didn’t bother with greetings, with niceties. Instead, he walked to the head of the table, turned, and met Bobby Van Zandt’s gaze with a nod, then grunted at Meredeth Connelly. I hope your go-bags are packed, he said, his ice-blue gaze flicking away from hers as he sank into a chair.

Meredeth nodded and pursed her lips. We just got back from Daytona Beach at the end of last week, Jim.

And you had the weekend plus four days in the office to recover. You’re still primary on the case in Daytona, so you’re not up, not technically, but the Sandman appears to have gone inactive again. Besides, body number four was just found in Savannah, and we’re way behind.

She nodded and dropped her gaze to her coffee, then took a sip and grimaced at the flavor of the lukewarm sludge in her mug, wishing she’d had time to run out for a cup—or even to the café—instead of having to settle for the crap brewed in the breakroom. Why did the Savannah police wait? she asked. Why wait until the fourth body? Politics?

The Chatham County Sheriff’s Department has jurisdiction. The Strangler—that’s what the press dubbed the unsub this morning, The Savannah Strangler—has been dumping his kills in the Savannah River, so two of the bodies were found on the Georgia side and two on the South Carolina side.

Smart, said Bobby.

McCutchins grimaced. Indeed. That’s why I want you there, Meredeth. The unsub has dropped four women into the water, the first of which died three to five weeks ago according to her postmortem.

Meredeth frowned. That’s not good.

No, agreed McCutchins. He’s just getting warmed up.

Given they’re calling him the Savannah Strangler, said Meredeth, I’m going out on a limb and guessing he’s choking them. What else?

He left a cross around each of the victims’ necks.

Great. A zealot, muttered Meredeth, and she winced at the sharp pain that flared behind her left eye.

And we’re sure the crosses didn’t belong to the victims? asked Bobby. That is the Bible Belt, after all.

Something to check into, said Meredeth.

They’re identical, said Jim with a shake of his head.

"They’re crosses, Jim."

Chatham County thinks they were purchased from the same bulk jeweler. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head again. It’s a dead end.

Okay, said Meredeth. She forced another mouthful of horrible coffee past her tongue and swallowed. Her head had started pounding the minute McCutchins had called the meeting, and it had only gathered steam since. She needed the caffeine, and she needed some acetaminophen, though she doubted either would do a damn thing. The stress headaches during investigations weren’t new, but they’d increased in severity over the past year and a half, and she was beginning to understand the phrase blinding headache all too well.

Four victims? asked Bobby.

Yes. Four women between twenty-three and forty-seven, all tawny‍—‍he glanced at Meredeth’s own auburn hair, then dropped his gaze back to his notes‍—‍various body shapes and heights, all prostitutes, all taken from the so-called hotel district on Ogeechee Road.

That’s the Red Light District? asked Bobby.

Affirmative, said Jim. Your liaison officer—‍

Then hair color and profession are his hunting priorities. That helps a little.

Jim nodded. Your liaison officer will be John Bristol. He’s a homicide dick with the Sheriff’s Department and will brief you on arrival.

How does he do it?

Jim sniffed. He strangles his victims to gain control, then sexually assaults them. Once he’s satisfied, he uses blunt force. We held the blunt-force trauma back from the Press.

Are they still alive when he drops them into the water?

No. The beatings are violent. ‘Frenzied’ is the term the Chatham County ME used to describe them.

Then why the river? asked Van Zandt.

He knows he’s leaving evidence, said Meredeth as she cocked her head to the side. "He knows he’s out of control during the attacks. The water is to mitigate that. She turned to Jim. Is he a secreter?"

No evidence of that, but as you said, he’s using the water and its wildlife to wash away evidence.

Why not dump them in a marsh? They have marshes down there, right? Couldn’t he dump the bodies way out where discovery is unlikely?

Maybe he used to, said Meredeth. But now, he wants everyone to see.

That’s right, said Jim. Melanie will have a copy of the packet for each of you as per usual. Study it on the plane. We need to hit the ground running.

John Bristol? asked Bobby, tapping notes into his phone.

Meredeth cocked her head to the side and squinted up at the corner. Maybe there’s a religious motivation to these murders.

I don’t know. Maybe the unsub’s father ran afoul of temptations of the flesh. Maybe it broke up his family, and the unsub blames the prostitutes.

Meredeth arched an eyebrow, a soft grin turned up the corners of her mouth. ‘Temptations of the flesh,’ Jim?

McCutchins waved it away. Melanie has your travel arrangements—or will by the time you get your go-bags. Get down there and wrap this up.

Maybe… Meredeth tugged at her bottom lip a moment.

Yes? asked Jim.

Maybe the unsub is preaching.

Preaching?

She nodded. These women are his sermons.

How’d you figure that? asked Bobby.

She lifted her index finger. The crosses. She lifted her middle finger. The rapes. She lifted her ring finger. The beatings. She raised her pinky. And temptations of the flesh. The victims are all prostitutes. Seductresses. Sinners. Maybe the water is their baptism.

Interesting, said McCutchins. Follow that up. Check for disgraced ministers, failed seminary students, excommunicated priests.

One last question, Jim, said Meredeth with a nod.

The SAC nodded.

Four bodies in five weeks… A weekly cycle is much more credible than a week plus a day and a half. She shook her head. Are we sure there are only four bodies?

With a sigh, McCutchins frowned down at the conference table. "There’s no telling how many women he’s done this to. He probably did start with the marsh like Bobby suggested, but now…" He shrugged.

Now he wants everyone to know. To pay attention.

That’s right, said Jim. And as for his cycle, we don’t know. He may have started slowly and is accelerating. He stood and walked toward the door.

We’d better get to work, then, said Meredeth. She frowned down at her phone lying on the table before her as it chimed.

Another one? asked Bobby, scooting his chair closer.

Another email from your secret admirer? asked Jim.

Meredeth frowned in reply and opened the email. The subject line reads, ‘Why would you leave Florida?’ She blew out a deep breath. The body reads, ‘Why would you turn tail and flee to Washington when there’s a man killing girls in Daytona? Why would you ignore the BLATANT and OBVIOUS facts of the case? If you’re such an ELITE PROFILER, why is it you can’t track the Sandman down? I did.’ Exasperation and frustration warred within her.

Bobby rolled his eyes. Sure, he did.

It’s meaningless, said Jim. Anyone can say they know who the unsub is, that they’ve done a better job, when they give no details, add nothing to the investigation. He shook his head. Ignore it and any further emails. Forward that one to Tech Services and see if they can track him down.

Meredeth shook her head. We’ve tried that already.

Maybe, but you didn’t have an SAC following up. He gave her a firm nod. You do now.

Thanks, Jim.

Chapter 2

In-flight Service

Somewhere above the Eastern Seaboard

The jet’s engines whined as the plane bucked up and down through a spot of rough air, and Meredeth’s stomach took a precipitous drop toward the deck with each sudden change in altitude. The fasten seatbelts lamp lit up, and an annoying chime filled the cabin, lancing to the center of her brain like a lightning bolt. Her left eye ached, and she closed both eyes, pressing her thumb and index finger against her lids as though she could kill the headache by squeezing it to death. The plane dropped away beneath them again, and her stomach did another flip-flop, leaving a little nausea in its wake.

You okay, Mere? asked Bobby from the seat next to hers.

Sure. Why not? she murmured.

You groaned, is all.

It’s this turbulence.

Ah. Need the sick bag?

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. The whine of the engines rose to a fevered pitch as the plane took a long drop, and several passengers behind them cried out. Each new noise was like a spike driven through her left eye.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in for a rough patch of turbulence over the next few minutes, and for your own safety, the captain has illuminated the fasten seatbelts sign. I must ask you to remain in your seats until the captain determines it’s safe to move about the cabin again. We must delay our in-flight service, but only for a few moments. The flight attendant’s voice was low and pleasant, but each of his words seemed to rasp across the inside of Meredeth’s skull.

She forced her eyes open, hoping to distract herself from the turbulence, from her turbulent stomach, and from the pounding behind her left eye. She had the case packet open in front of her and had spread the images of the Savannah Strangler’s four victims out on her tray table. They didn’t look alike beyond superficialities—hair and race: all were Caucasian, all had auburn hair like her own. Eye color, facial structure, and body shape were varied as well. The first victim, Bunny Abernathy, the youngest of the lot at only twenty-three, was petite and round-faced with brown eyes. Thirty-nine-year-old Angela Yeller, the second body found, had a farmer’s face and build—thickset, muscular, a little on the squat side—and blue-eyed. Deb Haydel, the twenty-seven-year-old victim number three, was a tall, waif-thin woman with brown eyes. The fourth victim was forty-seven, tall, plus sized, and named Mary Corbin.

Meredeth frowned at the images. The links between the four women seemed tenuous…almost cliché. Chestnut-haired prostitutes. She shuffled through the info packet, looking for the coroner’s reports for the first four women, pretending she was successfully ignoring the monster tearing at the inside of her skull. Bunny Abernathy had a rose tattooed on the back of her left hand between her thumb and index finger. Yeller had no distinguishing marks. Deb Haydel had fresh track marks on the insides of both elbows, a tribal mark on the small of her back, and a dragon tattooed on her right bicep. Mary Corbin’s only distinguishing mark was a long scar down the inside of her forearm—a suicide attempt by the look of it.

Sighing and shaking her head, Meredeth leaned back and rested her head on the back of the seat. Not much to go on.

No, said Bobby. They share characteristics with about twenty bazillion women.

You read the case reports from Chatham County Sheriff’s Department. No witnesses of the abductions?

Not that were willing to talk to CCSD.

Of course not. The family statements are…what you’d expect.

I skimmed them. ‘We always said she’d meet a bad end.’ Who says that about their own step-daughter?

Meredeth shrugged. There’s a reason Bunny Abernathy was on the street, Bobby. She started running away at the age of fourteen. I’m willing to bet that man had something to do with it.

Sick bastard, Bobby muttered. Abernathy’s mother said she smoked crystal.

Haydel was shooting up.

Nothing on Yeller or Corbin?

You think there’s some kind of drug angle?

Nothing causative, but if you wanted to make sure your victim came along quietly, you could promise her drugs, said Bobby.

They’re hookers, Bobby. They’re already motivated to get in the car.

Bobby wagged his head to the side and shrugged. Yeah, but they are street-smart women, right? They learn to read johns or get hurt or ripped off. The unsub is a serial killer. He might give them the wrong vibes.

Tell that to Ted Bundy’s victims. Tell that to John Wayne Gacy’s victims, to Dahmer’s.

I see your point. Bobby grinned a little. But still…worth investigating?

Sure, said Meredeth in a suddenly loud voice as the screaming engines throttled back. We can just roll up on drug dealers and ask them if a guy came by looking for drugs to entice hookers into his car so he can beat them to death.

A woman in the row in front of them spun around in her chair and glared at Meredeth over the seatback. Do you mind? I have children up here.

Meredeth held up her hands. Sorry, she said. The women harumphed and turned back around, and Meredeth