Copycat Dreams: Dreams and Reality, #20

By Hadena James

Marshal Aislinn Cain and the serial crimes tracking unit are sent to New York City to investigate murders identical to murders committed during the 1980s. However, the serial killer responsible for the original murders is dead, killed in a shootout with the NYPD when they cornered him dumping his last victim. This new series of murders though includes details never released. Only the medical examiner's office and investigators working the case knew the killer shoved straight pins in the soles of his victim's feet. Every murdered woman, dumped in the same location as the original victims, in this new series has, not just the straight pins, but the same brand, pushed into the soles of their feet. The SCTU will need to reinvestigate the original case to ensure the NYPD got the correct man, while investigating this new series and identifying reasons someone would replicate this particular series of murders. During their investigation, they'll meet the nemesis of murdered hero US Marshal Nathan Green. Can they vindicate Marshal Green's suspicions about his nemesis and solve both series of murders or will they leave NYC questioning if they got the right man too?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hadena James
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223413912

Book preview

Stomach Pain

His stomach hurt. The pain started as a knot, three, maybe four days ago. He could no longer remember. All he remembered was waking up this morning to find the knot replaced by pain. The pain radiated through his entire abdomen. The strong black coffee he guzzled every morning intensified it, souring on his stomach, sending him racing for the toilet in the small apartment bathroom. Vomiting made the pain worse. It felt as if his breakfast consisted of bricks drizzled with acid. He’d never felt anything like it before.

His morning worsened with every passing moment after his body rid itself of the coffee. He was scheduled to have brunch with his Aunt Terry, taking her out of her nursing home for the morning. Last year, his aunt was diagnosed with brain cancer that presented as dementia. Now Martin made the effort to see her at least three times a week, but she didn’t always know who he was when she saw him. Martin took this in stride, because there were days; she didn’t know who she was, let alone anyone else. Today she recognized him, and that somehow made him feel worse.

The morning brunch menu at their favorite restaurant had been unappealing, and Martin settled on a cup of hot tea and dry toast. She noticed and commented on it. He told her he thought he was getting an ulcer. She asked about his symptoms, and he was telling her when his stomach decided the hot tea and toast were enemy invaders. Martin leapt to his feet and sprinted to the bathroom. He couldn’t make it into a stall, and the stupid bathroom trash cans were those small ones set in the wall. Another patron, already settled into a stall, heard him vomiting and asked if he was okay. Martin muttered a response, annoyed that a stranger taking a shit was bothering him at a time like this.

Martin hobbled to a stall as the second round of internal gut punches brought him to his knees. He struggled to breathe in a way that wouldn’t elicit more vomiting. He wanted to put his head against something cool, but the germ-laden toilet seat was the only thing close. He would die before he put his face against it. He compromised by folding his arms across the seat and lay his head on his arms. He stared into the bowl of the toilet. At least the bathroom was clean. It would need cleaning again now. The thought caused his stomach to churn more, and he gagged. He sat on the floor, head on his arms, and waited. The stranger in the stall finished up, flushed, and made a disapproving noise after letting the stall door bang closed. Martin couldn’t move. Pinpricks of sweat coated his skin. He shivered. The bathroom door opened, and someone entered, stopping in front of his stall.

You okay in there? a man’s voice asked. It wasn’t the voice of the stranger. It sounded younger. It sounded chipper despite the mess on the floor and the man sweating in the stall. Martin made a noncommittal noise and heaved again. This time, only bile. Bile tinged pink, he noted, looking at a string of saliva that dangled from his bottom lip onto the surface of the water in the bowl. The sight made him gag again. But after about thirty seconds, it passed. He could smell disinfectant now.

I can get you a cold rag if you need. My momma has migraines and when she’s sick, she likes a cold rag on her forehead and the back of her neck. I could get you one! the upbeat young voice called to him. Martin muttered something that might have sounded like no thank you or might have sounded like moaning.

He groaned and flushed the toilet. He couldn’t stay in the restaurant bathroom all day. He would have to get up and get the hell out of the place. He groaned a second time and tried to push himself up. His arms and legs shook, and he stayed on the floor for several more minutes.

You’re correct. I have a migraine. Martin whispered the words, and then repeated them a little louder. Can you get my check and tell my aunt, the elderly woman at the table with roses, that we need to leave?

No rush, man. Do you have medication for your migraine? I have some Excedrin Migraine and some Dramamine. I can bring you some. It might give you enough time to get home before you get sick again, the kind young man said as Martin crawled to the stall door.

I took some already, Martin lied. He did have a headache; it started the same day as the knot in his stomach. He had tried everything from aspirin to Benadryl to get rid of it without success. It was not bad enough to make him throw up. His father suffered cluster migraines and this headache felt nothing like what his daddy described.

Martin stared at the stall door and the black shoes on the other side. They were next to a yellow bucket. A mop swished around the floor, occasionally touching the shoes. Martin concentrated on the idea of the mop moving in hypnotic circles across the floor as he prepared to push himself up and onto his feet.

His legs still shook as he stood. He closed his eyes as he placed his forehead against the door. He lay his palms against the stall on either side of his head and just stood. He waited for the shaking to dissipate and his legs to stabilize. He erased the vision of the mop from his mind and replaced it with an image of a plastic bag inflating and deflating in rhythm with his breathing. He counted the seconds; three seconds of air into the lungs, hold for three seconds, and exhale for three seconds. He repeated this a dozen times and opened his eyes. His legs and hands no longer shook. He carefully twisted the knob lock on the stall door and opened it.

The young man in the bathroom might have been twenty-one but looked younger. He was shorter than Martin, maybe five feet, six inches with his shoes. His black hair was long enough to pull back into a ponytail. It was a good length for a male ponytail. It wasn’t so long it hung below the collar of his shirt, but also wasn’t so short it looked like a man bun. In other circumstances, Martin thought he would have liked the kid and wasn’t sure why. Martin fumbled for his wallet.

I am so sorry, Martin told the kid, finally pulling out his billfold.

Me too. I’ve only had one migraine. No one should have to deal with them, the kid replied, and stepped closer to him. You don’t look good. You should let us call you an ambulance.

No, I’m fine. I thought it had passed earlier. I was wrong. I just need to go home and lie down for a few hours, Martin told him and extracted a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. Take this as an apology. Martin foisted the money at the kid.

This is my job, I don’t mind, he replied, shaking his head, and stepping away from the money.

I worked at a restaurant in college. Your job is to clean up half-eaten food and wash dishes, not to scrub vomit off the bathroom floor, Martin told him, forcing the money into his hand. Martin left the bathroom before the kid could lodge another protest. His aunt was standing right outside the door.

I paid the bill. Martin, you look incredibly sick. Let me call you an ambulance, his aunt said as the bathroom door opened behind him.

I’m fine, just a migraine, Martin told her.

Oh no, you got migraines like your daddy? His aunt’s voice was higher pitched and strained by this statement. Martin’s father committed suicide when Martin was eighteen because of the migraines.

Yeah, let’s get you back home, Martin said to her. Thanks again, kid. I am so sorry.

Sir, I know it’s not my place, but I saw blood. Have you been sick for several days or is it not actually a migraine? the kid asked quietly.

It’s been a few days. Martin’s knees felt as though they were going to buckle. He grabbed onto the closest thing to him, the kid.

Sir, you should let us call you an ambulance, you can’t drive in this condition.

It’s New York, we’ll Uber, Aunt Terry said to the young man, and then leaned in closer. Martin heard her, despite her attempt to whisper. Was it a lot of blood? The young man shook his head and assured her it hadn’t been a lot. Martin let go of his arm and began walking toward the exit. His aunt would catch up. Despite her age, she was spry.

As soon as they were safely tucked in the back seat of the Uber, Aunt Terry began scolding him for taking her out when he’d been dealing with a migraine. For not going to the hospital, even though he’d thrown up blood and looked terrible. Neither of them noticed the look on the female Uber driver’s face as Terry scolded Martin. They wouldn’t have noticed the Uber driver for the entire trip if she hadn’t spoken to them.

My father died because of that. He had a migraine and it lasted so long he began throwing up blood. He ended up tearing the esophagus just above his stomach and drowned in his own blood, the Uber driver told Martin and Terry. They both stared at her. Terry’s mouth hung open slightly. Neither of them had ever heard of such a thing and couldn’t decide if it was true.

Aunt Terry insisted the driver take Martin home first and when they got there, she got out of the car with him. She sent the driver on, even arguing with Martin over whether it was necessary for her to make sure he got to his apartment without problems. After about twenty seconds of the argument, Martin realized he couldn’t win and conceded defeat. He handed his keyring to his aunt and then followed her inside the building.

Terry insisted Martin take some Zofran, a prescription anti-nausea medication she used to counter the side effects of her cancer treatments. Martin took it and then let his aunt tuck him into bed as if he were a five-year-old with the flu. Terry stayed in the living room, not making a peep, as she waited for Martin to fall asleep. Martin tossed and turned in the bed. He didn’t have a migraine. He did have a small headache, but he wasn’t tired. He’d only gotten up for the day less than four hours earlier.

As he tossed and turned, he thought about what the Uber driver said. Her father died of complications from a migraine. His father committed suicide because of a migraine. Martin’s head didn’t hurt as his father described it, but weren’t there several types of migraines? Perhaps he was suffering a different type of migraine. Something was making him sick.

He pretended to fall asleep. He needed his aunt to leave. He needed to get out of bed and find the source of his stomach pain and illness. He did not want his aunt to know it started days ago, she would freak out. She helped raise him after his mom died when he was eight years old. She brooded over him just like a mother and she would not be happy to learn he was hiding an illness from her. Her husband, Alfred, did that, ignoring the symptoms of his diabetes until it killed him. Alfred had been his father’s brother. Terry was his mother’s sister. In the modern world, one set of siblings marrying another was considered weird, but it was common in 1961 when his aunt and uncle married.

He managed to lie still, breathing steadily for almost half an hour, convincing his aunt to leave. The moment he was sure she was out of the apartment building; he got up and went to his laptop. He entered his symptoms into the WebMD symptom checker. When the matches came back, he stared at the list. The strongest matches for his symptoms were intestinal obstruction or peptic ulcer. He clicked the ‘load more results’ button and scanned the expanded list of possible conditions. None of those seemed likely.

He got up from the laptop, walked into his small kitchen and opened a cabinet near the stove, pulling out a two-gallon jug of apple cider vinegar. He set it on the counter, took down a large plastic drinking glass from his cabinet and filled it with the vinegar. He remembered reading somewhere that apple cider vinegar a panacea, curing all that ailed mankind. Vinegar also dissolved mineral deposits such as calcium and lime deposits, surely it would dissolve an intestinal blockage. He held his nose and guzzled the glass of vinegar.

Before he finished choking down the contents of the glass, pain shot through his abdomen, forcing him to double over, gasping out vinegar fumes. He lay down on his couch to let his stomach calm down and switched on the TV, turning it to a documentary on witchcraft. He rolled onto his side to watch it.

One

S addle up Peter West called out, striding into the main office area of the SCTU.

SCT Unit Alpha had been benched for several months while we waited for our fifth marshal to heal. Lucas remained on restricted duty after a two-by-four skewered him in an explosion. No one could predict if he would return to full active duty with the SCTU, but Gabriel remained reluctant to interview replacements, even for temporary duty. Without a temporary replacement, we were stuck in the office providing support to the other three teams and evaluating requests from local law enforcement agencies requesting our help.

I hated it, but I also didn’t want to replace Lucas and understood Gabriel's decision to use Mitch as needed for our fifth. Mitch came to our office from the Fortress. Technically, he was a US Marshal, like the rest of us, but had only four months of field experience with WitSec. Mitch's first assignment saddled him with a problematic witness who ended up getting himself and Mitch’s partner killed. After that he asked for a transfer to the Fortress, where he served as an administrator, organizing shift rosters and providing support to the Marshals serving as prison guards.

He transferred to the SCTU after an issue with the warden at the Fortress. His first day he tasered Malachi Blake, proving he could handle himself and defend himself properly against the resident SCTU agitators. He’d gone into the field with alpha team twice during local emergencies. He preferred to do our administrative work, but even I trusted him in the field. If West sent him with us to New York City, the situation must be bad.

Uh, wait... I said, raising my hand to get his attention. After our last case in NYC, the mayor told the Marshals’ Service I was never to return, I reminded him.

He and the chief of police decided the situation’s dire enough to allow Alpha team to assist via task force. The Marshals’ Service has arranged a driver for the team, and there will be a helicopter on standby for longer trips because Cain is not allowed on public transport while there. No city buses, no subway rides, no horse-drawn carriage rides through Central Park, none of it, West told us.

For the record, the distaste was mutual. I didn’t like NYC any more than it liked me. I’d been attacked on the subway by a psychopathic serial killer who became a mass murderer and shot the driver of the train as well as thirteen passengers. The subway train stopped because the driver managed to hit the emergency stop in the middle of a tunnel as he died.

The handling by the NYPD and transit authorities turned it into a disaster. Of the thirteen injured passengers, five died because the rescuers took three hours to arrive despite our neutralization of the threat within four minutes of the train’s emergency stop.

Four of the victims filed a class action suit against the city. They won millions. They did not sue the Marshals’ Service for some reason, but the mayor of New York banned me from ever stepping foot in 'his’ city again. I was fine with that.

The last time they needed the SCTU, team Bravo was sent. Unfortunately, SCTU Bravo, led by Malachi Blake, was in Alaska right this moment. There were four teams total now: Alpha, Gabriel’s team; Bravo, Charlie, and Delta. Charlie was in Miami, Florida, and Delta in Phoenix, Arizona.

Peter West stepped out of our office and returned with a stack of files. He handed these out and motioned for us to open them. I groaned audibly as I looked at the first crime scene photo. The picture showed a woman's body. She was nude, spread-eagled on a patch of grass with u-shaped stakes hammered into her hands and forearms. The stakes were bright orange. Another set speared her feet and lower legs. I couldn't help comparing her position to that of being crucified.

I read the autopsy report. No signs of sexual trauma and no semen recovered. I made a huffing noise as I read; the girl had literally been staked out for sexual assault. In that position, it seemed implausible the killer failed to molest her. My teammates made their own noises, and I took this as a sign of agreement.

Twenty-one straight pins were pushed into the sole of each foot. I flipped the page and found more photos and reports. I closed it and picked up another file.

Another woman, this one a little older than the first, was in the exact same position with the same style of rebar stakes embedded in her limbs and one additional stake through her neck. In the pictures, paint had chipped off the u-shaped stakes and the top of the curve looked flattened. The stakes had been hammered into place and not just driven in with brute force.

Both victims were found at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, West said to us as we read the folder.

What are the stakes? I asked. They appear to be made of rebar. Are they commercially available or custom jobs?

They are trampoline stakes and commercially available, Fiona said. My neighbor ordered a package from Amazon in blue to stake down her kids’ trampoline.

They are commercially available trampoline stakes, and they are made of rebar, West said at the same time Fiona told us what they were.

These are dated more than a week apart, Mitch said. Two victims with a significant amount of time between them does not meet the threshold for SCTU involvement, he reminded West. The guidelines for the SCTU required a killer be working at an exceptionally fast pace—killing nearly every day—or that the killer claimed more than twenty victims, or there were extenuating circumstances such as the competition the previous year held in KC. Two victims a week apart did not warrant SCTU involvement, and local law enforcement likely didn't need us.

There are extenuating circumstances, West said.

That’s code for one of these girls is the daughter of someone important. Gabriel frowned.

Not in this case. From late 1988 until May 1990, fifteen girls between the ages of 14 and 22 were found in the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. They were nude and staked to the ground like these girls, and there was no sign of sexual assault. Police, park rangers, and conservation agents staked out the park, but it wasn’t until late 1990 they saw a man dumping the body of a girl who fit the pattern of the murders. He pulled a gun, a gunfight ensued, and the suspect died at the scene, West told us.

So, there’s a copycat, I said.

Yes, but the police aren’t sure how the copycat got the information. In the original fifteen cases, the medical examiner found straight pins pushed into the soles of the girls’ feet. That detail was never released to the public and it’s not in the original files except in the coroner’s notes, which are not part of the official case file. These two girls have straight pins in the soles of their feet, West said. Even the amount is exactly the same.

That’s awful! I said, looking at my desk. I’m guessing the perpetrator held the girls for some days before killing them, because otherwise there would be no reason to push pins into their feet.

I have a different question; why is the detail about the pins not in the official case file? Xavier asked.

In 1988, he kept them alive five days. This one is keeping them four days. The detective who investigated the original case believed the pins were the key to finding the killer, so he intentionally left the detail out of his file to ensure it couldn’t be leaked to the media or anyone else. There was another serial killer operating at the same time, and more than a hundred people gave confessions to being both serial killers, despite the only link being time and location. To cut down on the false confessions, the investigators in both cases decided to remove one piece of information about their case from the official files. The pins were the holdback information in this case. And because I know Ace is going to ask, with the ripper murders happening at the same time, the detective made the decision to omit the missing heart from each victim in his reports, West said. NYPD has already investigated the family of the man killed in the shootout in 1990, all the officers involved, and all the staff at the medical examiner’s office. They are hoping the SCTU can provide new perspective and they can catch this one before the body count gets much higher.

Gabriel stood as West finished. We all kept a packed suitcase or duffle bag at the office. I texted my mom and told her we were heading out on a case.

Two

We remained silent for most of the flight. Dread spurred the silence as each of us reflected on our previous visits to New York City. With a population of eight million people, NYC statistically had the largest number of resident psychopaths of any major city. The bad type of psychopath gravitated toward me as though I were a planet pulling them into orbit around me. All my previous visits left me recovering from a violent altercation.

During my second visit, as I walked to a job interview at the Museum of Natural History, I stopped at a bank to get money from an ATM and walked into a robbery. One of the gunmen hit me with his gun, causing a scalp laceration that sent me to the ER. The museum rescheduled the interview for the following day when they learned what happened to me, but I failed to make that interview too. While walking to the rescheduled interview, I interrupted a domestic dispute and got clipped by a stray bullet aimed at the husband. The final trip involved the SCTU and the mass murder on the subway. The second visit proved I had exceptionally bad luck, forcing me to contend with four psychopaths which seemed like a lot.

I turned my attention back to the case at hand, locking my memories of previous visits away. There was stuff I needed to do, and reminiscing wouldn’t help anyone. I began by asking Xavier to start reading me the list of people involved in the first case. Not just the NYPD officers and medical examiner’s staff, but park rangers, conservation agents, and anyone else with access to the refuge. This included scientists who took soil and water samples, the trash collectors, and even the meter readers who monitored the parking lots.

Since the case happened more than thirty years ago, the ages of those involved with the case were important. People older than thirty at the time of the original murders made unlikely copycat suspects. Some killers did kill into their twilight years—my grandfather was a prime example—but serial killing wasn’t a hobby picked up by most retirees. Either the killer managed to kill undetected for thirty years or they were in their mid-teens or early twenties during the first series of murders.

Contrary to the portrayal of serial killers in pop culture, they changed both their method of killing and victim preferences with some regularity. The health and capabilities of the offender dictated how, who, and when they killed. An injured offender might not stop killing while they healed and instead adjusted their killing preference to accommodate their injury. For example, a killer might stop strangling victims while their broken arm healed and instead bludgeon them to death. Age played a similar role. Again, my grandfather Patterson, was a good example, he preferred to beat his victims to death. When age physically weakened him, he switched it up and began shooting some of his victims, and then he made a custom cane from ironwood with a steel hand grip and began using it to beat his victims to death.

It bothered me that both killers kept their victims for several days but did not rape them. While not all serial killers found motivation in dark, violent, sexual fantasies, the lack of sexual interference removed the motivation to keep the victims alive and captive. Autopsies on the first series showed the women had access to water, food, and bathing facilities.

He took care of them and didn't lock them in a dark hole to starve. I guessed it was a bath, because standing in a shower with twenty-one pins in the soles of each foot sounded like torture. That was the only sign of torture; add that to the lack of sexual molestation and I thought the killer's behavior bizarre.

Hey, why kidnap and keep a woman for five days if you do not intend to rape or torture her? I asked the team.

What do you mean? Xavier asked.

Well, the first killer abducted his victims, took them someplace and kept them there until he decided to kill them a few days later. He cooked for them for five days, three meals a day. He allowed them to use the bathroom. He allowed them to bathe.

He gave them clean clothes, Fiona commented. If you read the reports, each victim had a stack of folded clothes next to their body. They had been washed, dried, and in one case, ironed before being folded and left next to the victim. DNA testing on the first set in the new series confirmed the victim wore them, but they did not match the outfit she wore the day of her abduction. The clothes found next to the first victim, Suzette Williams, didn't belong to her. The outfit they suspect Suzette Williams wore the day she went missing was later found folded next to Alice Wolter's body.

I have a suggestion, Mitch said, frowning. Maybe they are replacements for a daughter he lost. He keeps them until he realizes they don’t fill the hole left by his own daughter, then he kills them.

Using them as surrogates for his daughter would explain why he doesn’t rape or torture them. It also explains why he takes care of them.

The first killer didn’t have a daughter, ever, Gabriel said. He didn’t have any children, and unless the second killer has the same fantasy, why copycat this particular case when he could copycat an easier one, such as Son of Sam or the New York Ripper?

Yeah, copycats want the notoriety; they pick cases that garnered a great deal of publicity. Son of Sam is perfect; the killings were easy and relatively safe, and it turned into a media circus. Also, the victim pool would be massive, I said.

This case coincided with the New York Ripper and went largely unnoticed by the public as a result, Fiona said.

Another reason not to copycat it. I could easily