Dead By Morning

Chapter 2

Maleah and Derek arrived in Cullman shortly after midnight, checked into the Holiday Inn Express, dumped their bags, and drove straight to the sheriff’s office. As they had expected, someone from the Powell Agency had called ahead so the sheriff himself was there to meet them. Griffin Powell and his agency had become legendary, their success rate far exceeding that of regular law enforcement. Only occasionally did the agency come up against police chiefs or sheriffs who resented Powell involvement. Thankfully, Sheriff Devin Gray welcomed them with a cautious smile and a firm handshake. Looking the man in the eye, Maleah instantly felt at ease.

Gray was about five-ten, slender and young, probably not a day over thirty-five. Clean shaven, his sandy hair styled short and neat, he projected a squeaky-clean appearance.

“Come on into my office.” Sheriff Gray backed up his verbal invitation by opening the door and waiting for Maleah and Derek to enter.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she saw the heavyset, middle-aged man sitting in the corner, his gaze directed on her. He rose to his feet and waited until the sheriff closed the door, affectively isolating the four of them from the activity outside the office.

“This is Freddy Rose, the Cullman County coroner,” Sheriff Gray said. “Freddy, these are the Powell agents we’ve been expecting.”

Freddy’s round face, rosy cheeks, and pot belly made her think of Santa Claus, but his bald head and smooth face brought up an image of a short, rotund Mr. Clean.

Offering his meaty hand to Maleah, Freddy said, “Ma’am.” And once they shook hands, he turned to Derek.

“Derek Lawrence.” He exchanged handshakes with the coroner, and then nodded toward Maleah. “And this is Ms. Perdue.”

“Ordinarily, we wouldn’t share any of this information with outsiders,” Sheriff Gray explained. “But when the governor calls me personally . . . Well, that’s a horse of a different color, if you know what I mean.”

Maleah knew exactly what he meant. Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached far and wide, not only to the office of state governors, but to the powers that be in Washington, D.C. Griff’s connections were strictly behind the scenes, of course, but she suspected he wielded far more power than anyone knew.

“We appreciate your both being here this late,” Derek said. “Mr. Corbett’s son Ben is one of our people. Ben is on his way here now and Ms. Perdue and I would like to get the preliminaries out of the way before he arrives. He will have enough on his plate as it is coming to terms with his father’s murder.”

“Absolutely,” the sheriff agreed. “That’s why Freddy’s here. He hasn’t performed an autopsy, of course, since the state boys will be here in the morning to claim the body, but he’s certain about the cause of death.”

“Sure am,” Freddy said. “No doubt about it. Mr. Corbett’s throat was slit, pretty much from ear to ear. Sliced through the carotid arteries on both sides and the trachea as well. Death occurred within a couple of minutes.”

“Any idea about the blade the killer used?” Derek asked.

“The cut was smooth and straight,” Freddy said. “No jagged edges. I swear it looked so damn precise, I’d swear a surgeon did it using a scalpel.”

Maleah’s gut reacted instantly to that bit of information. The medical examiners in each of the previous cases believed that Kristi, Shelley, and Norris Keinan had been killed with a scalpel, their necks cut with the expertise of a surgeon.

“Does that fit other murders?” the sheriff asked. “I was told you’d want to compare this case to some previous murders.”

“Yes, so far, it does fit,” Derek said, and then turned to Freddy. “What else can you tell us about the body?”

Freddy’s gray eyes widened. “Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. The killer cut out these little triangle-shaped pieces from Mr. Corbett’s upper arms and thighs.” Freddy shook his bald head. “Did it postmortem, thank the Good Lord.”

“Does that match what was done to the other victims?” Sheriff Gray looked at Maleah. “Are we dealing with a serial killer? Is that what’s going on?”

“Yes, the other victims also had triangular pieces of flesh removed from their limbs,” Maleah replied. “And yes, with three murders, now four, it appears to be the work of a serial killer, but—”

“But that’s all we know at this point,” Derek finished for her. “We’re working under the assumption that a serial killer has murdered four people now. Unfortunately the latest victim was the father of one of our agents.”

Why had Derek cut her off mid-sentence like that? What had he thought she was going to say? My God, did he actually think she’d been about to reveal the fact that all four victims were in some way related to the Powell Agency? Did he think she was that stupid? Up to this point, the press had made a connection only between Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert. But since no “guilty knowledge” details of either murder were ever released, it was assumed that Shelley died in the line of duty on assignment in Alabama and that Kristi’s murder in her Knoxville, Tennessee, apartment had been the work of another killer. The fact that they were both Powell Agency employees was believed to be simply a coincidence. Norris Keinan, a corporate lawyer, had lived in Denver, Colorado, and the fact that his younger brother was a Powell agent had not been an issue, either with the Denver PD or the local Denver media.

“I didn’t know Mr. Corbett personally,” the sheriff said. “But he and the mayor’s dad played golf together. I understand he was a fine man, well thought of in the community. We’re sure sorry something like this happened in Cullman.”

“Would it be possible for us to get copies of the reports, once they’re filed, and also copies of the photos taken at the scene?” Maleah asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I can see to it that you get copies of whatever you need.”

“Then I can’t think of any reason we should keep y’all up any later than we already have.” Maleah glanced from the handsome young sheriff to the fifty-something coroner. “Mr. Lawrence and I are at the Holiday Inn Express.” She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Devin Gray. “We’d like to stay here and wait on Ben Corbett, if that’s all right with you?”

“Certainly,” Sheriff Gray said. “Feel free to use my office.”

When Sheriff Gray and Freddy said their good-byes and started to leave, Derek called to them. “By any chance, was Mr. Corbett found in or near a body of water?”

Both men froze to the spot. Freddy cleared his throat before glancing over his shoulder and saying, “He was found on the riverbank, face down, his feet in the river.”

“Were the others found in water?” Sheriff Gray asked, his gaze sliding slowly from Maleah to Derek.

“Yes, they were,” Derek replied quickly.

“Just another similarity, huh?” Freddy said. “Guess it’s looking more and more like the same person who killed those other people killed Mr. Corbett.”

“Apparently so.” Derek glanced at Maleah.

She knew what he was thinking.

Four innocent victims, their only connection the Powell Agency. But who had killed them? And why?

Maleah and Derek waited for Ben Corbett. When he arrived at the sheriff’s office at a little after three that Sunday morning, they shared with him all the information the sheriff and coroner had given them.

Ben had been with the agency for several years, coming straight from the army after his retirement. Three-fourths of the Powell agents had either law enforcement or military backgrounds. A few, such as Maleah, had been chosen because of their high IQs and willingness to learn on the job.

Although Ben had managed to control his emotions, Maleah hadn’t missed the subtle signs of anger and hurt. While they had explained what had happened and how they suspected his father’s death was related to the other three murders, his gaze wandered aimlessly, often focusing on the wall. Once or twice he had mumbled incoherently under his breath, then quieted suddenly and clenched his jaw, as if it was all he could to maintain his composure.

“Dad was a ladies’ man,” Ben told them. “He loved to flirt. Never bothered Mom. She’d just laugh about it. He never cheated on her, loved her to the day she died.” He swallowed hard. “I suspect he loved her till the day he died.”

“We’ve been authorized to help you in any way you need us,” Maleah said. “If you’d like us to make the arrangements or help you make them—”

“Thanks. That won’t be necessary. Dad made all the arrangements right after Mom died. Paid for everything. Chose his casket, picked out the suit he wanted to be buried in. Made his will. Told the minister what songs he wanted at the funeral. He said he didn’t want me to have to worry with any of it when the time came.”

For several minutes, the three of them remained silent. Then Ben asked the inevitable question. “Who the hell is doing this and why?”

“We don’t know,” Derek said. “The only thing the victims have in common is their connection to the Powell Agency. The killer’s MO is identical in all four cases, so we’re relatively certain we are dealing with one killer. But we have no idea what motivates him or how he chooses his victims.”

“At random, maybe,” Ben said. “Anybody associated with the agency is a target, right? And for whatever reason, the killer picked my dad.” Ben’s dark eyes misted. He turned his head.

Derek clamped his hand down on Ben’s shoulder. “We’re going to catch him and stop him.”

Ben nodded.

“Is there anything, anything at all, we can do for you?” Maleah asked.

Ben cleared his throat a couple of times. “No, thanks. I can’t think of anything. I’m going over to Dad’s place and try to get a few hours of sleep. When are y’all heading up to Griffin’s Rest?”

“If you don’t need us here, we probably won’t stay longer than mid-day tomorrow,” Derek told him. “Copies of the reports and the crime scene photos can be sent directly to the office as soon as they’re available. I expect Nic and Griff will be moving forward with their plans to form their own task force and since I’m the agency’s profiler—”

“Count me in on the task force,” Ben said. “After Dad’s funeral.”

Neither Derek nor Maleah responded, knowing it would be up to Griff and Nic to choose the agents who would lead the investigation and those who would assist. If Ben had been a police officer, he wouldn’t have been allowed near the case because his dad had been one of the victims. But Griff’s rules and regulations differed from regular law enforcement. On occasion, the Powell Agency came damn close to doling out vigilante justice, a fact that often created tension between Griff and Nic.

He could go days without sleep and could easily get by with four hours per night on a regular basis. He was no ordinary human being. Years of training, self-sacrifice, and stern discipline had honed both his mind and body into a superior being. He had no weaknesses, wasn’t vulnerable in any way, and therefore was practically invincible.

The espresso at the airport coffee bar was barely acceptable, but it served the purpose of giving him a caffeine boost. To pass the time while he waited for his flight to Miami, he flipped open his laptop and scanned the information about Errol Patterson.

Patterson was a former member of the Atlanta PD SWAT team, a crack shot and a decorated officer. He had loved his job, but when his fiancée had insisted he find a less dangerous profession, he had chosen love over duty and signed on with the Powell Agency.

He smiled.

You made a life-altering decision. Too bad for you that it was a deadly mistake.

How could he or his fiancée have known that choosing to work for the Powell Agency would cost him his life?

Patterson had been chosen for two reasons—he was associated with the Powell Agency and he was male.

I chose two women and then two men for the first four kills . . . But after that, I altered my choices, just to throw them off. I kept them guessing. That’s how I stayed one step ahead of them.

He did more than stay one step ahead of the authorities. He outsmarted them, never leaving behind even the vaguest clue to his identity. Over the years, he had gone by many names, so many that it was easy to forget who he really was. His true identity was a guarded secret, known by only a handful of individuals. In certain circles, he was known as the Phantom. Nameless. Faceless. An illusion. Unseen. Unheard. A dark angel of death.

Maleah woke to the sound of incessant pounding. Inside her head? No, outside her hotel room. Some idiot was knocking on her door and calling her name.

Go away. Leave me alone.

She shot straight up in bed where she lay atop the wrinkled floral spread. Groggy and only semi-alert, she slid off the side of the bed and stood unsteadily on her bare feet for a few seconds.

“Maleah,” Derek called to her through the closed door.

Damn it! What time was it? She glanced at the digital bedside clock. 8:30 A.M.

She groaned. Three and a half hours was not nearly enough sleep.

“I’m coming,” she told him as she padded across the carpet. When she reached the door, she cracked it open, glared at Derek, who looked fresh as a daisy, and asked him, “Where’s the fire?”

He shoved open the door and breezed past her. She closed the door and turned to face him. Obviously he had shaved, showered, and pressed his slacks and shirt. His stylish, neck-length hair glistened with blue-black highlights. His deep brown eyes focused on her with amusement.

“I forgot how grumpy you are in the morning,” he said.

“You’d better have a good reason for beating down my door.”

“Duty calls.”

“What?”

He looked her over, taking in her sleep-tousled hair, her wrinkled clothes and her makeup-free face. “Griff called. He wants us at Griffin’s Rest ASAP.”

Maleah groaned, and then when Derek’s smile vanished, she asked, “What’s happened?”

“What makes you think—?”

“Damn it, Derek, it’s too early in the morning to play games, so let’s not do twenty questions.”

He clasped her shoulders, turned her around and urged her toward the bathroom. “Toss your clothes out to me and I’ll press them while you grab a quick shower. We’ll pick up coffee and biscuits on the way to Griffin’s Rest.”

She curled her toes into the carpet and dug in her heels. “I’m not moving another inch until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“Why do you have to be such a macho jerk?”

Derek frowned. “Griff and Nic are organizing the task force today.” He paused, studied her expression and then said, “I’m pretty sure they plan to put the two of us in charge.”

She groaned. “Why us? Why not you and Shaughnessy or you and Angie or you and Michelle or you and Luke or—?”

“I get it. You don’t want us to be partners on another case. But I don’t think it really matters what we want. It’s what Griff and Nic want.”

“I can’t believe Nic would pair us up again, not when she knows . . . well, she knows that we mix like oil and water.”

“I thought we made a pretty good team on the Midnight Killer case.”

Maleah huffed, hating to admit that he was right. “Yeah, yeah, I suppose we did.”

“Besides, Shaughnessy is more muscle than strategist. His expertise lends itself to the physical. And now that she’s pregnant, Angie isn’t working in the field. Michelle is on a much-needed vacation after that last two-month case in South America. As for Luke, you know Griff reserves him for special duty.”

Accepting his explanation, she nodded her acquiescence and said, “Give me five minutes.” She turned and went into the bathroom.

She closed the door, stripped hurriedly, and then eased the door open enough to toss her clothes toward Derek. Smiling at the thought of him ironing her slacks and blouse, she adjusted the hot and cold faucets on the shower and stepped under the spray of warm water.

The FedEx truck had been stopped at the front gate by the guards on duty. Shaughnessy Hood had been dispatched from the main house to drive down and pick up the package addressed to Maleah Perdue in care of the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency at Griffin’s Rest.

Barbara Jean Hughes, Griff’s right-hand man Sanders’s assistant, best friend and lover, took the sealed, insulated shipping box from Shaughnessy, placed it in her lap and carried it with her down the hall to Griff’s private study. The door stood open so that she could see Griff behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand. Sanders stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the box she held.

She cleared her throat.

Griff glanced up, saw her, and motioned for her to enter.

Without hesitation, Barbara Jean maneuvered her wheelchair into the study. Sanders reached down, took the box from her and placed it on the desk directly in front of Griff.

He studied the insulated container for several silent minutes. “Did you notice the sender’s name and address?”

“Yes,” Sanders replied. “Winston Corbett, Cullman, Alabama.”

Griff scrutinized the shipping label. “What time frame did the Cullman County coroner give for Winston Corbett’s death?”

“Between midnight and five A.M., yesterday,” Barbara Jean replied.

“Then I’m curious as to how Ben’s father managed to send Maleah a package after he died.”