“Go ahead.”

  “The job’s in Fargo, North Dakota. The victim is Rebecca Green, twenty-one, a junior at North Dakota State University. She was found beaten to death in her home near the campus.”

  “Was anyone else home?”

  “Negative. The roommate is overseas waiting for a flight home. There’s a big storm in the East Atlantic right now, so it might be a while before they get home. Phones are out too, just to make things really convenient.”

  “Well, at least we know they have an alibi. Any witnesses?”

  “None. She was seen through an open window by a neighbor who heard her dog barking and called Fargo PD.”

  “She has a dog?”

  “Yes, a husky mix she adopted recently from a local shelter. The dog was cleared of any involvement in her death.”

  Faith felt a touch of relief at that. In a past case, a former vet tech had used a psychoactive chemical to manipulate a pack of dogs into killing and eating several people. She hoped to never have to see anything like that again.

  “Any other victims?” she asked.

  “None confirmed, but the case is strikingly similar to another case in Moorhead just across the state border in Minnesota. The victim, twenty-seven-year-old Amanda Milleson, was also beaten to death and found by a neighbor through an open window. That case was three months ago, with no leads found. Fargo PD called us when they found Rebecca and recognized the similarity.”

  “Got it,” Faith said, “I’ll head to the office.”

  “No, we want this solved with urgency. People are afraid we might have another Bundy on our hands. I gave Prince the case file. He’ll meet you at the airport. Your flight leaves in an hour.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  The Boss hung up, and Jessie turned to Turk. "Well, boy, looks like we get to go catch another bad guy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The husky stood next to the body of Rebecca Green, which still lay on the ground where it had fallen. CSI had managed to cover the body with a blanket, but the responding officer told Faith and Michael that the dog had refused to allow them to take the body. Animal control was prepared to tranquilize the dog, but the Fargo PD officer, Sergeant Trent, had convinced them to wait until the FBI agents had a chance to examine the scene first.

  “Poor girl,” Sergeant Trent opined. “She looks so heartbroken.”

  “Can you blame her?” Michael asked. “She just lost the love of her life.”

  Faith glanced at the shellshocked dog. The husky didn’t look heartbroken. It looked numb. Just the way Faith had felt only a few hours ago. She recalled the look on Turk’s face when she had first met him, the aloofness and indifference in his eyes. She recognized it now for what it truly was. He was replaying the scene of his handler’s death over and over in his mind, just as the husky was no doubt playing Rebecca Green’s death over and over in her mind.

  “Does the dog have a name?” Faith asked.

  “Tag says Luna, but it’s not responding. You can give it a shot, though. Maybe your dog will be able to get through to her."

  “He will,” Michael said. “That’s the best K9 you’ll ever meet.”

  As if he understood, Turk trotted to the husky and stood next to Luna. He pressed his shoulder to hers gently and stood in silent vigil over Rebecca Green’s body. Faith and Michael watched as Luna slowly relaxed and leaned against Turk.

  Her heart went out to both dogs. They were sharing a pain that no one—human or animal—should ever have to experience.

  “What can you tell us so far?” Faith asked Sergeant Trent.

  “Not much at this point,” he said, “She was a junior at North Dakota State majoring in sociology. She wasn't the party type, based on what I could see on her social media page. Bit of a loner, in fact, but she was a good student according to her academic records.”

  Faith met Trent’s eyes. “Does her lack of a social life have something to do with this case?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a detective. I’m here because Detective Presley's out of town, and I drew the short straw waiting for you guys to arrive. No offense."

  “I’m sure,” Michael said drily.

  Faith could understand his irritation. Fargo PD had called them for help, but Sergeant Trent didn't seem to care much about the fact that a woman was murdered on his beat. Or maybe he just didn’t like feds. That was an all-too-common problem among local law enforcement.

  Either way, she didn’t have the time or energy to deal with it now. “Thank you, Sergeant. We’re going to take a look at the scene now. We’ll let you know when we’re finished, and you can call for animal control and the coroner.”

  “You got it,” he said, leaving the house through the front door. It swung closed but didn’t latch. Trent frowned and tried to jimmy the handle, but Faith called, “Leave it.”

  He cast her an irritated look that vanished when he caught sight of the expression on her face. He dutifully backed away as Faith approached the door. Michael walked over to look at the window, checking for anything left behind—a fingerprint, scuff mark or a piece of fiber, anything that might give them a clue as to the identity of their killer.

  Faith examined the door. It was heavy, over two hundred pounds of solid, hand-carved maple. The latch and hinges were equally massive, stainless steel, and several times larger and stronger than those found on a typical door.

  But not strong enough. She learned quickly the reason the door wouldn’t latch. Both the latch and the deadbolt had been warped severely out of shape. She crossed to the other side of the door and discovered the reason.

  Their killer had kicked in the door. The heavy maple slab hadn’t splintered, but several deep divots on the outward-facing side marked where the killer’s boot had impacted it.

  This guy was strong.

  “Well, the window’s clean,” Michael said, walking over. “What have you got from the door.”

  She pointed at the warped deadbolt, and Michael whistled. "Jesus. He kicked in the door too?”

  “What do you mean too?”

  “Well, I’m assuming he came in through the window,” Michael replied.

  “You know the old saying about never assuming?” Faith asked.

  "Yes. Don't assume, or you'll make an ass out of u and me. Only the thing is, I was an ass before this investigation started."

  Faith smiled at her partner. “That may be true, but try to reign it in while we’re on duty, okay?”

  “I make no promises.”

  She chuckled and said, “So the killer came in through the door. Rebecca grabbed the baseball bat and came down to investigate. Then…” she trotted to the window and looked around the sill. The window opened only from the inside, and there were no marks that would indicate a crowbar or some other tool to force it open from the outside. “He exits through the window. Interesting.”

  “How do you know he didn’t come in through the window?”

  She pointed to the edges of the window. “No sign it was forced open. See?”

  He nodded, impressed. “So it seems. You never cease to amaze, Special Agent Superstar.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for Michael’s praise. Their relationship had been rocky at times, and she was glad that they were getting along well again.

  They searched the rest of the scene and found nothing. Faith thought of having Turk sniff around for clues, but Turk remained stoically at Luna’s side, and she decided to leave him. If he smelled something important, he would investigate it.

  When she called him to leave, Luna followed him. The husky stayed close to Turk, her head down. Faith could have sworn she saw tears in the poor animal’s eyes as Turk led her away.

  They decided to wait for animal control so Turk could stay with Luna as long as possible. While they waited outside, Faith and Michael touched base.

  “Well, the guy’s strong as shit if he broke through that door,” Michael said, echoing Faith’s earlier thought.

  “Yeah. He would have to be exceptionally powerful.”

  “Trammell level?” Michael asked.

  “Or thereabouts,” Faith agreed.

  In addition to being a crazed serial killer, Jethro Trammell was an unusually strong man. He stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed well over three hundred pounds. He earned his nickname as the Donkey Killer due to a local anecdote of him carrying a fully grown donkey on his shoulders for miles when the animal had fallen and injured its leg. Unfortunately, his compassion stopped at animals.

  “Lovely. Well, at least Rebecca Green went quickly. Trent was telling me that her head was… well, she went quickly.”

  “He was angry,” Faith said. “His MO suggests he was overcome with rage.”

  “You think he hates women? Both of these victims were women. They were young and pretty too. Maybe a repressed sexual thing, like Bundy?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Faith said. “He didn’t rearrange the bodies, and there’s no sign of assault. In fact, there’s no sign that he touched them at all with his hands.” She thought a moment longer. “Didn’t Amanda Milleson also adopt a dog recently?”

  “Yeah, a labradoodle. She got it from the Moorhead Animal Home. You know labradoodles?”

  “I’m familiar,” Faith replied.

  The cross between a Labrador retriever and a poodle had become an incredibly popular breed known for being hypoallergenic, friendly and easy to care for. They were often purchased by families who wanted a breed that was patient with small children. Unfortunately, many of those families learned that they were unable or unwilling to put even a token amount of effort into caring for an animal, and plenty of the dogs ended up in shelters.

  Just like Rebecca Green’s husky mix, Luna.

  “I think he resents people who adopt shelter dogs,” she said.

  “He resents people who adopt dogs? Who hates people who like dogs? I mean, I get people who go after people who abuse dogs. We’ve had a few of those ourselves. But resenting people who help dogs?”

  “Well, he’s a serial killer,” Faith replied. “It’s likely he doesn’t think like normal people. But he might feel that these people are somehow wronging these dogs.”

  “How?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. But it’s a connection between the two victims, and in the absence of any evidence of sexual assault, it’s the strongest connection.”

  Michael looked skeptical, but he said, “All right. How do we follow up on that lead?”

  She felt another rush of gratitude. She and Michael had clashed over cases in the past, but the fact that he trusted her judgment now was further sign that the two of them were once more a team.

  “I want to check her belongings,” she said. “It’s possible the killer took something or left something that might shed light on things.”

  She approached Trent, who looked increasingly annoyed at the protracted response time from CSI and Animal Control. “I need to look through Rebecca’s belongings,” she said, “I think our killer might have left something behind.”

  “Suit yourself,” Trent said, “it’s your crime scene.”

  His attitude still irritated her, but she supposed there were worse things than a local police officer who preferred to stay out of her way. She and Michael walked back inside. “I’ll check upstairs,” Michael said. “You handle the first floor.”

  “Works for me,” Faith replied.

  She walked slowly through the living room, carefully opening drawers and cabinets and looking under and behind furniture. While she worked, she looked for any other sort of evidence that might help. She couldn’t find any footprints or fingerprints. In addition to being strong, the killer was intelligent enough to cover his tracks.

  But she felt he had left something behind. Rage-motivated serial killers usually did, either in the form of physical evidence, or, if they were careful like this one, some sort of signature associated with their reason for killing the victim.

  This killer wanted people to know why. He wanted them to see that he was only doing what was right and just.

  She checked the kitchen as thoroughly as the living room but came up empty. Not to be deterred, she took advantage of Turk leading Luna outside and knelt next to Rebecca Green’s body.

  And that’s where she found it. The light from the kitchen lamp shone dully off of a piece of metal trapped underneath Rebecca’s left hand. Faith put on a glove and carefully lifted Rebecca’s hand off to reveal a charm pendant. She picked up the pendant, which was made of a heavy, dull-grey metal—pewter, she believed. It depicted a three-headed dog with glowing red rhinestones for eyes and tongues of flame leaping from each of its mouth.

  Cerberus. The Hound of Hell.

  She was right. This killer thought himself an advocate of dogs.

  Michael came downstairs, and she showed him the charm. He lifted an eyebrow. “Wow. All right. Looks like you were right. I’m glad you found something because I came up empty upstairs other than this leash.” He held up a fabric leash with a tear on one end. “I took it just in case it helps lead to something about the dogs. Not sure why, just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “That’s all right,” Faith said, “I don’t think this guy left anything else behind. He was very careful.” She lifted the charm, “But, like most ‘serial killers of justice,’ he’s too wrapped up in his purpose to avoid making that purpose clear.”

  “They never have a purpose,” Michael scoffed. “They just tell themselves they do because admitting that they’re just sadistic murderers doesn’t sound as good as pretending they’re righteous and justified.”

  “Plenty of people throughout history have convinced others that sadistic murder is justified,” Faith pointed out.

  “Well, let’s find this guy and remind him that it isn’t.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Goddammit, why does Midwestern coffee always taste like shit?” Michael groused, grimacing as he swallowed a sip of what he apparently thought was a very poor brew. It tasted just about like all coffee to Faith, except for the coffee at a recent case in Idaho that was truly vile, although Faith thought that had more to do with the case taking place in a small town rather than as something typical of the entire state.

  Michael was more generous. He had decided that roughly a quarter of the country was incapable of brewing coffee. “Look, I’m not a fan of California,” he complained, “but I would happily fly out a few baristas from the Bay Area to teach the rest of the country how to work with coffee.”

  “I’m sure they’d be very receptive,” Faith said.

  She looked down at Turk, who was looking pensively into the distance. He had been acting that way since seeing Luna the night before.

  “You okay, bud?” she asked, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

  He looked up at her, but his expression didn’t change.

  “You think he’s having flashbacks about Jack Preston?” Michael asked.

  Faith sighed and sat straight. “Yes,” she admitted. “I think seeing David and now another dog with its owner murdered is affecting him.”

  “How are you feeling?” Michael asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, “I’ll be able to handle the case.”

  “I know that,” Michael clarified, “I mean in general, how are you feeling?”

  She met Michael’s eyes, and her expression was answer enough.

  “Right,” Michael said, “I don’t blame you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  They fell silent for a moment, each of them dealing with their own personal demons. Finally, Faith downed the rest of her coffee and said, “Come on. I want to go talk to the coroner.”

  The three of them left the hotel and headed toward the Fargo-Moorhead Crime Lab. Despite being in different states, Fargo and Moorhead were considered twin cities and shared many local resources. Conveniently for Faith, Michael and Turk, that included a crime lab and a coroner.

  They reached the building just as it was opening. Several of the locals gave them odd looks, but Faith was used to that. Good or bad, the arrival of FBI agents was always newsworthy.

  The coroner, Doctor August Warren, said he would meet them at his office in the crime lab’s basement level. She wondered why bodies were always kept in the basement. Was it a subconscious burial? Did putting them underground allow the living above to pretend death didn’t exist?

  She chuckled at herself. Most likely it was just because refrigeration systems were heavy and it was easier to put them below the building. Still, she couldn’t help shake a sense of the macabre as they descended a staircase to the basement level.

  Doctor Warren was a husky, balding man with a perfectly manicured full grey beard with prominent sideburns. He was nearing the end of middle age and walked with a slight stoop, but his eyes were bright and alert when he welcomed them.

  “I have to say,” the doctor began, “I really hoped Miss Milleson would be the only one.”

  “I think everyone would agree with you,” Michael said.

  “Well,” Warren replied, “at least one person wouldn’t.”

  They fell silent a moment at the sobering statement. Faith broke the silence when she asked, “Can you give us a cause of death for Rebecca Green yet?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s exactly what you think it is. Major blunt force trauma to the head, depressed cranium, contusions to the brain, bleeding in the brain, a severed brainstem—”

  “A severed brainstem?” Michael interrupted.

  “Yep,” Warren replied, “In addition to having her head caved in with a baseball bat, the blow was so hard, it snapped her neck.”

  That, unfortunately, made sense to Faith. The killer was powerful and enraged. The damage from even one blow would be incredible.

  “How does that compare to Amanda Milleson’s case?” she asked.

 

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