suppose you’d volunteer?”
“Love to. I’ll just let those smuggling and
theft cases slide for a few weeks—or months—while I hunt the killer
down—”
“No, no...that won’t be necessary.” Willowbe
was suddenly businesslike. “I’ll make some phone calls…see what I
can do. Let me know if you find anything more.”
More than what? He hadn’t found anything,
yet. Hanging up, he pushed away from the desk and paced the three
steps of available floor space. If he thought it would help, he’d
have gone undercover months ago, smugglers be damned. But the odds
of one undercover agent—two, if you counted Harding—tracking the
killer were painfully low. He had ruined Harding’s career, and
probably his life, for nothing.
“Man, I don’t need this crap.”
That’s what his brother Hammond had told him
when he had urged him to take that Northfield P.D. job. “You don’t
need that crap, Harry. Settle down. There’s plenty of college
chicks in Northfield—get a wife or something while you still have
most of your hair.”
Briggs had passed a hand through his short,
thick brown hair and eyed his brother’s receding hairline. “Right,
Ham—I figure I got more time for that than you do.”
In truth, he liked the challenge of his
position. Vandalism, drug smuggling, theft, arson, murder—as the
sole detective for a shrinking regional railroad, it all fell under
his purview. But now he wished he had listened. Over the last year,
the BRR had become a real power, swallowing or destroying any
competitive gangs along the line. The crime rate had risen from a
steady trickle to a tsunami flood. And these serial killings…
Fourteen murders on his tracks and
he had no leads whatsoever.
The idea of having nothing worse to think
about than speeding tickets, a few drunken students, and the
occasional cow-tipping incident was sounding damn good. But he
couldn’t quit until he got this mess cleaned up. If he
could clean it up.
Restless, he returned to his desk. A stack of
files blocked his computer monitor. He moved it to the floor, sat
down, grunted, got up again, wheeled the broken chair out the door
and pushed it down the stairs. There was a lot of banging and
clanging, and a satisfying crunch when it hit the gravel below. He
shoved the folding chair he kept for guests in front of his desk
and turned on his computer.
He made a point of searching the Internet
periodically in case the killer was psycho enough to start a blog
or website about his activities. A stretch, but checking made
Briggs feel like he was doing something. He tapped in the keywords
“hobo” and “killer.” The usual crap appeared—games, music, hobo
spiders, and an ever-growing clutter of irrelevant, self-indulgent
blogs. He refined his search and found links for Robert Silveria,
who bludgeoned hobos in their sleep, and Resendez-Ramirez, whose
victims lived near the tracks. Solved crimes, unconnected to the
current slayings. There were historical references to the Mad
Butcher of Kingsbury Run and current references to the Brotherhood
of Rail Riders. The Mad Butcher was ancient history—no connection
there. And the BRR was just a glorified street gang on wheels.
Typical gang violence, obviously unrelated to the bizarre
killings.
He scrolled through dozens of links, looking
for something relevant. Something he hadn’t seen before. Then he
spotted a title that made him pause: Hobo Spider Claims
Another Victim . He clicked on it and sat back, stunned.
Austin Harding’s bloody face filled his screen, the black handle of
a knife protruding from his mouth.
Outrage crackled through Brigg’s brain. This
was a confidential police photo. Some greedy bastard had leaked
it.
He wrenched his cell phone from its case,
ready to chew some ass, but forgot to dial when he read the photo’s
caption. Another bizarre murder claims a traveler of the
iron road. Could the Butterfly Killer be at it again?
What the hell? He skimmed the article,
“Love to. I’ll just let those smuggling and
theft cases slide for a few weeks—or months—while I hunt the killer
down—”
“No, no...that won’t be necessary.” Willowbe
was suddenly businesslike. “I’ll make some phone calls…see what I
can do. Let me know if you find anything more.”
More than what? He hadn’t found anything,
yet. Hanging up, he pushed away from the desk and paced the three
steps of available floor space. If he thought it would help, he’d
have gone undercover months ago, smugglers be damned. But the odds
of one undercover agent—two, if you counted Harding—tracking the
killer were painfully low. He had ruined Harding’s career, and
probably his life, for nothing.
“Man, I don’t need this crap.”
That’s what his brother Hammond had told him
when he had urged him to take that Northfield P.D. job. “You don’t
need that crap, Harry. Settle down. There’s plenty of college
chicks in Northfield—get a wife or something while you still have
most of your hair.”
Briggs had passed a hand through his short,
thick brown hair and eyed his brother’s receding hairline. “Right,
Ham—I figure I got more time for that than you do.”
In truth, he liked the challenge of his
position. Vandalism, drug smuggling, theft, arson, murder—as the
sole detective for a shrinking regional railroad, it all fell under
his purview. But now he wished he had listened. Over the last year,
the BRR had become a real power, swallowing or destroying any
competitive gangs along the line. The crime rate had risen from a
steady trickle to a tsunami flood. And these serial killings…
Fourteen murders on his tracks and
he had no leads whatsoever.
The idea of having nothing worse to think
about than speeding tickets, a few drunken students, and the
occasional cow-tipping incident was sounding damn good. But he
couldn’t quit until he got this mess cleaned up. If he
could clean it up.
Restless, he returned to his desk. A stack of
files blocked his computer monitor. He moved it to the floor, sat
down, grunted, got up again, wheeled the broken chair out the door
and pushed it down the stairs. There was a lot of banging and
clanging, and a satisfying crunch when it hit the gravel below. He
shoved the folding chair he kept for guests in front of his desk
and turned on his computer.
He made a point of searching the Internet
periodically in case the killer was psycho enough to start a blog
or website about his activities. A stretch, but checking made
Briggs feel like he was doing something. He tapped in the keywords
“hobo” and “killer.” The usual crap appeared—games, music, hobo
spiders, and an ever-growing clutter of irrelevant, self-indulgent
blogs. He refined his search and found links for Robert Silveria,
who bludgeoned hobos in their sleep, and Resendez-Ramirez, whose
victims lived near the tracks. Solved crimes, unconnected to the
current slayings. There were historical references to the Mad
Butcher of Kingsbury Run and current references to the Brotherhood
of Rail Riders. The Mad Butcher was ancient history—no connection
there. And the BRR was just a glorified street gang on wheels.
Typical gang violence, obviously unrelated to the bizarre
killings.
He scrolled through dozens of links, looking
for something relevant. Something he hadn’t seen before. Then he
spotted a title that made him pause: Hobo Spider Claims
Another Victim . He clicked on it and sat back, stunned.
Austin Harding’s bloody face filled his screen, the black handle of
a knife protruding from his mouth.
Outrage crackled through Brigg’s brain. This
was a confidential police photo. Some greedy bastard had leaked
it.
He wrenched his cell phone from its case,
ready to chew some ass, but forgot to dial when he read the photo’s
caption. Another bizarre murder claims a traveler of the
iron road. Could the Butterfly Killer be at it again?
What the hell? He skimmed the article,
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