All In
Page 73
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“Who is this?” Tory’s voice cracked on the other end of the phone line.
With shaking hands, Sloane set the phone to speaker. “I used to be Aaron’s sister. And now I’m not. And you used to be his person, and now you’re not.”
“Sloane?”
“I told my father that it was going to happen. I told him that there was a pattern. I told him the next murder was going to happen in the Grand Ballroom on January twelfth. I told him, Tory, and he didn’t listen.” Sloane sucked in a ragged breath. On the other end of the phone line, I could hear Tory doing the same. “So you are going to listen,” Sloane continued. “You’re going to listen, because you know. You know that just because you ignore something, that doesn’t make it go away. Pretending something doesn’t matter doesn’t make it matter less.”
Silence on the other end of the phone line. “I don’t know what you want from me,” Tory said after a small eternity.
“I’m not normal,” Sloane said simply. “I’ve never been normal.” She paused, then blurted out, “I’m the kind of not-normal that works with the FBI.”
This time, Tory’s intake of breath sounded sharper. A flicker in Michael’s eye told me he heard layers of emotion in it.
“He was my brother,” Sloane said again. “And I just need you to listen.” Sloane’s voice broke and broke again as she spoke. “Please.”
Another eternity of silence, tenser this time. “Fine.” Tory clipped the word. “Say what you need to say.”
I could feel Tory shifting from one mode to another: naked grief to defensiveness to a kind of flippancy I recognized from Lia. Things only matter if you let them. People only matter if you let them.
“Cassie?” Sloane sat the phone down. I stepped forward. On Sloane’s other side, Dean did the same, until the two of us were standing facing each other, the phone on the coffee table between us.
“We’re going to tell you about the killer we’re looking for,” I said.
“I swear to God, if this is about Beau—”
“We’ll tell you about our killer,” I continued evenly. “And then you’ll tell us.” Tory was quiet enough on the other end of the line that I wasn’t completely sure she hadn’t hung up on us. I glanced at Dean. He nodded slightly, and I started. “The killer we’re looking for has killed five people since January first. Four of the five people were between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. While this could mean that our killer has a fixation on this age group due to a prior experience in his or her life, we believe the most likely explanation—and the one that fits best with the nature of the crimes—is that the killer is young as well.”
“We’re looking for someone in his early twenties,” Dean continued. “Someone who had a reason to target the casinos in general and the Majesty in particular. It’s likely our killer has extensive experience with Las Vegas and is used to going unseen. This is both his greatest asset and the fuel for much of his rage.”
“Our killer is used to being dismissed,” I continued. “He almost certainly has a genius-level IQ, but probably performed poorly in school. Our killer can play by the rules, but feels no guilt for breaking them. He’s not just smarter than people give him credit for—he’s smarter than the people who make the rules, smarter than the people who give the assignments, smarter than the people he works for and with.”
“Killing is an act of dominance.” Dean’s voice was quiet and understated, but there was conviction in it—the kind of conviction that spoke of firsthand experience. “The killer we’re looking for doesn’t care about physical dominance. He wouldn’t back down from a fight, but he’s lost his fair share. This killer dominates his victims mentally. They don’t lose because he’s stronger than they are—they lose because he’s smarter.”
“They lose,” I continue, “because he’s a true believer.”
“Beau isn’t religious.” Tory latched on to that—which I took to mean she recognized just how well everything else we’d said fit her foster brother.
“Our killer believes in power. He believes in destiny.” Dean paused. “He believes that something has been taken from him.”
“He believes,” I said quietly, “that now is the time to take it back.”
We didn’t tell Tory about the cult. With Nightshade’s attention on Vegas, knowing could put her in danger. Instead, I stopped telling Tory about our killer’s present state of mind and starting extrapolating backward.
“Our killer is young,” I said again, “but it’s clear from the level of organization in the kills that these murders have been years in the making.”
There was a reason we hadn’t been able to pinpoint the UNSUB’s age until we’d identified Michael as the intended fifth victim. So much about these kills spoke of planning—experience, grandiosity, artistry. To have reached that point by the age of twenty-one…
“In all likelihood, our killer has one or more traumatic events in his past—most likely, prior to the age of twelve. These events may have included physical or psychological abuse, but given the lengths the killer is going to”—to get their attention. I didn’t say those words out loud—“in order to prove himself worthy, it’s also likely we’re looking for someone who experienced a sudden loss and severe emotional or physical abandonment.”
With shaking hands, Sloane set the phone to speaker. “I used to be Aaron’s sister. And now I’m not. And you used to be his person, and now you’re not.”
“Sloane?”
“I told my father that it was going to happen. I told him that there was a pattern. I told him the next murder was going to happen in the Grand Ballroom on January twelfth. I told him, Tory, and he didn’t listen.” Sloane sucked in a ragged breath. On the other end of the phone line, I could hear Tory doing the same. “So you are going to listen,” Sloane continued. “You’re going to listen, because you know. You know that just because you ignore something, that doesn’t make it go away. Pretending something doesn’t matter doesn’t make it matter less.”
Silence on the other end of the phone line. “I don’t know what you want from me,” Tory said after a small eternity.
“I’m not normal,” Sloane said simply. “I’ve never been normal.” She paused, then blurted out, “I’m the kind of not-normal that works with the FBI.”
This time, Tory’s intake of breath sounded sharper. A flicker in Michael’s eye told me he heard layers of emotion in it.
“He was my brother,” Sloane said again. “And I just need you to listen.” Sloane’s voice broke and broke again as she spoke. “Please.”
Another eternity of silence, tenser this time. “Fine.” Tory clipped the word. “Say what you need to say.”
I could feel Tory shifting from one mode to another: naked grief to defensiveness to a kind of flippancy I recognized from Lia. Things only matter if you let them. People only matter if you let them.
“Cassie?” Sloane sat the phone down. I stepped forward. On Sloane’s other side, Dean did the same, until the two of us were standing facing each other, the phone on the coffee table between us.
“We’re going to tell you about the killer we’re looking for,” I said.
“I swear to God, if this is about Beau—”
“We’ll tell you about our killer,” I continued evenly. “And then you’ll tell us.” Tory was quiet enough on the other end of the line that I wasn’t completely sure she hadn’t hung up on us. I glanced at Dean. He nodded slightly, and I started. “The killer we’re looking for has killed five people since January first. Four of the five people were between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. While this could mean that our killer has a fixation on this age group due to a prior experience in his or her life, we believe the most likely explanation—and the one that fits best with the nature of the crimes—is that the killer is young as well.”
“We’re looking for someone in his early twenties,” Dean continued. “Someone who had a reason to target the casinos in general and the Majesty in particular. It’s likely our killer has extensive experience with Las Vegas and is used to going unseen. This is both his greatest asset and the fuel for much of his rage.”
“Our killer is used to being dismissed,” I continued. “He almost certainly has a genius-level IQ, but probably performed poorly in school. Our killer can play by the rules, but feels no guilt for breaking them. He’s not just smarter than people give him credit for—he’s smarter than the people who make the rules, smarter than the people who give the assignments, smarter than the people he works for and with.”
“Killing is an act of dominance.” Dean’s voice was quiet and understated, but there was conviction in it—the kind of conviction that spoke of firsthand experience. “The killer we’re looking for doesn’t care about physical dominance. He wouldn’t back down from a fight, but he’s lost his fair share. This killer dominates his victims mentally. They don’t lose because he’s stronger than they are—they lose because he’s smarter.”
“They lose,” I continue, “because he’s a true believer.”
“Beau isn’t religious.” Tory latched on to that—which I took to mean she recognized just how well everything else we’d said fit her foster brother.
“Our killer believes in power. He believes in destiny.” Dean paused. “He believes that something has been taken from him.”
“He believes,” I said quietly, “that now is the time to take it back.”
We didn’t tell Tory about the cult. With Nightshade’s attention on Vegas, knowing could put her in danger. Instead, I stopped telling Tory about our killer’s present state of mind and starting extrapolating backward.
“Our killer is young,” I said again, “but it’s clear from the level of organization in the kills that these murders have been years in the making.”
There was a reason we hadn’t been able to pinpoint the UNSUB’s age until we’d identified Michael as the intended fifth victim. So much about these kills spoke of planning—experience, grandiosity, artistry. To have reached that point by the age of twenty-one…
“In all likelihood, our killer has one or more traumatic events in his past—most likely, prior to the age of twelve. These events may have included physical or psychological abuse, but given the lengths the killer is going to”—to get their attention. I didn’t say those words out loud—“in order to prove himself worthy, it’s also likely we’re looking for someone who experienced a sudden loss and severe emotional or physical abandonment.”
