Nothing in life is quite as exhilarating as hunting people.
Agent Robbie Sanchez’s mind flickered with the remembrance of her college days at the University of Miami when she and her girlfriends’ idea of fun and excitement was to hit the bars and go dancing. Now, with nearly ten years of experience as a homicide investigator, she’d long since amended her naïve notions of fun and excitement. The addictive, adrenalinedriven world of catching killers stole any possibility she might have of returning to the pleasantly ignorant days of her youth. She was a cop junkie with little chance for rehabilitation.
Robbie rubbed her hands together. Not that she was cold; it was the best way to release the pent-up energy without revealing her position in the bushes. The nearly full moon illuminated the canal bank just enough to form phantoms out of shadows and give substance to the low, clinging fog crawling out of the water onto the shore. Hiding among the dense foliage along the bank of the now infamous Tillman Canal, Robbie’s dark camouflage jacket covered her Florida Department of Law Enforcement bulletproof raid vest and her gun belt, which pinched against her hip if she moved just right.
She checked her watch: 3:34 a.m. Another slow, possibly wasted night. They’d set up their surveillance every night for nearly three weeks with nothing resembling a lead. She needed to be patient, no matter what it took. The killer would return.
The muggy Florida air and occasional sounds of fish breaking the water’s surface added a little ambiance to her secluded, all-night venture. She tucked an errant tendril of her black hair back into the elastic band and tightened her ponytail. She was a city girl, not some rustic chick. Just because she was on a stakeout didn’t mean she had to look uncivilized.
Squeaking brakes called from the darkness. A shadowy silhouette of a car, lights off, crept toward her down the pitted, bumpy service road along the canal bank. Maybe one of the other agents was changing position? The car stopped, but no brake lights came on.
“I’ve got some movement here,” Robbie whispered into her radio mic as she stepped behind a palm tree and aimed her night-vision scope toward the car. “Is anybody moving out there?”
“Everybody’s still in position.” John Russell was a half mile west of her location. “If something’s moving, it’s not one of us.”
Robbie adjusted the volume on her radio and tightened her earpiece. FDLE agents from the Melbourne field office were stationed at intervals along the six-mile-long canal bank. The Tillman had many entry points–some from neighborhoods, some from wooded trails. Florida Power & Light used it to check their power poles, and ATV and motorcycle riders enjoyed the road during the day. Boaters and fishermen trolled along the canal itself, but it was the nighttime activity that concerned Robbie.
In the last four months, three homicide victims surfaced at different points along the canal–one was found underneath a private dock, another in a patch of reeds. And just over a month earlier, the last victim was discovered floating facedown in the middle of the channel. By robbie’s estimate and profile, the killer worked on a thirty-day cycle.
He was past due to strike again.
His victims were prostitutes working the Melbourne and Palm Bay area: women of the night who could disappear and not be missed for days, weeks, months–and sometimes never. As if murdering the women wasn’t bad enough, the ghoul had tortured them first.
It was an impossible task to try to keep watch on the alltoo-numerous potential victims strolling up and down the U.S. 1 corridor. Another consistent factor of his MO was the dumpsite.
This place meant something to him. Maybe he grew up around here. Maybe he lived within a block or two or possibly right along the canal. Robbie didn’t know what it was, but something attracted him here–and he’d surely return.
The car stopped about two hundred feet away. No one came out here this time of night just to sit in a car by himself. Robbie zoomed in on him with the night-vision scope. The driver fumbled with something in the front seat. Even if he wasn’t their suspect, this guy was up to no good. The man opened his door and used the roof to hoist himself out of the vehicle.
He checked up and down the desolate roadway. The green hues of the night vision made a positive identification impossible, but he was a white male, maybe midthirties, medium build, wearing blue jeans and work boots. Definitely not one of her team. He paced to the front of the car, then quickly to the rear doing “the felony look-around.” Whatever he was up to, it should be a treat. Robbie’s pulse quickened as he jammed his key in the trunk’s lock and whipped it open.
“All units, move up.” Robbie hugged the shadows of the tree line as she inched closer and whispered into the mic. “He’s opened the trunk. We have to block him in.”
The man bent over and pulled a log-sized lump half out of the trunk, resting it on the edge. Squatting down, he lugged the object out onto his shoulders. Hunched over and staggering like a drunk trying to dance, he two-stepped his way to balance, the limp load draped over his shoulders like a thick, malleable yoke. Lumbering down the canal bank, he picked up speed, and with a primitive grunt, he launched the object into the waiting waters of the Tillman. The loud splash told Robbie what she needed to know–they’d just found their suspect.
“It’s him! It’s him!” Robbie silently sprinted from the darkness and drew her 9 mm, crouching down as she ran to intercept him. “All units, move in. Repeat, all units, move in.”
“Wait for backup!” Special Agent in Charge Alan Cohen commanded. “We’ll be there in just one minute.”
The suspect marched up the steep bank toward his car. He glanced back at the disturbed waters lapping at the shore, and he rubbed his hands along his jeans. He was nearly in the car. She didn’t have a minute.
It’s easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask permission.
She skulked along the road about twenty yards from the vehicle without acknowledging Alan over the radio. She had the element of surprise and couldn’t wait for backup. The suspect would be gone by then, maybe forever. She had to move now. She lit him up with the flashlight. “Police! Get on the ground. Now!”
He twirled around, his arm splayed out like he was preparing for a tackle. His eyes narrowed and focused in on her. This guy wasn’t going down without a fight. Robbie marched toward him, gun and flashlight freezing him in place. He stole a furtive glance at the open car door. Could she cut him off before he made it to the car?
“I know what you’re thinking.” Robbie quickened her pace. “Don’t do it. On the ground now!”
Raising his hands high, he glanced behind him, then back at Robbie. She was alone, and he had to know that by now. With a smirk and two quick bounds, he hopped into the driver’s seat, slamming the car in gear before his rear hit the seat. The spinning tires sprayed a rooster tail of dirt as the vehicle swerved, front door still open, and barreled toward Robbie, who backpedaled but would never make it out of his path.
“Stop!” She trained her flashlight and 9 mm on the driver’s head. His hateful, sadistic eyes bore down on her, and he gunned the engine. She had no choice.
Crack. Crack. Two rounds spiderwebbed the windshield just as the driver ducked down, jerking the car to the right at the last second.
Robbie dove and rolled down the canal bank, splashing into the murky soup of the Tillman. He missed her by mere inches, and his car rocketed along the clumpy canal bank like a skier taking moguls.
As Robbie struggled for footing, her hand brushed against an object bobbing in the water. Cold and smooth. She didn’t have to see it to know she’d just touched another victim. She pulled up her flashlight, hoping it still worked, and shone it on the water. The milky white figure floated facedown in a way no live human could.
Robbie grabbed the woman’s wrist, heaved her up onto the shore, and made a quick search for vitals. They were long gone.
Another victim. One more woman forced to pay for this suspect’s sick, deluded fantasies. He was going to be stopped–tonight. Robbie crawled up the canal bank, weighed down by her saturated vest and gear.
Another car raced down the dirt road toward her, the dashmounted red and blues flashing, then skidded to a stop. “Are you okay?” The dust that John’s car kicked up overtook them.
“I’m fine.” Robbie lit up the victim’s body on the shore as she struggled to catch her breath. “But he’s killed another one. We’ve got to get him, John. We can’t let him escape again.”
“Hop in!” He revved the engine and white-knuckled the steering wheel, his ink black hair slicked back. The suspect’s vehicle was back on the dirt road and nearly a quarter mile away. Robbie sprinted around the car and shook her pistol, hoping the water wouldn’t damage it. She might need it again soon.
“He’s getting ready to turn onto Fallon Boulevard,” John called on the radio as he pulled away before Robbie could shut the door.
“I’ve got him.” Agent Tim Porter’s voice brimmed with excitement. “He’s turning west. A blue Honda. Florida tag FDC4439. I’m in pursuit. Get the sheriff ’s helicopter here.”
“Catch up, John.” Robbie holstered her pistol and then pounded a damp fi...
