One Way Ticket Read online

  "That's real, you idiot! I found it in the woods."

  His lip twitches at the insult, and he gazes at the body part again. For a fake, it’s highly detailed. Leaning in, he can even see tiny hairs on each of the man’s toes. The body part belonged to a man—if it’s even real. He wouldn’t put it past her to buy something like this from a joke shop. No, it must be a fake. No one’s crazy enough to bring a human limb to a police station. Then he looks at the woman standing in front of him and reminds himself that yes, she really is that nuts.

  "I discovered it while I was walking Cooper this morning! Right next to those train tracks that run through the nature reserve."

  "You…found this, put it in a shoebox, and drove over here so you could hand the foot to me in person?"

  "Well, Coop found it." Naomi looks worried. "He took it in his mouth."

  Looking closer, the detective can see faint bite marks in the decaying flesh. Great. So it’s been contaminated with her fingerprints and dog saliva.

  Dropping all professional courtesy, he stares at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "I don’t like your tone!"

  He doesn’t care. "If you find a severed limb, you leave it alone and call the police!"

  "And what would you have done? Would you even have come if I called?"

  "Of course we would have—that’s ridiculous—"

  "I’ve been asking for updates on Candace’s case for days, and you returned none of my phone calls."

  "You’re not next of kin!" He turns toward one of his officers. "Get an ME unit. We need to have this bagged and iced."

  The officer nods, taking the shoebox from his desk. The faint smell of corruption drifts away. How could someone be so stupid? He’ll throttle her. For right now, though, he needs to be civil if only to get information out of her.

  "Naomi, you need to tell me exactly where the limb was."

  "I can show you. It was in a bush near the train tracks."

  "And the body?"

  Her eyes bug out. "All I saw was this man’s foot."

  This isn’t helping. He needs to get there as soon as possible. Tagging his partner, he grabs the keys on his desk. "Let’s go."

  Detective Landry barely has any time to poke around the bush in the woods before the California State Police descend on the scene. Sunol is split between the jurisdictions of Fremont and Pleasanton, but the state police can investigate anywhere they want. They bring their own medical examiner and shoo Naomi out, who lavishes praise on their quick response.

  It burns a little. He’ll admit that.

  Little yellow evidence cards sit on various sections in the dirt and foliage. The crime scene investigator places a card next to the thick outline of a paw in the mud, and technicians dust for prints. Landry’s partner, Derrick, crosses his arms and watches the forensics guys walking on the tracks.

  "They say there’s been a string of—ah—body parts near trains. They haven’t been able to ID the John Does."

  Landry is speechless for a moment. "How long has this been going on?"

  "Few months," he says. "The pattern suggests whoever’s been leaving them out has been riding a commuter train."

  "Wait… Someone's hacking off limbs and throwing them off trains?"

  Derrick looks unfazed. "Well, they’re not sure, but that’s why everyone’s so excited. The Altamont is a popular service that runs through this region, but it's not clear which one he’s riding. Anyway, the sergeant from state PD should be here any second. He’ll wanna talk to you."

  Landry nods, feeling glum. After the sergeant interviews him, he’ll send him away. He’s local, not state, and the state police investigate violent crimes in Fremont.

  He thinks of Candace. She took the Altamont Commuter Train every day for Catholic school in San José. She was photographed stepping into the train. The trail seemed to end the moment she disembarked, if that ever happened. There was no security footage of her leaving the station, but the surveillance at the San José location was poor, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they missed her.

  What if they didn’t?

  His blood runs cold as he imagines a girl’s hand sitting in a bank of mud. He knows the statistics. There’s a good chance of finding someone alive within forty-eight hours of their disappearance, and then their survival rate drops to nothing. He doesn’t want to think of the possibility—the inevitability of her fate.

  Derrick’s elbow digs into his side. "There he is."

  He jerks his head toward a man in a cut suit, the sergeant detective of Violent Crimes. Landry feels a twist of envy in his gut when he notices how young the man is. The sergeant smiles grimly at the police officer guarding the perimeter, and then ducks under the yellow tape. He heads straight for them.

  "Detective Landry," he says, sticking out his hand first. "I’m Sergeant Whitlock. Pleased to meet you."

  He decides he likes the formal sergeant. "Likewise."

  "I heard we’ve got ourselves a foot?"

  "Yes, the ME already examined it. He estimated it was severed two hours ago, tops. The wound had jagged cuts."

  "Any prints?"

  Landry sighs. "The woman who found it contaminated the foot, but they’re dusting for them now."

  "What happened to her?"

  "We already sent her away. She didn’t see anyone at the scene, but I can give you her contact information if you like. Sergeant Whitlock—"

  "Just Whitlock, please."

  "There’s something else you should know," he says, stumbling over his words. "She found the limb several meters away from train tracks."

  That doesn’t seem to surprise the sergeant, who rakes a hand through his hair. Landry can’t help but notice the rings of dark circles under Whitlock’s eyes and the tightness of his jaw. Maybe he's realizing that being sergeant isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Wasn’t that his first thought when he was promoted to detective?

  Whitlock digs into his slacks for his iPhone. Using his fingers, he blows up an image of a map dotted with notes. A thick, black line runs through Northern California.

  "That’s where we’ve been finding them," he says, tapping the screen. "This location puts him closer to the Altamont’s route. Does anybody have a copy of the train schedule?"

  "You don’t need one," Landry blurts. "There are really only two possibilities. Either he’s on the express to LA that comes once a week, or the commuter to San José. That’s every day. I can’t be sure about when they’d reach this area. The Altamont’s known for its delays."

  "There are way more companies that pass through this forest than just the Altamont."

  "Yeah, but I’ve been tracking this psycho for weeks. From what we’ve been able to piece together from the locations and the times they’ve been discovered, the pattern suggests passenger trains. Both have to be stopped—someone get in touch with the FRA."

  "Roger," one of his officers says.

  A deep voice rings out. "Wait, did you say the Altamont Commuter Train?"

  Everyone turns toward the officer positioned at the perimeter.

  "Yeah," Whitlock says. "Why?"

  "Sawyer is on the express train."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "No, I heard her say she was visiting her father for the weekend."

  Whitlock shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips as he stabs at the numbers on his phone. "Good. I’ll ring her up right now."

  Chapter 5

  9:50 AM – LA Express

  This cryptic crap was always beyond Jules. She’s never had much patience for puzzles, not even jigsaws. As she grows older the less patience she has for them. For the life of her, she can’t understand why people do crosswords for fun. If she wants a good time, she’ll go on a tour of the local craft brewery or sit on the couch for a Netflix marathon. Anything but this.

  Wearing a pair of latex gloves she borrowed from a nurse on board, she turns the piece of paper over. She compares it to the ticket she bought this morning and can’t find any differences. The date is today’s. Same price. Different name, obviously. The only real oddities are the skull and the strange, tooth-like drawing on the front side. She studies the illegible black scribbles. Jules already ruled out a written message—the scribble resembles no language as far as she can tell. The illustration is a series of boxes, some of them in rows of two or three.

  This is a waste of time.

  The killer thought he was being clever with the ear and the stupid clue on a one-way ticket, but it’s lost on her. She’s never dealt with anything like this. Well, once there was a murder involving an unfinished Sudoku puzzle lying next to the body. Her last partner was convinced it was a cryptogram. After thousands of dollars of taxpayers’ money, experts determined there was no hidden message anywhere, and the killer turned out to be the victim’s husband. Open and shut.

  She’s glad she and her partner went separate ways, but now she longs for his annoyingly close attention to detail. Maybe he’d be able to make sense of this, because she sure as hell can’t.

  Grabbing the Ziploc bag she took from someone’s discarded lunch, she places the ticket back inside and picks up the victim’s right ear. The plastic stretches taut as she fingers the severed body part, which is rock hard and cold. Flecks of red stain the lobe, but most of the blood is a black, gummy mass where the ear was cut off. The ear belonged to a man, gauging by the size. Guessing his age is a little trickier. Gravity makes everything longer as people grow old, but it's not a precise science. As ears go, it’s unremarkable. No piercings. Nothing to hint at his identity—other than the fact he's a white male. Except for the unpleasant clench it gives her when she reminds herself there's a sliced-off body part sitting in her palm. The ear could belong to the murder victim; she has no way of knowing f
or sure.

  "What is he trying to say?" Hicks says.

  "No idea, but I think the answer is here." She gives the container a jab. "Or this could be a waste of my time."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He could be taunting me. His way of telling me he’s in control."

  "Sick son of a bitch."

  "Takes a special breed of psycho to leave body parts on a train. Hell, he could be trying to cause a panic and make it that much harder for me to catch him."

  "What can I do to help?"

  "Just keep people calm and in their seats."

  "All right," he says, sounding disappointed.

  "They need to stay in line. I can’t deal with pissed-off people and search for the victim at the same time."

  "Yeah, I understand." With that, he stands and addresses the car of frightened people. "All right! Everyone needs to sit down. I know you all have questions, but they’ll have to wait."

  His booming voice acts like a whip crack on the passengers, but as soon as they walk back to their seats they bury their faces in their phones.

  God. No wonder they noticed nothing—not that it’d be hard to miss him in the dark. Before he moved the body, the killer sliced off the dead guy’s—Mark Nilsen’s—ear and stuck it to the chair. Easy enough to do in the sleeper car. She imagines him in her mind, a tall, faceless man touching the heads of empty seats as he walks down the aisle. He slaps his hand on the cushion, pushes the needle deep inside to make sure his trophy sticks. It'd be revealed later when the lights flared on. After the commotion in the first car, someone must've flipped the switch. Once that happened, even this self-absorbed, iPhone-obsessed generation wouldn’t be able to miss a severed ear next to their head.

  Grinding her teeth, she drops the Ziploc bag into a small plastic container with ice. The evidence won’t keep for long. Her sergeant would cringe to see her handle it like this, but it’ll have to do until she stops the train.

  Jules stands with the blue box in her hand. The ear jostles inside. Gross. A dozen eyes watch her as she walks toward the door. A woman wearing a bohemian dress attempts to block her path, but Hicks swiftly intervenes. She’s the one who found the note—Maria. The marshal takes her aside and calms her down in soft tones.

  Jules exhales a sigh and heads down the aisle. A sudden buzzing in her pocket distracts her, and she stops in the middle of the aisle to grab her blinking iPhone. The name flashing on the screen sends blood careening through her veins. Sergeant Whitlock.

  A groan rips from her throat. Just the thought of him makes her cheeks hot, and not in a pleasant way. He was brought in a few years ago when the department underwent a cleanse. Memories of the purge that swept her workplace always fuel the ulcers raging in her stomach. Whitlock replaced the not-so-beloved sergeant detective of Violent Crimes who was found guilty of misleading several homicide investigations. He seemed right for the job.

  If she’d met Whitlock outside work, maybe she would’ve found him charming. Handsome, even. Working for him is hell, though. The guy is so insufferable she almost put in a transfer request to a different department.

  Jules heaves a great sigh and braces herself. "Sawyer here."

  His deep voice crackles through the speaker. "It’s Whitlock. Are you on the ACT train right now?"

  "Yeah. There’s something I need to—"

  "How familiar are you with the East Bay Chopper case?"

  Weird name. "This is the first time I’ve heard of it."

  He exhales a sigh. "Long story short, I’ve had several people tracking a serial killer up and down train tracks in the East Bay, and we believe he’s on board with you right now."

  She can’t keep the shock out of her voice. "I’m dealing with a goddamn serial killer?"

  "Yes."

  "There’s already been a homicide—"

  "I know. We found his foot in Sunol."

  "Jesus." Jules pauses as she imagines someone opening the door of a train to toss a bleeding limb out. "Is that why he’s called The Chopper?"

  "Yeah. He’s been cutting up bodies and throwing them out of trains, piece by piece."

  "Why? I mean—why not just wait until disembarking to get rid of them?"

  He laughs. "Are you assuming this man has a healthy brain? He’s butchering people on a train, Sawyer. Hell if I know. Did you tell the conductor to stop?"

  She clenches her jaw. "I’m on my way."

  “Look, the ME estimated the foot was removed two hours ago. He’s been doing it for a couple weeks on the Amtrak and the ACT, but we haven’t been able to identify the vics."

  "I may have the victim’s name. Mark Nilsen. The killer left me a note with an ear attached to a seat."

  "Damn," he says after a stunned silence. "I’ll run a missing person’s report, try to get ahold of his next of kin to see if we can contact them. First things first, though. You’ve got to get that train to a complete stop."

  "I’m on it."

  "Sawyer, be careful. I’ve been building a psych profile on this guy with the Bureau’s help."

  Her heart thunders against his chest. "And?"

  "Male. Mid thirties. Has an obsession with locomotives."

  "Gee, thanks. That’s eye-opening."

  "I’m not done yet. He probably has above average intelligence. He might’ve worked for the company before—ask the crew for a list of employees who were let go recently. You’re dealing with someone who has extensive knowledge about trains. He knows what to do with the bodies, where to hide them, how to avoid security checks."

  Well that doesn’t bode well. "Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll text you a picture of the note."

  She opens the plastic tub and takes out the Ziploc bag with the ticket, knowing Whitlock will get on her case for storing evidence like that. Then she snaps a quick photo and sends it to the sergeant.

  "Okay, I got it. Hold on. I’m looking. There’s a little skull and crossbones. Ah, I see the name. Wait, what is that?"

  Jules shrugs even though she’s on the phone with Whitlock. "I don’t know. Looks like a row of boxes, teeth, or something. I can’t make any sense of it."

  "Well, I’ll call my handwriting expert. Oh—any chance he was caught on tape?"

  "No," she says, annoyed. "There are no cameras on the train."

  "Damn. That'll slow us down. Just focus on one thing at a time."

  "I will. Gotta go."

  She hangs up before Whitlock can get another word in and tucks the phone back in her purse. Her nerves are ablaze with one fact: There’s a serial killer running up and down the aisles, and she’s responsible for stopping him.

  It’s a game of cat and mouse. So far, she’s losing.

  "Is this good enough for you?"

  Jules waves the little baggie of decaying ear next to Vinny’s face, enjoying both his high-pitched shriek and his cringing disgust. She had him pegged as a coward the moment she saw him, and she’s glad she was right.

  Vinny nearly falls off his stool in his attempt to get away. "What the hell—is that an ear?"

  "Yes. A passenger found it."

  He twists halfway in his seat to give her his full attention. "And you’re carrying it around?"

  "There’s a man decorating your train with human parts and you’re arguing with me? Shut the hell up and stop the train!"

  "All right!" The chair squeaks in protest as he turns back to face the front. A single bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, and he wipes it away.

  Jules swells like a bullfrog, ready to yank the controls from him and do it herself, and then he reaches for the speaker attached to the wall. His hand shakes so violently he can't maintain a grip. The man is scared out of his wits. This is probably what the sergeant meant when he did her annual performance review and said she lacked certain qualities to get the bigger cases, like patience.

  The speaker hovers over his mouth. He takes a deep breath and before he can exhale, a horrible voice booms from the box attached to the wall.

  Both of them reel back.

  "This message is for the cop trying to catch me."

  Vinny blanches, letting go of the speaker as though it’s a snake. "Holy sh—"