I decided that people like Thomson needed to be the nemesis of someone, and really needed to be put in their place. So, here is that opportunity, at least for a start. This is unedited (that Word did not catch) so it might be revised a few times as my wife points out a few stray apostrophes.
Maybe when i finish Hollow World i will revisit this tale as a crime scene/detective thriller.
It had taken his wife years to get used to the thought of him traveling. Anthony Jackson, Tone to his wife, Tony to his friends, was walking around their bedroom, a suitcase laid out on the bed, socks and boxers already in it. There were two notes on the bed next to the suitcase. His wife was trying to help him pack, had some polo shirts in hand, a couple of pairs of slacks laid out on the bed.
Tony grabbed the first note, it read
Tony, I need you to get to Maine right now, he’s struck again, and he’s bragging. See the attached note.
It was signed by Jason Everett, his superior at the FBI. Tony let the note fall back to the bed and picked up the second note.
Tony, may I call you Tony? I have 3 more presents for you. I got your name from the newspapers in Arizona after my last bit of fun. No offense, but I hope to not see you soon.
It had not been signed, but it contained an address, and when the department had the locals check it out, they had found three dead girls, all in their early twenties.
Damn it! Tony was beating himself up. This was the third time this guy had struck, and the previous two times he was unable to catch the guy, but it had been a year since the last attack. The case, and the trail had gone cold.
It had first come across his desk as a favor to a friend, he was looking into a triple homicide in Arizona when he had discovered that a VERY similar crime had occurred a few months before in Utah. Both times it had been 3 college girls. Tongues cut to ribbons, cigarette burns all over their hands. Eyes sewn shut. He shivered thinking what else that monster had done to those girls. When he found the first unsolved, he had brought it to Jason’s attention and he had been given leave to investigate it. After a few weeks of no new leads though, the case had been shoved to the back burner as other problems came up. The pictures of all six girls had sat on his desk, reminding him that this monster was still out there, waiting to get caught.
This was his opportunity, and he was headed to Maine that evening, as soon as he could get packed.
“Be careful,” Robin said, her hand resting on his shoulder. She had taken the pants off the hangers, folded the polos and set them all in the suitcase. He had been staring into space, going over everything he new about the killer.
“Thanks, I will. You stay safe here, and call me as soon as you know something.” His hand trailed down in between her breasts, coming to rest on the small bulge of her stomach. She was two months pregnant, their first. He was more nervous about it than she was.
He grabbed his gun and cell phone from the dresser, along with the wallet and his badge and stashed them in their appropriate places on his body. Wallet in his rear left right pocket, the cell phone in the front one, same side, the gun in its holster under his left arm, and the badge in the inside breast pocket of his sports jacket.
“Call me when you get there…”
“And every night too.” He zipped shut the suitcase, kissed her and grabbed the plane ticket from its spot on the table near the front door.
It did not take him long to make it to Reagan and once he had passed through security sat in the lobby, the note from him still fresh in his mind. The cops had said the scene was clean, but he wanted to look it over himself. The media had originally called him the RBT Killer, for Rape, Bind, and Torture, until he had let the fact that not one of the girls had been raped leak. In fact, not one of the girls showed any sign of overtly sexual trauma at all, just horrific amounts of torture. They had not latched on to a new name yet, he just called the guy that sick fuck, TSF.
The first two crime scenes had left him a cigarette butt each, with enough DNA to connect them, but their was no connection to any ID in any of the databases that the FBI had access to.
His phone buzzed, and picking it up, he saw that he had an email. It was titled “Details on TSF’s newest murders,” he chuckled, the boss had liked that too and it had stuck. The only thing that it contained that he had not seen yet was the victim’s names, Carly Tanner, Samantha Crawford, and Vivian Li, and contact numbers for their families. He pressed a button and dialed the first number.
“Yes, Mr. Tanner? My name is Anthony Jackson, but you can call me Tony. I am with the FBI and I have been assigned to your daughter’s case. I am very sorry.”
He explained that he was on his way to Standish, where their daughter had gone to school, at Saint Joseph’s College, and that he would do everything in his power to see that the bastard that killed her would be brought to justice. He also added that he hoped that TSF would run so he had a chance to shoot him, not just because it was what Carly’s father wanted to hear, but because he really did want to shoot the bastard.
He had the same conversation twice more, once with Samantha’s father, and then with Vivian’s mother. He hung up his phone right as they began to board his flight.