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some answers about the whole damn murder.

 
    Chapter Two
     
    Douglas Thorpe cradled the telephone in its console. Frustration weighed heavy on him, not to mention his nerves. For the last forty-five minutes, he’d been on the phone with Vincent McAdams, the town administrator, who wanted to know the exact status of the situation. The media hounded him, and he wanted answers to give to them.
    “It’s peak season, Thorpe. And have you seen Babson’s article in the Ledger this morning?” McAdams began, but by no means ended. Thorpe didn’t have any time to respond. McAdams vented. Until Gail, his assistant, buzzed Thorpe that the FBI had arrived. The day kept getting better and better.
    Thorpe ran a hand in his pants pocket and popped a Tums in his mouth. He’d lived off them the last few months. His visitor walked in his office, and Thorpe obligingly stood up to greet the special agent, caught momentarily by surprise at the agent’s youth. He’d expected someone much older. The kid looked like he’d just got out of the academy. The agent stood in front of Thorpe’s desk, self-assured and confident, smiling from ear to ear.
    “You must be Chief Thorpe. Special Agent Jackson Dunn. Down on the Crandell case. Of course, you probably assumed as much.” Dunn extended his hand. A handsome guy, a light-skinned African-American, tall, Thorpe observed while he greeted the agent. Cocky came to mind, but at one time he’d been that way.
    “Have a seat.” Thorpe motioned. “Understand you guys believe our murder is connected to a series of murders you’ve been investigating. Must have some kind of theory on our murder down here.”
    “It’s why I’m here. Believe I’ve gone over all the paper work, the autopsy report.” Agent Dunn nodded. He pulled out a folder from his briefcase. “This is only preliminary. Don’t have any usual suspects?”
    Agent Dunn glanced at Thorpe.
    Dunn continued. “Mind you, it’s just an early evaluation, but I believe we might have found a connection.”
    Jackson Dunn had Thorpe’s attention with his to-the-point, no-nonsense approach, but his arrogance put Thorpe on edge.
    “We’ve found five questionable murders that have similarities,” said Dunn. “Two in Florida, Tampa and St. Petersburg, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Norfolk, Virginia, and now here in Lewiston, Massachusetts.”
    “On what evidence can you connect these murders except for the fact they were found on a beach?” Thorpe challenged.
    “Matter of fact we have quite a bit. No solid evidence against a suspect, but enough to connect the murders. A profiler stationed in Florida has put together his theory. Happens to be one of my old teachers, retired, Sam Caldwell. Knows his stuff. Worked closely with him on serial killers. Their mentality, basic criteria to classify their profile. The basics are usually the same, but most of the time each killer has his own signature.”
    Thorpe broke in. “So you don’t have a question that this is a serial killer and they are all connected. Across all the country?”
    Agent Dunn eyed Thorpe before he continued. “Nothing solid, only speculation, but these murders have occurred between four to five months apart, usually being doused in the ocean nude for a significant time. The killer doesn’t leave any forensic evidence. Water destroys any traces. There are no fluids from any evidence of sexual assault or rape, but the brutality of the attacks—stabbing, cutting, slashing of the bodies—it can’t be deciphered for certain if the victims had been raped. Each scene looked staged for effect. Each time trinkets were placed at the scene, probably a message, but we haven’t worked out what. Each victim was drained of their blood supply. Sound familiar?”
    “Obviously you’re privileged to more information than I am. My only concern is the one I found on my beach.”
    “Then you won’t mind if I continue. A special task force will be formed. I’d like you to get