Did they find the clothes?

He’d followed Ava and the other investigator back to the community center and then he’d returned to the mall. He’d bought a hot dog and drink and picked a bench in the shade, pretending to read a book as he kept an eye on the guard at the bathroom.

He’d tried to retrieve the clothing a few times but people were always in the men’s room. He had to get the clothes out. Today.

The guard kept stretching his back and shifting his feet. The sun beat directly on his dark-blue uniform and he wiped his forehead several times.

Go get a drink.

The guard checked his watch. Fewer and fewer men were deflected from using the restroom as the heat chased people indoors to the stores.

He sucked hard on his straw, making the last drops of soda slurp in the cup. Across the mall aisle, the guard looked his way. He focused on his book. The guard glanced at his watch, looked around, and walked away from his post.

He waited until the guard had turned the corner before tossing his cup in the garbage. He jogged to the restroom, yanking open the door, welcoming the air conditioning. He strode to the back of the bathroom and hopped up on the last sink and lifted the large tile in the ceiling.

Empty.

His heart sped up and sweat pooled under his arms. He checked another ceiling tile, hearing his pulse pound in his ears, knowing the clothes hadn’t moved of their own accord.

Still empty.

He hopped off the sink, leaned his weight on his palms on the sides of the sink and stared in the mirror, ignoring his scars. Why had he waited?

Maybe the police don’t know what they have.

Maybe the janitor removed the clothes not knowing what they were.

Maybe . . .

He’d left the clothing at the Troutdale scene, too.

“God damn it!” he roared at his reflection. Angry reddened eyes stared back at him, and he wiped the spit off his lips.

He’d been overconfident.

There’s no link to you. Nothing. They have some clothes. That’s it.

He slammed his forehead against the mirror. Pain ripped through his skull as cracks shot across the mirror. But the pain softened the sounds pounding in his ears. Blood welled and trickled down his forehead, and he angrily brushed it with his fingers.

It was that female. Ava. She found the clothes. He knew it in his gut.

22

“How can someone convince three young men to go along with plans like these?” Mason asked the group of investigators at the community center, knowing no one had an answer. His question was rhetorical.

Ava and Zander’s discovery in the Rivertown Mall’s bathroom had stunned all the investigators. A quick search of the Troutdale park bathroom had revealed an identical stash of clothing in the restroom’s ceiling. But the bathroom at the Eugene park had an open ceiling. No clothing had been found.

Standing next to him, Ray hadn’t stopped shaking his head since he heard the news. “Could he have shoved them in his backpack and walked out?” asked Ray. “Just like at Rivertown Mall, the reports from the Eugene shooting say that a male had run out shouting that the shooter had shot himself—but this witness never came forward. Is there a description of this witness anywhere? Was he wearing a backpack or carrying a bag?”

“Again it was convenient that the last guy out of the restroom never stayed at the scene to give a statement to police,” muttered Mason. “He takes full advantage of the panic and terror to blend in.”

“I want to review all the Eugene witness statements again,” said Sergeant Shaver. “I want special attention paid to the reports where someone saw anyone go in or out of the restrooms. I want these people interviewed again.”

“We’ve got him on camera at the Rivertown Mall,” Mason pointed out. “Let’s get some stills made of his image and circulate those.”

“I don’t know,” said Zander. He sat down at one of the computers at the center and started tapping. “My recollection of that particular guy is that we never get a good shot of his face.”

“There has to be at least one good angle.” Mason crossed his fingers as the detectives and agents crowded behind Zander’s chair. The discovery of the clothing had given the investigation a shot of energy. He’d watched over and over as each person had digested the news and then reacted in confusion and awe as their minds followed the same thought process.

The killer isn’t dead.

Possibly three innocent young men are dead.

Is there one mastermind behind all three shootings?

How did he get these men to participate?

“How could we have missed this?” asked Ray, waiting for Zander to cue up the videos from Rivertown. “Was it the same shooter every time? With a victim waiting in the restroom? How did he convince them to wait for him to come kill them?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Zander. “Let’s find some proof that our dead shooters didn’t do the shooting first.”

“I want to find the guy from Rivertown,” stated Mason. The third witness from Rivertown had walked right up to Ava and talked to her. Cocky son of a bitch . . . offering to help them out. Knowing that she’d been that close to the shooter was making the back of his neck sweat. It was like finding out that the cookies the nice old lady next door had brought you were laced with arsenic.

It’s already happened. She’s fine. Get over it.

He glanced across the room to where she was deep in discussion with another FBI agent. Looking closer, he realized it was more of an argument. Ava was shaking her head, her back ramrod-straight, with her left hand clenched in a fist.