“From what you told me about everything, it fits. The only thing that’s off is the cause of death. Everything else is the same.”
“So it could very well have been a copycat who tried to cover his tracks by following the Castle Island Killer’s M.O.” Alexander looked at Martin hopefully. He didn’t know if he could sit idly by and come to terms with the idea that Mischa was just a random victim. He had a feeling in his gut there was more to it, and his gut was usually right. Hell, his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion.
“It’s a possibility,” Martin agreed, albeit reluctantly. His expression remained respectful and serious, despite thinking his boss was looking for something that wasn’t there. He would never say it, though. A Marine veteran, Martin respected the chain of command.
Alexander continued sifting through the papers in the short file — immunization records, school transcripts, bank statements. He hoped something would stand out to help prove his theory that this was the work of a copycat. The police seemed pretty certain that wasn’t the case, but if he didn’t explore the possibility, there was a chance Mischa’s killer would never be brought to justice. Then he’d be letting Landon down all over again. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.
“I have Simpson running more checks to see if he can uncover anything else that wouldn’t turn up in an initial record check—”
“You mean sealed records?” Alexander raised his eyebrows.
“He does have a particular set of skills. I think that’s why you hired him.”
Alexander smirked. “That’s a nice way of saying he’s a great hacker.”
“Your words, sir. If he finds anything, I’ll be sure to bring it to your attention. Should I have your assistant bring you a coffee? Or would you rather have your privacy?”
“Coffee would be great. Thank you, Martin, and keep me updated. Dave said he would call if anything turns up, so make sure he’s put through. If anyone else calls, tell Amy you’ll handle it yourself.”
Martin nodded, then left the office, closing the door behind him. After just a few moments of flipping through the papers, a court-ordered termination of parental rights caught Alexander’s attention. Perhaps that had something to do with what happened to Mischa.
Just as Alexander settled in to devote his full attention to the report, there was a slight knock. The door opened and a tall redhead scurried into the office.
“Good morning, Mr. Burnham. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. I thought you would be out of the office until after the New Year.” She carried a tray containing a cup of coffee and a chocolate hazelnut pastry he treated himself to every morning, setting it down on the table in front of him.
“Yes. Well, something has come up that couldn’t wait until then.”
“Understood.” She took a notepad out of her suit jacket and began scribbling notes with a pencil. “Martin’s already instructed me that, unless your brother-in-law calls, he’ll handle all your business today. Is there anything else I should be made aware of?”
“No, Amy. That’s all for now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Burnham. Just holler if you need anything.” She gave him a cordial smile before spinning on her too-high heels and walking out of the office.
Taking a sip of his black coffee and a bite of his danish, he returned his eyes to the folder in front of him, reading through the court order terminating Landon and Mischa’s parents’ parental rights, granting full custody to their maternal grandparents. No other details were given, but from their time on the same SEAL team, Alexander knew Landon and his sister had survived years of neglect by two parents who had grown addicted to crack during its rise in popularity. Malnourished and dirty, Child Services finally intervened after the house was raided by the police.
Their grandparents had been beside themselves when they learned what the two kids, neither being more than eight at the time, had been through, taking custody of them while their parents served their time in prison for neglect, child endangerment, and a myriad of drug offenses. Mischa was too young to truly remember any of it, but Landon did, which probably shaped him into the man he had become.
Other than the events of her early years, the rest of Mischa Tate’s life seemed rather boring, at least on paper. She was a model student, achieving mostly As and Bs throughout her schooling. She went into the Peace Corps just after high school, spending two years working with infants and pregnant women in Namibia. Landon talked about her often during his SEAL days, always bragging about something she was doing.
After her time with the Peace Corps, she easily gained employment with the United Rescue Mission, a non-governmental organization based out of Boston whose purpose was to offer aid and assistance to those displaced by war, natural disaster, or persecution. She had visited some of the most dangerous places in the world, putting her own life on the line to offer safety to those at risk, before being promoted to the position of executive director approximately five years ago.
“I suppose she must have rubbed off on Landon,” Alexander mused to himself, remembering his friend’s own mission to save the world, one poor soul at a time.
The next few hours ticked by as he tried to get in touch with people who knew Mischa during her time in the Peace Corps, then the agency she had worked for, hoping something would stand out to explain a motive for her murder.
He could hear Olivia’s voice in the back of his mind, trying to persuade him that Dave was a seasoned homicide detective who would know a copycat when he saw one. Alexander knew it was a long shot, but the guilt that consumed him for not fulfilling his promise to Landon all those years ago ate away at him. He had to operate under the assumption this wasn’t just a senseless random act of violence against a beautiful, young woman.
After speaking with several of Mischa’s employees and acquaintances, Alexander was back to square one. It sounded as if she was extremely well-liked. He considered perhaps she had become a target because of her high-level position, but the more research he did on the organization, the less likely that seemed. It was a smaller agency with a paltry budget that relied mostly on donations and a meager amount of government grants. Her salary as director was barely enough to pay her bills. It wasn’t exactly anything that would put a target on her back.
A knock on the door startled him, pulling him away from the normal and rather mundane life of Mischa Tate.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” a tall, wiry man with spiky blond hair and dark-framed glasses said, entering Alexander’s office.