“One and the same. It looks like our guy was the Castle Island Killer. We found a gun matching the type used in all those murders, as well as a six-inch blade. My guess is it will match the knife used to slash all those women’s throats.”
“So Maleek made Mr. Fisher manipulate our online servers so he could abduct Melanie, threatening to harm his sister if he didn’t.”
“It appears so. My guess is we’ll find Mr. Fisher’s body stuffed in a barrel within a few days.”
Alexander ran his hand over his face, fearing the worst. That his daughter would be found the same way. “But what about all his other victims?”
Moretti shrugged. “According to his journals, he witnessed them acting in a way he found disagreeable, so he took matters into his own hands. One man had placed illegal bets. Another had cheated on his wife. One woman drank too much.”
“I guess we should be happy he’s dead, but who killed him?”
“We’re running every background check we can get on this guy to see if we can find out,” Moretti assured him. “I’m assuming that’s who has your little girl.”
Alexander narrowed his gaze. “We don’t know for sure she was even here.”
Moretti hesitated. “Come with me.” Standing from the kitchen table, he headed out the back door, Alexander following.
Blue pop-up tents had been erected in the small back yard, bags upon bags of evidence sitting on long tables, being organized. Moretti led Alexander around the corner to where a pair of storm cellar doors were propped open, permitting a subtle glow to escape. Alexander peered at a wide set of cement stairs before they disappeared into darkness.
His heart thumping in his chest, he glanced at Moretti. Alexander had come over here because he wanted answers. Now that he was on the threshold of possibly having them, he didn’t want to take another step. He didn’t know if his heart could handle being anywhere Melanie had been. Where she had suffered. Where she had her spirit crushed. Where she lost her belief in the goodness of people. Where he prayed she hadn’t drawn her last breath.
A heaviness in his limbs, he placed one foot on the first step, then the next, the basement slowly coming into view, crime scene techs taking photos and dusting for prints. It was cold, wet, dank. Exposed pipes dripped onto the cement, and a chill set in as he tried to absorb everything with a timid curiosity. It seemed like a typical unfinished basement, but Alexander knew that wasn’t all. There was only one small, boarded up window, bars mounted over it. There was no light. The only entry point was from a set of heavy metal doors most eight-year-old girls wouldn’t be able to lift.
“Clear the room, please,” Moretti bellowed. Instantly, all the techs finished what they were doing and retreated up the steps, leaving Alexander to take everything in.
When his gaze landed on a dingy mattress against the wall, he halted. He pulled his jacket closer to his body, needing the warmth. His breathing increased, and he could see the chill in the air every time he exhaled. He could hear the ghost of Melanie crying for help, begging for someone to warm her in the frigid night air.
Alexander took an unsteady breath, fighting for oxygen through the heaviness in his lungs and heart. He imagined Olivia’s reaction if she were in his shoes. No parent should ever have to see what he was currently facing. He didn’t know if he could ever share this with his wife. He wanted to protect her from the stark reality of what was happening.
Without saying a word, Moretti handed him a pair of rubber gloves. Alexander slipped them on. His feet echoed against the barren walls and floor as he walked toward the mattress. It all looked exactly as it had in the photo he received twelve hours ago.
Squatting beside the mattress, a flash of pink caught his eye. He lifted the edge slightly.
“What is it?” Moretti asked, stepping toward him.
“Her sock.” He stared at the pink material, fighting the urge to pick it up and feel his daughter’s warmth through that small article of clothing.
“You’re certain it’s hers?” Moretti pushed, glancing at him.
“Can I say beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s hers? No. It’s a pink sock. It could belong to any number of young girls, but I know Melanie had socks just like that one. I’ve seen that sock on her foot countless times, and this was the same color sock she was wearing in the proof of life picture the bastard sent us. So, based on everything else we know, I’d say it’s Melanie’s sock.”
Standing, he continued taking inventory of the room. Crime scene markers dotted the area, tagging the location of potential evidence. He followed a line of yellow numbered tags deeper into the basement and into a padlocked room that had been cut open.
“What the…?” he murmured, having trouble comprehending what he was looking at. A chair with leather restraints sat in front of him, dark stains of what had to be dried blood set into the wood. A lone spotlight hung overhead.
Chills ran through him as he struggled to reel in his emotions. He tried to stop himself from thinking the worst, but how could he not while looking at something so sinister and vile?
“I apologize, Mr. Burnham,” Moretti said, approaching him. “I should have warned you.”
“What is this?” he demanded, his voice strong, yet shaky at the same time.
A solemn look on his face, Moretti closed his eyes briefly. “We believe this is where he held his victims. According to your brother-in-law, who’s on his way here as we speak, he beat his victims before killing them, except for Ms. Tate. In her case—”
“He stoned her to death.”
Moretti tore his eyes from Alexander and glanced at a large white bucket in the corner of the room. Alexander didn’t have to look in it to know it most likely contained the large rocks that took Mischa’s life from her.
Alexander stepped toward the chair, pinching his lips together. He ran his hand over his face, unshed tears prickling his eyes as he struggled to hold himself together by a thread. He had tried so hard to remain positive and not think the worst, but as he stared at what appeared to be a chamber of torture and death, he had reached his breaking point.
A loud sob escaped his mouth. He gritted his teeth, fighting against his emotions. He needed to stay strong so he could get through this.
“Hey…” Moretti placed his hand on his shoulder.
Alexander spun around. “How am I going to tell my wife she’s…” He trailed off, looking at the chair once more, thinking the worst.