Page 82 of Whispers in the Night

“The fiber evidence,” he began without preamble, “has been identified. Dark-blue synthetic fiber, industrial-grade polyester blend. Specifically, it’s used in law enforcement and military uniforms.”

Harper felt her stomach drop. Law enforcement uniforms. The implication hung heavy in the air.

“Which agencies?” Silas asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Holloway scrolled through the report. “The specific blend is used by multiple organizations—police departments across Oregon and Washington, Oregon State Police, some private security firms, and until two years ago, the U.S. Coast Guard. The manufacturer supplies dozens of agencies.”

“So it’s not definitive,” Harper said, disappointment leaching into her voice. “Could be a cop, could be a security guard, could be former military who kept their old uniform.” The possibilities were endless.

“Could be someone who bought used uniforms online,” Morris added. “I checked eBay last night. Lots of listings for used police and security uniforms.”

“But it narrows our search parameters significantly,” Holloway pointed out. “We need to look at anyone with law enforcement or military connections. Current and former personnel.”

Harper’s mind was already racing through the implications. A cop would explain how the killer knew their procedures, how he anticipated their moves, how he stayed ahead of them. A cop would have access to information about the investigation, would know where they were focusing their attention.

A cop would be nearly impossible to catch.

“We need to be careful how we proceed,” Silas said, clearly thinking along the same lines. “If word gets out that we’reinvestigating our own people, it could compromise the entire investigation. Not to mention tank morale.”

“Agreed,” Holloway said. “For now, this stays between us. We’ll quietly pull personnel records, look for anyone who matches our profile. But we don’t broadcast what we’re doing.”

“What about Oliver Webb?” Harper asked. “Do we know if he has any military or law enforcement background?”

Morris pulled up Webb’s file on his laptop. “No military service. No law enforcement training. Worked IT contracts his whole adult life.”

“Which doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect,” Silas pointed out. “He could have bought used uniforms. Could have worked security at some point and we don’t have records of it.”

“We keep him on the list,” Holloway decided. “But we also start looking at current and former law enforcement in the Blackridge area. Anyone who fits the age range, has the right physical characteristics, and has shown any concerning behavior.”

Harper felt unease settling in her chest. Looking at cops meant looking at people she’d been working alongside for the past two weeks. People who’d been putting in overtime on this case, who seemed genuinely committed to catching the killer. The idea that one of them might be the monster they were hunting made her skin crawl.

“I’ll coordinate with HR to pull personnel files discreetly,” Holloway said. “Morris, I want you to start compiling a database of everyone who’s had access to this investigation—cops, techs, civilian staff, everyone. Cross-reference with our profile parameters.”

“On it, Captain.”

“Holt, work with Sanchez to review all the security footage again. Look specifically for anyone in uniform who appearsmultiple times near victim locations. Could be on-duty patrols, could be off-duty officers just happening to be in the area.”

As the meeting progressed, Harper took notes but her mind kept circling back to one disturbing thought: if the killer was a cop, he’d been right under their noses this whole time. Watching them work the case. Listening to their theories. Knowing exactly what they knew and what they didn’t.

The meeting broke up around ten-thirty with assignments distributed and a plan to reconvene that afternoon. Harper and Silas headed to their temporary workspace—a small office they’d commandeered for the investigation—and started their own review of the evidence.

“Talk to me,” Silas said, reading her expression. “What are you thinking?”

“That if he’s a cop, we’ve been playing his game from the start. Every move we’ve made, he’s known about. Every theory we’ve developed, he’s been aware of.” Harper pulled up the timeline of murders. “Look at the timing. Melissa was killed the night before I agreed to consult on the case. Like he knew I was in town and wanted to draw me in.”

“You think he has access to the department’s communications?”

“I think if he’s on the force, he has access to everything. Schedules, assignments, personnel movements,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “He’d know when we were planning the coffee shop stakeout. When we were running the three-day surveillance operation.” Harper felt her stomach turning. “We’ve been completely transparent to him while he’s been invisible to us.”

Silas was quiet for a moment, processing. “If that’s true, if he really is one of us, then we need to be extremely careful about what information we share and with whom.”

“Agreed. From now on, sensitive case details stay between you, me, and Holloway. We trust no one else.”

They spent the next hour reviewing personnel files that Holloway had sent over—a preliminary list of Blackridge PD officers who fit the basic age and physical description parameters. Thirty-seven names. Thirty-seven officers, any one of whom could be a serial killer.

Harper studied each file carefully. Photos, service records, performance reviews, any documented disciplinary issues. Most were clean—good cops doing their jobs. A few had minor infractions: late to shift, arguments with supervisors, but nothing that screamed “serial killer.”

Only one name stood out: Officer Dale Sutton. Three years with Blackridge PD, transferred from a smaller department in eastern Oregon. Clean service record. No disciplinary issues. Average performance reviews. Nothing remarkable.