Page 89 of Whispers in the Night

“Then what do we need?” Harper’s voice was sharp with frustration. “His employment history puts him in every city where murders occurred. His access logs show him tampering with evidence. He was on patrol near multiple victims before their deaths. How much more do we need?”

“We need physical evidence linking him directly to a murder. DNA, fingerprints, something that places him at a crime scene in a way he can’t explain away as ‘just doing my job.’” Holloway’s expression was sympathetic but firm. “I know this is frustrating. But if we arrest him without sufficient evidence, any halfway decent lawyer gets him released and we’ve lost our chance.”

“So what do we do?” She’d be damned if she just sat around waiting for the smoking gun while Sutton claimed his next victim.

“We keep building the case. We maintain surveillance. We document everything. And we wait for him to make a mistake.”

“While he’s out there planning his next kill,” Harper said bitterly, rage boiling in her veins.

“While we’re watching his every move and ready to intercept if he tries anything.” Holloway met her eyes, sympathy and understanding reflecting back. “I know it’s not what you want to hear. But it’s how we ensure we catch him and make it stick.”

Harper wanted to argue, wanted to insist they bring Sutton in for questioning immediately. But she knew Holloway was right. They had one shot at this. If they moved too soon, if their casewasn’t airtight, Sutton could walk free. And then he’d disappear and continue his killing spree somewhere else.

They had to be patient. Strategic. Perfect.

All the things Harper was terrible at when adrenaline and righteous fury were coursing through her veins. Sometimes, the wheels of justice moved too damn slow.

“Surveillance starts now,” Holloway said pointedly. “I want eyes on Sutton twenty-four seven. If he so much as looks at a woman who matches our victim profile, I want to know about it.”

With everyone in agreement, they went about their work. The afternoon passed in a blur of coordination. Setting up surveillance teams, establishing communication protocols, briefing the officers from surrounding departments who’d be watching Sutton. Everything had to be done carefully, discreetly, with no chance of Sutton realizing he was being monitored.

At six p.m., surveillance was in place. Sutton had finished his shift at five and driven to his apartment—a small one-bedroom unit in an older building on the east side of town. He’d been inside for an hour with no movement.

“He’s probably eating dinner, watching TV, being completely normal,” Harper said, watching the surveillance feed from the apartment building parking lot.

“That’s what serial killers do,” Silas reminded her. “They live normal lives. Have jobs, pay bills, interact with neighbors. The killing is compartmentalized. It’s how they fly under the radar for so long.”

“I know. It’s just...” Harper rubbed her temples where a headache was building. “Knowing he’s in there, probably planning his next victim, and we can’t do anything about it yet.”

“We’re doing something. We’re watching. Waiting. Building our case.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Silas pulled her away from the monitors, guided her to sit. He crouched down in front of her, hands on her knees, and met her eyes. “Let’s think this through methodically. What do we absolutely know versus what we suspect?”

Harper took a deep breath and forced herself to organize her thoughts. “We know someone in law enforcement or with access to law enforcement uniforms is our killer, based on fiber evidence. We know evidence has been tampered with by someone with badge access. We suspect it’s Sutton based on his employment history, his proximity to victims, his evidence room access, and his history of inappropriate behavior toward women.”

“What evidence would definitively prove it’s him?”

“DNA at a crime scene. Fingerprints. Surveillance footage showing him with a victim. Trophies or evidence in his possession.” Harper’s mind raced through possibilities. “Or a confession.”

“Which we won’t get without arresting him, which we can’t do without evidence.”

“Catch-22.”

With a gentle squeeze of her knees, Silas sighed as he took a seat in the chair next to hers. They sat in silence for a moment, both thinking. Then Harper had an idea.

“What if we set a trap? Use me as bait?”

“Absolutely not,” Silas said immediately, shaking his head vehemently.

Harper’s movement and voice were animated. “Think about it. He’s fixated on me. All the victims look like me. What if I make myself available, make it easy for him to approach me? We could control the situation, have backup ready—”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“It might be our only option to catch him before he kills again.”

“Then we find another option.” Silas’s voice was firm. “I’m not using you as bait. End of discussion.”