“Good question,” Jared said. “Of course, only Takahashi can answer that definitively, if he weren’t in the grave. But based on my analysis of mass murder-suicide in general, the killer is usually trying to make a statement, albeit homicidal. Takahashi likely decided his actions were justified in taking out his rage on anyone who happened to be present when triggered to the point of no return.”

  “What about the mental-illness angle?” Kenneth asked curiously, knowing that such actions were typically thought of as the work of someone who was crazy.

  Jared jutted his chin. “Only a small percentage of killers, whatever the type, suffer from mental illness,” he pointed out. “The rest may try to justify their behavior because of the standard dynamics, such as anger, depression, jealousy, resentment or any combination thereof.”

  Daphne gave a little chuckle. “You really do know your stuff.”

  Jared laughed. “After reading your books, I could say the same for you.”

  She blushed. “Thanks.”

  “I agree with you both,” Kenneth said admiringly as they picked up the pace. It was his turn to shift the conversation to the current serial killer case. He’d hoped they would have been able to close the investigation, but it still lingered in the air like the high humidity that characterized the island. He brought Jared up to date on what he hadn’t already known. That included the lack of connecting DNA evidence between the killings and inconsistency with the presumption of Ben Hoffman as the Maui Suffocation Killer and the only surviving victim’s belief that he didn’t fit the description of the attacker still in her head.

  Jared took a moment or two to collect his thoughts and said, “As you know, Kenneth, most serial killers are successful because they tend to leave few rock-solid clues, such as DNA and fingerprints at crime scenes for us to collect. So it’s no surprise that it’s not laid out in a neat package to point toward the perp definitively. That being said, serial killers make mistakes like everyone else. The fact that Hoffman’s prints tied him to one murder could’ve just been sloppiness. Or indicative that his was only a single kill and a copycat killer, assuming Hoffman was even trying to confuse authorities. It may have been just happenstance that he used the same MO as the serial killer to murder his victim. I mean, there’s only so many ways one can kill.”

  Kenneth lifted the brim of his hat. “Are you saying you think the serial killer is still out there?”

  “Or could the surviving witness be off base with her reluctance to identify him as her attacker due to the brain trauma she suffered from the attack?” Daphne asked.

  “You don’t know what you don’t know,” Jared answered cryptically. “Obviously, if the serial killer never strikes again, one can make a strong case for Ben Hoffman as the culprit, given that the addictive nature of serial murder suggests that one will keep killing till caught or dead. Short of that,” he said thoughtfully, “without having studied the extent of Ruth Paquin’s brain injury, she may not have gotten a good enough look at her attacker to be able to identify him. But if I were to go with my gut instincts, I’d say that it’s more likely than not that this thing may not be over with the death of Hoffman.”

  As Kenneth exchanged uneasy glances with Daphne while keeping the horse steady, his cell phone rang. He managed to take the phone out of his pocket, answering, “Kealoha.” After listening to Detective Tad Newsome reveal some news, Kenneth told him levelly, “I’m on my way.”

  Daphne regarded his face as Kenneth stiffened. “What is it?”

  “There’s been another woman killed,” he responded solemnly. “From the looks of it, with a plastic bag over the head and all, it appears that she was suffocated to death in the manner perfected by the Maui Suffocation Killer.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kenneth would have preferred to drive Daphne back to her Kaanapali villa. But given that it was nearly twice the distance to get to from Makawao as the crime scene in Kihei, a bustling city in South Maui, going directly there was a no-brainer. Then there was also the fact that, sensing a story that fit into her wheelhouse as a potential true crime book with dramatic twists and turns, for better or worse, she had insisted on accompanying him as an interested observer. Or as she’d put it, “If this so-called Maui Suffocation Killer is truly still at it, alive and well, I’d like to be there to check it out for myself as a writer interested in island criminality in real time.”

  “How can I argue with that?” he’d said, knowing he was fighting a losing battle.

  “You can’t,” Daphne told him determinedly. “I promise to stay out of your hair.”

  And I’d really love to run my fingers through your luscious long hair once it’s down, Kenneth couldn’t help but think in glancing at her ponytail while tempering his attraction to her. “Okay, you can come,” he agreed. His only concern had been trying to protect her from the horrors of crime scenes. Or this one, in particular, that appeared to be the mark of a serial killer. Not that she needed his protection as someone who obviously was no stranger to immersing herself into crimes of violence as a top-notch researcher and writer. “Just keep away from the crime scene as a noncop, so as not to hurt the investigation,” he warned and she agreed, accordingly,

  Driving on Haliimaile Road, Kenneth soon came to Uwapo Road in North Kihei, where he swung right before entering the Kihei Creekside Apartments. After parking, they got out and he showed his ID to get them through the crime scene barrier.

  “Remember not to touch anything,” Kenneth said habitually, as they approached the building.

  Daphne formed a tiny smile. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

  He nodded, knowing that she would not be a problem. Entering the first-floor unit, where police activity was underway in securing, collecting and photographing evidence, they were met by Detectives Newsome and Ringwald in the open-concept living space, congested with traditional furnishings and people moving about on the travertine flooring.

  Newsome glanced at Daphne, wrinkling his nose. “What’s she doing here?”

  Kenneth understood that Newsome’s curiosity was probably getting the better of him, but her presence wasn’t his call. Before he could respond, Vanessa said supportively, “What do you think? Ms. Dockery is probably here to research her next true crime book. Am I right?”

  Daphne smiled thinly. “You could say that. At least I’m thinking about it. At the moment, I’m just an observer.”

  “Which I have no problem with,” Kenneth made clear, peering at Newsome. “I’ve already advised her to not interfere as we do our jobs.”

  He backed down. “It’s cool.”

  “Then let’s get back to business,” Vanessa said, “sad as it is and indicative of just what we didn’t want to believe.”

  Kenneth shifted his gaze from her to Daphne and back again. “What do we have?” he asked characteristically, bracing himself for the gory details.

  Vanessa frowned. “The victim, an African American female, age twenty-three, was found in the bathtub fully clothed. A plastic bag was left over her head, resembling that of the other victims of our serial killer.”

  “Including the murder of Irene Ishibashi,” Newsome noted. “Only it’s highly doubtful that the latest homicide was committed by Ben Hoffman, seeing that he’s dead.”

  Unless it occurred before Hoffman took his own life, Kenneth thought, which admittedly was a long shot at best. He asked routinely, “And the name of the victim?”

  “Roxanne Sinclair,” Vanessa said, “according to her driver’s license and student ID from the University of Hawaii Maui College.”

  Kenneth watched the color seem to drain from Daphne’s face, prompting him to ask, “What is it?”

  “I know her,” she stammered. “Or at least we’ve met.”

  “When?” he asked.

  “This morning.” Daphne’s voice quavered. “Roxanne was the student romantically involved with Norman Takahashi,” she explained. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  Neither could Kenneth, considering. His brows drew together in assessing this. The timeline took Hoffman completely off the table as a suspect, while opening up new possibilities. Could Takahashi’s murder-suicide be connected to a serial killer? Or were the two events totally separate and coincidental? Had Sinclair’s killer been stalking Daphne and murdered the college student as a consolation prize?

  “I want to see her,” Daphne demanded.

  “Probably not a good idea,” Kenneth indicated, knowing how much it stuck with you seeing dead bodies, no matter how much one got used to it.

  “Maybe it’s a different woman,” she suggested. “If not, since I was probably one of the last people to see Roxanne alive, we need to be sure it’s her and go from there.”

  All things considered, her argument made sense, Kenneth knew. Even if he had little reason to believe the driver’s license and student identification ID’d the wrong person. He agreed to allow Daphne without touching anything to see the victim while needing to do the same himself.

  They made their way inside the small bathroom that had a separate tub from the step-in shower. A quick glance by Kenneth at the granite countertop showed the typical items such as an electric toothbrush, hair and facial products, and one used facecloth. His eyes locked in on the mirror above the sink, where a red magic marker was used to write the alarming words, I’m Still Here. The Other Idiot was a Copycat.

  Kenneth winced. If this was the work of the Maui Suffocation Killer, had he targeted the victim at a nightspot and bided time before going after her? Or had the unsub changed his m.o.? Kenneth caught Daphne reading the disturbing message, before he homed in on the bathtub. The decedent was seated in front of the faucet, wearing a print T-shirt, denim shorts and was barefoot. Her twisted face, surrounded by long and straight dark hair, was covered with a clear plastic bag, obfuscating her appearance somewhat, but still identifiable. Kenneth asked Daphne, “Is this the same woman you met with this morning?”

  Looking at her with horrified eyes, she turned away and uttered, “Yes, it’s her—Roxanne Sinclair...”

  Putting his arm around her, Kenneth said, “Let’s get you out of here.” He led Daphne from the bathroom, feeling her shaking at what she’d witnessed. “Sorry you had to see that.” He tried to comfort her as they reached the living room area.

  “I needed to,” she insisted, pulling herself together. “Whoever murdered Roxanne may have been trying to send me a message.”

  “What kind of message?” Kenneth regarded her keenly. “Other than the one the unsub left on the bathroom mirror for us to find.”

  Daphne’s face reddened. “The kind that says I’m watching you and may come after you next.”

  The thought of anything happening to her chilled him to the bone as Kenneth contemplated the notion of the two cases merging somewhat, even if on different levels. What if Daphne’s sixth sense about being stalked was real? Only instead of a crazed fan, the stalker was a serial killer?

  Vanessa weighed in. “Until we can get to the bottom of this, I suggest you watch your back, Daphne, if you plan to remain on the island for a while.”

  “I will,” she promised, and eyed Kenneth. “The last thing I want is to be the target of a killer. But I won’t be driven off like a scared rabbit, either. I have a job to do and intend to complete it.”

  “I understand,” he said calmly while knowing he would need to do his part to keep her safe as long as she was on Maui. Even then, Kenneth was regretting the day when she would have to leave. But as long as she did so on her own two feet instead of in a casket, he would have to live with it. He motioned to Newsome and asked, “Who reported the crime?”

  “No one we can identify,” he said vaguely. “It was an anonymous call.”

  Which suggested to Kenneth that it came from the killer, who clearly wanted them to discover the body, along with this troubling message. “Let’s see if we can trace the call,” he said, knowing it was a long shot as the caller had likely used a burner phone.

  Newsome nodded. “You got it.”

  Kenneth told him and Vanessa to double down on seeing if any of the victim’s fellow tenants saw or heard anything as well as checking for surveillance videos. Someone had to know something, he reasoned while wondering if the unsub could actually be a resident at the apartment complex.

  When Rudy Samudio, the medical examiner and coroner, arrived, he immediately went to do a preliminary examination of the decedent. Emerging, he had a dour look on his face as the decedent’s body was bagged and carted away by his staff. “I thought this was behind us,” Samudio groaned. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

  “What’s your initial take on the cause of death?” Kenneth asked him point-blank, sharing in his frustration.

  “The decedent’s death was all but certainly the result of suffocation,” he answered without prelude, “caused by the plastic bag over her face, blocking the needed oxygen to the brain to survive.” Samudio added, “Burn marks on her neck and arm are consistent with those made by a stun gun.”

  “Why am I not shocked?” Kenneth remarked sarcastically.

  “Did you see the cryptic message the killer left on the bathroom mirror?” Newsome asked the coroner.

  “How could I have missed it?” Samudio rolled his eyes. “Looks to me like you have two different killers—one dead and one very much alive.”

  “That seems to be the clear takeaway.” Kenneth rubbed his jaw. “How long would you say this latest victim has been dead?” He needed to know, to be sure they were actually dealing with a second killer. Or the actual serial killer.

  Samudio contemplated for a moment. “Pending a thorough examination, based on body temperature and other factors, I’d say that the deceased has been dead anywhere from two to four hours.”

  Kenneth could see a reaction from Daphne while validating in his own mind that Roxanne Sinclair couldn’t possibly have been murdered by Ben Hoffman. It meant that the Maui Suffocation Killer was alive and well. Something they would have to deal with before the Suffocation Serial Killer Task Force could be officially disbanded.

  “I’ll take you back to the villa now,” Kenneth told Daphne, believing that she had seen enough. As had he. But this was his job. She hadn’t signed up for morbid crime scenes like this, even as a bestselling and coolheaded true crime writer.

  * * *

  HE STOOD AMONGST the bystanders outside the yellow crime scene tape, hidden in plain view as the police went about their work investigating the murder of Roxanne Sinclair. In spite of leaving them a message taking credit for killing her, while separating himself from the copycat killer Ben Hoffman, he wasn’t about to turn himself in. Or confess right then and there to being the Maui Suffocation Killer. On the contrary, his work as a killer was far from over. Not when there were plenty of other women ripe for the picking, like perfect red apples. They needed to suffer as he had over his lifetime, getting little to no sympathy from anyone. Now was his time to shine and he gladly took on the challenge, daring anyone to try and stop him.

  He watched as Daphne Dockery and Detective Kenneth Kealoha emerged from the building. Both looked weary. Or was it wary? He laughed within at the thought. The true crime writer had inspired him, making him want to go further than he’d ever thought possible in being a serial killer. Her books, especially the most recent one, had captured his fancy. She had, given him a whole new reason to try and outdo his predecessors as a hardhearted but clever serial killer. Roxanne Sinclair had been one example of that as an impromptu but necessary person to target for death. Before she realized the serious error of her ways in inviting him in, it was much too late to do anything but accept her fate as the next hapless victim of a bona fide killer.

  Just as Daphne Dockery would soon be forced to do. She believed she was safe under the watchful eye of the detective, whose interest in the pretty true crime writer seemed to go beyond the call of duty. But he knew better. She would never be able to escape the trap he was setting for her, as long as she remained on the island. Even on the mainland, she could not rest easily, for he was just as capable of laying a hurt on her there from which she would never recover. Or be miraculously rescued by Detective Kealoha, as if she belonged to him. And only him.

  No, the writer was his and it wouldn’t be long before it was time to give her what she deserved. The type of oxygen-depriving death that the other women had suffered till their breathing stopped altogether. Then maybe someone else could write a book about famous true crime writers having the tables turned on them. He laughed again in his head while maintaining a calm and concerned facade for anyone who might look his way.

  He watched as Daphne and the detective got into his vehicle, taking them away from the crime scene and its terror the murder had caused to spread around the apartment complex like a wildfire. But paradise came with a price. He would exact his revenge for being wronged while creating his own brand of pleasure for doing what he saw as right and ready to be carried out at the time and place of his choosing.

  He effortlessly separated himself from the gathering, knowing he had gotten away with murder once again. It was time to chill and wait for the next person to die a cruel death. Until then, he would bask in his triumphs, knowing there was little that could be done to interfere with his actions. Which was unfortunate, as he had no plans to let up. Not when women like Daphne Dockery were out there, waiting to experience death, which he intended to deliver time and time again.

  * * *

  “I DON’T REALLY feel like going back to the villa yet,” Daphne surprised herself by saying once they got inside the car. Or maybe the circumstances gave her the courage to put it out there and see what happened.