Free The Third Victim by Lisa Gardner

We’re strong here. We care about our town. And we know what’s right.”
    The man had known then that Bakersville would be next. A perfect little place, with perfect little people extolling their perfect little values. Where everyone loved everyone, and everyone was a friend. He wanted them all dead.
    He was a patient man. He understood better than most the importance of planning. Good reconnaissance, his father had always barked. A smart soldier does his homework.
    His father was a shit-for-brains asshole. But the man did his homework. He identified his target. He researched. He learned. Politicians, school officials, reporters, major organizations. Sheriff’s department. He planned. He had all the time in the world, as far as he was concerned. What was more important was doing things right.
    He would show this town the wrath of God. He would show them the wrath of him.
    Then Officer Lorraine Conner. The first time he saw her in person, casually walking by during one of his many recon visits, he’d nearly stopped in his tracks. High cheekbones, an uncompromising chin. Bold gray eyes that possessed a hard, direct stare. Not pretty, but striking. Arresting, if you were into puns.
    Here was a woman who knew how to get things done. Not a trace of stupidity, which he’d come to expect in small-town cops. Not even a wide girth or beer gut to show how she really spent her Friday nights. She was fit, fighting trim, and supposedly hell on wheels with a rifle.
    Then he heard the rumors.
    Her mother. Fourteen years ago. The brutal slaying that had never been solved. The woman drank, you know. Used her daughter as a human punching bag. Shameless, the old biddies hissed, their eyes bright as they imagined their own hands connecting with firm, young flesh. Everyone knew Molly Conner would come to no good.
    They say the shotgun blast ripped off her whole damn head. Not a trace of flesh left above the neck. Just some headless torso in cheap, four-inch heels, clutching her bottle of Jim Beam. Told you she’d take the booze with her to the grave. Chortle, chortle, chortle.
    Young Rainie came home from school and found the mess. Least that’s what she told the cops. Came inside to find the body, walked back outside to see a squad car pulling up to the drive. That young deputy—you know, Shep, before he became the sheriff—he was the first at the scene. Reported Rainie had brains dripping down her hair, all over her back. Handcuffed her right away and took her in.
    Later they dismissed the charges. Experts claimed the fact the brains were dripping down proved they’d fallen from the ceiling, that she walked in when the scene was still fresh, not that she’d pulled the trigger, which would have caused the gore to blow back onto her body in horizontal streaks. Or some such nonsense.
    Let me tell you, no one can get convicted in this damn state. I mean, the girl’s covered in fresh guts and somehow that ain’t enough? Lawyers. That’s the problem. Lawyers.
    ’Course, Rainie turned out all right in the end. Sure as hell a damn sight better woman than her mom. She’s not even that bad a cop.
    The man agreed with them there. A few taps on the keyboard and he’d learned quite a bit about Rainie Conner. Had received a bachelor’s in psychology from Portland State University. Upon returning to Bakers-ville, she’d become the first female officer in the sheriff’s department. She’d passed her academy courses the first time around. She had a file of excellent reviews. She stayed fit by jogging three to four times a week, and she always read the current issue of the
FBI Law-Enforcement Bulletin
the minute it arrived. She was dedicated, thorough, and, according to various drunken rednecks, she moved fast for a girl.
    The man had also learned things about Rainie’s intensely private personal life. She did date men (which was subject to some debate within town) but always from an outside community. She didn’t go out often, nor did she