Never Die Alone

Had Donovan Caldwell suppressed his urges for a dozen years?

Unlikely.

Had the killer moved to another territory for a while, then returned to kill the Springer twins? If so, there were no records of Donovan Caldwell moving between the two double homicides, a fact his lawyer hammered home during the trial.

Jase poured over the data.

What, if any, was the link between the two sets of twins?

Leaning back on the couch, one heel propped on the coffee table, he stared at the television mounted over the grate, but he didn’t pay attention to the highlights of a recent baseball game. His thoughts were turned inward. The time gap between the murders bothered him. Could the second set of murders have been at the hands of a copycat? If so, had that killer traveled to New Orleans from LA?

The LAPD hadn’t prosecuted Donovan Caldwell for the Springer twins’ murders. The prosecutors obviously hadn’t found enough evidence to link Caldwell to the second set of homicides and had to settle for prosecuting him for the ritualistic killings of his sisters.

Caldwell had admitted to disliking his siblings, even resenting them, and he’d been an odd duck, a person who could make others uncomfortable or wary. But had he been capable of this macabre murder of his sisters, stripping them and hog-tieing them and killing them as they turned of age?

The jury had said yes, and he was now serving time for the murders. He’d screamed in the courtroom that he was i

Jase raked his fingers through his hair.

He stared at a picture of Donovan Caldwell, a man who blended in with the crowd. While his sisters had been gorgeous and outgoing, popular and, by all accounts, well-rounded, fun individuals, Caldwell had been a loner, a plain-looking man who had trouble holding down a job or forming any relationship. He’d taken the stand and to his attorney’s dismay referred to Delta and Diana as “the twins,” hooking air quotes. During his testimony he’d been unable to hide his disdain for them.

Probably sealed his fate.

Then there was the question of the murder case that occurred twelve years later. Was Caldwell also responsible for that? Lucy and Laney Springer’s murders had brought the unsolved Caldwell twins’ homicides to the fore, and somehow the new evidence or technology had been enough to convict Donovan for the older killings of his sisters. Not so for the Springer girls.

Did Donovan Caldwell actually wait twelve years to repeat his crimes, to relive taking his sisters’ lives? Or were there other victims scattered around the country, dual corpses of twins who’d disappeared and had never been located?

Far-fetched.

But even the most unbelievable homicides happened. Bizarre murders were rare, but certainly existed. Jase had only to think of the stories he’d covered or look at the true crime books stacked haphazardly on his bookcase near the fireplace to confirm that truth was stranger than fiction. People were capable of monstrous, heinous, and bizarre actions. Some targeted family members, others randomly picked strangers.

Father John was an example of a killer who targeted strangers for the most part. Posing as a priest, he’d killed prostitutes in the city, though his ultimate target had been someone he’d known.

“All kinds of psychos,” Jase told himself, cracking his neck to relieve some tension before turning to his computer for more digging. He scoured the Internet for information on Donovan Caldwell, finding old newspaper reports, court records, and interviews with the arresting officer. Throughout the arrest, arraignment, trial, and conviction, Caldwell had screamed his i

Case closed.

Until now . . . Combing through the data on the missing twins in Arizona and Texas, he wasn’t convinced that the 21 Killer was behind their disappearances. Everything was off about them. But, unfortunately, the De

Jase set his laptop aside and walked to the kitchen. Was it possible? Had the cops arrested the wrong man? Had the jury jumped to the wrong conclusions? Was Donovan Caldwell serving time for crimes he hadn’t committed? And if so, was the real killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?

Why would 21 come here? he wondered. To prove a point and goad Rick Bentz, as Bria

Opening his refrigerator, he frowned at its meager contents, which consisted of a cardboard slice of pizza from a week ago, a bottle of ketchup, and three lonely beers. “Pathetic.” He grabbed a long-necked bottle from the shelf and cracked it open before heading outside and standing on the deck. Three stories, traffic moved slowly, headlights visible through the leaves and dripping Spanish moss dangling from the branches of live oaks planted along the street.

Taking a long pull on the bottle, he felt the cold beer slide down his throat and hit his stomach.

Mosquitoes buzzed near his head. Somewhere in the distance someone was playing a saxophone, the melancholy notes of a bluesy song rising upward from the street. He relaxed a bit. Cleared his thoughts. Until, in his mind’s eye, he saw Bria

Aria

Oh, hell.

Leaning over the railing, holding his bottle in both hands, he silently cursed the gods who had gotten him tangled up with Aria

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Though Jase hadn’t known Bria

Rolling his bottle in his hands, he told himself not to go there.

But that might prove impossible since Bria

And his co

A story he couldn’t let go.

The 21 Killer was intriguing, if appalling at the same time. “21” would hold the public’s interest. Would sell papers. Above that, finding more about him, linking him to the current case of the missing girls, proving that the police in LA were wrong, might give Jase more cred not only as a crime reporter but as an investigative journalist. Someone who could dig deep, uncover the truth.

But if Bria

Well, hell, who really cared?

The story was the story, the truth was the truth, and the public had a right to know. Jase was more than willing to offer it up. Even if there was a personal price to pay.

The prospect that 21 may have resurfaced or that a copycat killer may have stepped into the murderer’s bloody shoes made a helluva story, one he wanted to pursue. If it was true. His conscience nagged a bit. Deep down, he hoped to hell Bria