Amish Country Murder. Mary Alford

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      “I beg your pardon?” FBI Profiler Sutter Brenneman couldn’t believe he’d heard Sheriff Walker Collins correctly. The sheriff stood in the doorway of the conference room where Sutter, his partner, and two agents from the Montana Division of Criminal Investigation had been working around the clock, poring through the information they were able to obtain from the latest victims. Which amounted to little.

      So far, six young women had died at the hands of a killer whose identity remained as elusive as his motives. Yet one thing was without question. A serial killer was on the loose in Montana, and they needed to figure out what motivated him to commit these murders before he could take another innocent woman. And the clock was ticking.

      Sutter rubbed his eyelids. He wasn’t sure if his sleep-deprived brain had created the possibility of their first real break.

      “I said you need to head to Eagle’s Nest Memorial Hospital right away. A young woman was just brought in. Two Amish boys from the West Kootenai community pulled her from Silver Creek a few hours ago and carried her to the hospital. She’s been shot. The doctor is in with her now. We don’t know anything more about the extent of her injuries.”

      Sutter scraped back his chair. The expression on the sheriff’s face confirmed the news was big. “You think…?” He couldn’t finish.

      “Yeah, I do. In fact, I’m sure of it. We have the first living victim of the Dead of Night Killer.”

      The sheriff’s words sank in while Sutter swallowed his disgust at the name the media had given the perp, who took each of his victims during the dead of night.

      “How can you be so sure?” Sutter asked while his partner, James Pennington, grabbed his jacket and started for the door.

      “Because she had a white silk scarf tied around her neck. Like the other victims. That information has never been released to the media.”

      “Go,” Garrett Miles, one of the DCI agents, told him. “Trevor and I will head to the crime scene to see if we can find anything useful there.”

      Sutter shoved his arms into his coat and followed his partner without a word.

      “Ask for Dr. Rolland. He’s the one treating her. The two Amish boys are at the hospital. I’ll head to Silver Creek with Trevor and Garrett, and start canvassing,” the sheriff called after him.

      Sutter barely heard him, his mind was on what lay ahead. He and James practically ran from the station. His partner clicked the key fob to their Bureau-issued black Suburban and then slid behind the wheel, while Sutter scrambled into the passenger seat.

      They had a live victim. He couldn’t believe they’d caught such a break. Up until now, the only things tying the victims to each other were the method of death—a single gunshot wound to the chest—and the white silk scarf tied around each victim’s neck. Plus the note, “You made me do this.” The profiler in him was still trying to unravel the meaning behind that.

      James backed out of the parking space, shoved the SUV into Drive and floored the gas pedal, dodging the light evening traffic until the blue hospital sign came into view. After turning, he drove the short distance to the lot and whipped into the nearest vacant spot.

      They exited at the same time, as if choreographed. Inside the building, Sutter advanced to the receptionist’s desk, showed his badge and told her who they wished to speak with.

      The young woman’s troubled gaze swept from one to the other before she picked up the phone and spoke briefly.

      “Dr. Rolland will be down in a minute,” she assured them with a nervous smile. No doubt the news of the killer, along with the FBI’s presence in Eagle’s Nest, had the citizens on edge.

      Sutter thanked her and stepped away, unable to sit. Too much at stake. He wanted to speak to their victim quickly. Find out what she could tell them about the Dead of Night Killer.

      The elevator dinged. Both Sutter and James whirled at the sound. The doors slid open, and a tall, middle-aged man in a white coat stepped out and glanced around. Spotting them, he headed their way as Sutter suppressed a smile. He and James obviously fit the part of government agents.

      “Dr. Rolland?” Sutter asked, once the man reached them.

      He nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

      “Special Agents Brenneman and Pennington. We’re here about the gunshot victim who was brought in earlier.”

      “Come with me. We can talk on the way.” The doctor headed for the elevator. Sutter and James scrambled to keep up.

      The doors opened, and all three men stepped inside the elevator.

      “The two Amish boys who took her to the hospital probably saved her life.” Dr. Rolland spared them a look. “They were night fishing when she fell into the creek. I assumed you’d want to speak with them, as well, so I asked them to stay.” He punched the third-floor button. “We removed a bullet from her left shoulder. A few inches lower and it would be a different story. She’s awake now. All she’s been able to tell us is her first name. Catherine. She doesn’t remember her last, or any family members to contact.” The doctor spotted Sutter’s shock and added, “As I said, she’s suffered a lot and she took quite a blow to her head. I believe Catherine is suffering from a form of temporary amnesia.”

      The reality of those words washed over him. This was the last thing Sutter wanted to hear. Their victim couldn’t recall parts of what happened to her. Without her help, they had nothing.

      The silence in the elevator car was palpable. Sutter glanced at his phone. Almost midnight. He thought about all the questions he should be asking. “You have the bullet? We’ll need it for evidence.”

      The doors slid open and the doctor stepped out. “Yes, we preserved it, along with the scarf she had around her neck.”

      “Good.” All Sutter could think about were the horrific things the victim must have gone through. And the realization that she would have to relive it all telling him. Moving beyond something of this magnitude wouldn’t be easy.

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