Chapter 1122: A Serial Killer? (Patreon)

As the three GMC Yukons drove off into the distance, the bruised and battered members of the Gallows Gang on the beach began helping each other up off the ground.

“#$@&!” Hector groaned in pain as he twisted the arm Jack had dislocated—and then reset—shoving away a woman who tried to help him.

One of his underlings stepped up with a phone, eyes filled with venom. “Boss, should I call—”

Before he could finish, Hector kicked him to the ground and unleashed a torrent of profanity unfit for polite company. “You idiot! Only two of them laid hands on us. We had over twenty guys! You want the whole world to know we got our asses kicked?”

Moments ago, enraged Gallows Gang members had rushed in, only for Jack to knock down several of them. Then Clay, taking off his vest, had joined in. The two of them wiped out over twenty men in under ten minutes.

Clay had claimed he was worried Jack might go overboard fighting solo, but Jack knew the guy just couldn’t resist a good brawl.

Feeling good after the beatdown, Jack had even taken time to reset the joints he’d dislocated on his opponents. Meanwhile, Jubal and Aubrey searched the gang’s tin shacks.

Unfortunately, the Gallows Gang had likely been innocent victims of a beatdown. One of the shacks did contain a small marijuana grow likely intended for personal use or small-scale distribution. Other than some tools—shovels, scissors—there was no sign of a scythe.

Behind the greenhouse was a diesel generator, but it ran on regular diesel. Hannah also checked every Harley and vehicle at the scene, finding nothing.

None of the gang members were carrying cocaine. According to their statements, they collected protection fees and sold weed around Delgado Plaza, their main territory.

Maintaining order in that area was key to maximizing profits, so they not only avoided bothering American tourists but also made sure to stop any troublemakers.

Shortly after leaving Aquila Beach, the convoy was flagged down by Lopez and several police cars stationed along the roadside.

“Looks like you beat up the wrong guys,” the former lieutenant said with a grimace. “We’ve just found another body—also an American.”

“Who is it?” Jack’s mood soured immediately. Was this going to be a serial killer case?

“A businessman. Name’s Robert Miller.” Lopez pulled up a photo of a middle-aged white man on his phone—about forty or fifty years old.

“How do you know it’s connected to the Lee Kern case?” Aubrey took Lopez’s phone and swiped through the crime scene photos, then found his answer.

The ID photo showed a clean-cut middle-aged man, but the body in the pictures was pitch black, arms hacked off at the elbows and discarded nearby.

At first glance, it looked like a burned corpse or a Black man, but the clothes were intact, and a closer look revealed the black coloring was paint. The mouth was stuffed with an unknown substance.

“The crime scene was split into two again,” Lopez explained. “His car and bloodstains were found in the racetrack parking lot, but his body was dumped two kilometers away under an overpass.”

He took his phone back and asked, “Do we start at the scene or the dump site?”

Jubal thought it over. “Aubrey, Alice—go back to the hotel, dig up Robert Miller’s background. Clay, JJ, and Hannah—check the original crime scene. Lopez and Jack, you’re with me at the dump site.”

—

“The M.O. is clearly the same. Weapon was again a scythe. Cause of death: exsanguination and asphyxiation due to deep neck laceration,” Jack said, shining his flashlight along the corpse’s neck, then the severed arms.

“But it’s a lot more brutal this time. Should we consider this an escalation?” Jubal’s experience with serial killers wasn’t quite as extensive as Jack’s.

“Maybe. But I’m sensing ritual here,” Jack said, leaning in. A strong smell of beer hit his nose.

“The muscle and vascular response is minimal. That means the arms were cut off postmortem. The jagged, uneven tears suggest the tool was likely a basic carpenter’s saw.

Dismembering and painting the body happened after death. Murder and torture weren’t the goal. This killer had something else in mind.”

“A ritual? But this time, the body wasn’t hung or crucified,” Jubal said.

Lopez, for his part, was clearly in uncharted territory. Serial killers were a whole new field for the former Mexican Marine.

“The victim’s mouth was stuffed full of cigars. Beer was force-fed after death. Those are classic ritualistic elements,” Jack added.

“But I don’t recognize any specific cult or belief system. No distinct symbols at either scene. And the locations couldn’t be more different.

Lee Kern was hung in a public square for display. This guy was dumped under an overpass in a deserted area.”

Lopez racked his brain. As a Mexican, he knew plenty of bizarre folk beliefs and rituals. The problem wasn’t rarity—it was that there were too many. From Satanic cults to voodoo, Mexico had its share of “cross-border cultural exchange” with the U.S. in such matters.

“Is it possible the killer planned to hang the body from the overpass, but something went wrong?” Jubal looked up at the bridge—easily over 20 meters high—then shook his head.

To hang someone from that height, you wouldn’t do it from below. You’d have to lower the body from above.

“We’ll know once we hear from the team at the first scene,” Jack said, dialing JJ via video call.

The racetrack was closer to the overpass, and the other team had already finished their sweep. JJ held up her phone, panning around the area while explaining.

“Miller’s Ford Mondeo had its front-left tire slashed. The killer probably did that, then ambushed him when he bent down to check it.”

The video showed arterial spray all over the driver’s side window and the green body of the car.

“Any other blood trails?” Jack asked.

JJ turned the phone again, then shrugged at the camera. “Same as last time. Just the spray.”