Chapter 1123: A Home Outside the Home (Patreon)

“So here’s another question.” Jack pointed at the corpse. “Where did all their blood go?”

An adult's blood volume typically accounted for 7–8% of body weight—roughly five to six liters. And yet, while both victims showed signs of arterial spray at the crime scenes, the amount of blood present was far too little.

“Occult rituals often involve a blood sacrifice—sometimes referred to as a blood offering. The first victim’s pose had religious undertones, and the cigars and beer found with the second victim could also be interpreted as offerings.”

Jack turned to Lopez. “Can you look into local religious sects or cults that deal with black magic or voodoo? See if any of them perform rituals like this. The killer may have started by sacrificing animals—voodoo cults, for example, use bull heads. But killing people and using fresh human blood is often a next-level escalation.”

Lopez nodded. “I’m not very familiar with that side of Tijuana myself, but I know who to ask. Give me until tomorrow—I should have something.”

That’s when Jubal raised another angle. “Hannah, did you find any of that leaky biodiesel again?”

“Sure did,” came Hannah’s voice from the video call. “This time we got there early enough. The biodiesel hadn’t fully evaporated. I’ve already taken a sample and will send it to the lab back home.”

In environmentally conscious regions like the EU, biodiesel consumption was common. Among South American countries, only Brazil—thanks to its soybean production—was really pushing biodiesel. In some parts of Asia, it was made from kitchen waste, but that was an exception.

With over 40% of its population below the poverty line, Mexico had more pressing concerns than carbon emissions. That made the killer’s use of costly biodiesel—while simultaneously neglecting to fix a leaky fuel tank or line—especially contradictory.

Following the tire tracks with his flashlight, Jack located another oil stain about twenty meters away from the corpse. It looked like the same vehicle had been used throughout.

He sighed in frustration. If they were back in the U.S., he could’ve sent the tire prints to CSI, and they might have identified the vehicle model. Combine that with the biodiesel clue, and a lead might surface in days—even in big cities like L.A. or New York.

But here in Mexico? Forensic support was wishful thinking.

Fortunately, if they were dealing with a serial killer, then BAU’s behavioral profiling might be their best bet.

—

Back at the hotel, night had already fallen. Alice was still glued to her laptop, while Aubrey brewed coffee at the bar.

“Any connections between the two victims?” Jubal asked as he entered.

“Not yet,” Alice replied, taking the cup Aubrey handed her and breathing in the aroma before continuing.

“Other than both being Americans, they have almost nothing in common. Lee Kern was a high school senior in San Diego. Robert Miller came from a small town in Arizona.

He used to work as an engineer for Mexico’s BTL Petroleum Company, but he quit nine months ago.

What’s strange is, even though his wife and two kids live in Arizona, he kept going back and forth across the border for over six months.”

“Looking for work? Or maybe addicted to gambling?” Jack wondered aloud, remembering the crime scene was near a racetrack.

Aubrey gave him a sly look. “Actually, neither. Even though he lost his job, Miller had made some good investments in stocks and small businesses. He was doing just fine.

As for the gambling—it was more of a hobby. He never bet large amounts.”

Jack gave him a puzzled look. “So?”

“So,” Aubrey said, handing Jack a tablet, “we traced some of his bills. Turns out a portion of them weren’t going to his U.S. address—but to a place on the outskirts of Tijuana, in a small town called Navarro.”

The screen showed a family photo: Robert Miller, a young Latin woman in her early twenties, and a five- or six-year-old boy.

“So this guy had a family in the U.S.—and another in Mexico?” Jack frowned, then shot Aubrey a dirty look as he realized why that smug grin had been plastered across his face the whole time.

“Scumbag. A model for all men. Wait—no. A disgrace to all men. Totally unforgivable…”

His rant was cut short by a car key tossed at his face.

JJ rolled her eyes and linked arms with Hannah. “Go start the car. We’re going to visit this bigamist’s Mexican wife.”

—

“Nice town,” Clay said from the front passenger seat, watching the scenery. “Not too different from the countryside back home.”

“Peaceful too,” Jack nodded. “Haven’t heard a single gunshot or siren since we left Tijuana proper.”

From the back seat, Hannah showed them her tablet. “This is one of the wealthier neighborhoods outside the city. According to online forums, it’s where some wealthy Americans buy homes to keep their mistresses.”

“Damn rich people,” Jack muttered, with zero self-awareness of his own considerable net worth.

The houses here looked a lot like their U.S. counterparts—two-story wooden homes, front lawns, small gardens out back. The four of them didn’t immediately approach. Instead, they circled the property cautiously.

“Perimeter’s clear,” Clay reported, still carrying his Noveske N4 rifle and wearing his FBI vest. The others were similarly geared up.

While Tijuana wasn’t quite as war-torn as Juárez at night, the team had passed through some pretty sketchy neighborhoods. And given they might soon face a potentially hysterical woman with murder motive, carrying rifles didn’t seem excessive.

They split into pairs, taking positions on either side of the door. Jack knocked.

A moment later, the sound of footsteps.

The door opened to reveal a young Latina woman with her small child. Her smile froze—and quickly vanished—at the sight of four heavily armed Americans. Her face twisted into an expression of sheer terror.