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 innocence, but was hauled off to jail. To this day he swore that he’d been railroaded by police and prosecutors, who felt pushed by public pressure to get the 21 Killer off the streets. The prosecution had asserted that as the oldest and only son of a man’s man who wanted his male heir to succeed, Caldwell had been unable to meet his father’s expectations. Told he was a failure, Caldwell had hidden his simmering resentment for years and plotted his revenge to take away his father’s favorites. He had reveled in his domination and control of their last seconds of life, ensuring they would never reach adulthood.

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 Denning girls were a different matter altogether.

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 Brianna had asserted? That theory seemed thin, but Jase wasn’t going to dismiss anything at this point.

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.