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would be punished. He’s identifying me with his—,” I searched for another word, but couldn’t conjure one. “—his apprentice, whatever you want to call it. I don’t think he expected them to carry on his work or even to get a partner along the way for that matter, but I definitely believe he knows who it is.”
    Jack activated the hands-free and connected with Nadia again. “Work your way through Bingham’s followers, get together a list of names, IP addresses, and track these people down to a hometown.”
    “I’m working on it, sir.”
    “And also track down the family of Travis Carter, Bingham’s sister’s in-laws.”
    “Of course.”
    “One more thing. Check the system again. See if you can find any more addresses associated with Lance Bingham. For some reason I believe there should be more than two.”
    “I’ll get this information to you as soon as I can.”
    “Make it even faster than that.” Jack disconnected the call.
    “So you know what IP addresses are but don’t know what Twitter is?”
    Jack had passed me a glance before he got out of the SUV.

 
     
    CHAPTER 8

     
    We headed back inside the house where the unspeakable murders had taken place. Chills ran through me as I realized the man responsible no doubt fantasized about my life ending in the same manner.
    Jack led the way down the stairs to the cellar and I wasn’t sure I had the fortitude to go underground again. Despite being chilled from fear, sweat dripped down my back.
    We stopped in the cellar to speak with Royster, the CSI with the allergies. He possessed a dislike for Jack as evidenced by the scowl that formed when he saw him.
    “You guys find where the concrete door lined up for certain?” Jack asked.
    “Of course.” The CSI spoke to me. “From the burial side it was covered with packed dirt. Once it was removed, it revealed cinder blocks that were stacked to create the barrier.”
    “Made it simple. Then all he had to do was smear concrete on the other side,” I said.
    “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The Chief Coroner, Harold Jones, came up from the passageway. He and his assistant were carrying out the remains of a victim.
    “How many more to go?”
    Jones stopped by Jack, still holding onto the stretcher with the body. “Quite a few. The remains are aged and require a delicate touch. And there’s been a lot of trace evidence to collect and catalog for the investigators. It all takes time.”
    “What do we know for sure?”
    Jones nodded to his assistant, and they set the body down.
    Jones’s face paled, as he spoke, “He tortured them over a period of time. He took time with them. The wounds were inflicted at different stages. There’s only a slight variation and someone with less experience may not have even noticed. Open it up, Jacob.” His assistant opened the bag and Jones pointed at the incisions. This body was older and had decomposed significantly, but there was some skin left on the torso. “This victim is male, estimated remains are six years old. But like the most recent vic his rate of decomposition was slowed by being buried and protected from the elements. Anyway, see here how the abrasion is less evident than this one, and so on.”
    I didn’t see it but took his assessment. “Over how long of a period do you think he tortured them?”
    Jones looked at me. “Over a period of at least ten to twelve days.”
    “Eleven days.”
    “Yes.” Jones gave me the look that said, that would be the number between ten and twelve.
    Jack patted his shirt pocket and pulled out his cigarette pack. The CSI watched his every movement and seemed ready to stop him should he actually light up. Jack stuck an unlit one in his mouth, let it perch there and turned to me. “Like I said OCD.” It bobbed as he spoke.
    The longer we were in the cellar and not going down the ramp to the tunnels, the better my breathing leveled out. “So what’s this guy’s fascination with the number eleven? We figure that out, and