Even with the knowledge of the Jogging Path Killer’s identity, actually finding him had proven more difficult than expected, and after a long night of searching every known location of Steven Gibbon over the last four years since he had moved to Philadelphia, they were no closer to putting their hands on him. Sitting in an unmarked car outside Rocky’s Gym at six o’clock was not Watson’s idea of a calm and relaxing morning.
Taking a sip of her black coffee, she glanced down at her phone to see a text from Dixon letting her know he was on his way to relieve her. She had been awake for almost forty-eight hours at this point. She had led the team into his last known address only to find an abandoned apartment that looked like it had most recently been inhabited by squatters. He had no job, having procured quite a large check from his step-mother’s life insurance, and that seemed to have been enough to support him these past six years. A tip from an acquaintance of his from the building had led them across town to a homeless shelter. The manager knew him but had no idea where he might be. He suggested they check out gyms in the area since Gibbon had been into bodybuilding when he lived there.
After hours of pounding the pavement, going from gym to gym, they met a man who went by the name of Bruno who said he had seen Gibbon at Rocky’s a few weeks prior. He said he didn’t look anything like the guy in the mug shot anymore, though. He’d put on at least fifty pounds of muscle. His disposition had shifted as well; he was no longer the mousy man staring back at them from the photo.
While the sergeant had suggested putting a couple of rookies on surveillance so that Watson could get some sleep, she insisted on doing this herself. The only other person she trusted to sit here and stare at this building was Dixon, and there was still a chance that she wouldn’t go home once he arrived. She wanted this guy--wanted him bad--and she wasn’t going to sleep until she got him.
The gym opened at 7:00. It wasn’t one of those twenty-four hour a day operations. In fact, it looked pretty crappy and rundown from the outside. Just the type of place a serial killer might come to lift amongst the other lowlifes and cockroaches who didn’t demand fancy equipment or swimming pools. Here, he could go in, hit it hard for as long as he wanted, and get out. Watson just hoped he was the kind of guy who liked to work out in the morning and that this was still his number one choice when it came to facilities.
She watched Dixon pull into the parking lot several spots over and eye the building and surrounding area before getting out, surveying again, and making his way to her passenger side. “Morning, Watson,” he said as he slid into her sedan. “How goes it?”
“Slow,” she admitted. He offered her a fresh coffee, and she took it, despite the fact that the one she had was still half full. “Do you think we are far enough from the front door that he won’t be suspicious?” she asked. The parking lot was oddly shaped, and there were other businesses in the strip mall near Rocky’s. Some of them were open already, and there were a few patrons coming in and out of the various shops. Still, the parking lot was not very full, and they were close enough to Rocky’s that they could easily see who came and went once the establishment opened.
Dixon looked around again. “I think so. How long have you been parked here?”
“Not too long. Gym’s not open yet,” Watson replied taking a drink of her new coffee. It was still hot, and it burned her tongue going down, but the pain felt good. It woke her up and reminded her that she was alive. She had a job to do.
“What were you doing before that? You look like you’ve been up all night. Are those the same clothes you had on yesterday?”
Watson didn’t really want to answer. It wasn’t his business. After a moment of contemplation, she offered a one-word answer. “Thinking.”
Dixon’s lips pursed in consideration. He had worked with her long enough not to bother to press the issue. After a moment, he shrugged and returned his attention to the building. “Well, it’ll be opening in a few minutes. But I doubt he’ll show up the second it opens. Why don’t you go on home and get some sleep, and I’ll take over?”
“I’m good,” Watson replied, taking another drink of her coffee.
“Come on, Abby,” Dixon said calmly. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you wear yourself out again.”
It was the last word that caught her attention. She glanced in his direction briefly before returning her focus back to the brick building before her. “I’m fine.”
He shook his head slowly, clearly contemplating whether or not to let it go or push on. Finally, he asked quietly, “You know he’s not the guy, right?”
She looked at him again, this time her stare lasting a little longer before her eyes shot away. She said nothing.
“His MO is totally different. I know it’s the same cause of death but….”
“I know,” she said, sharply. “I know he’s not the one that killed my sister, okay?”
“Okay,” Dixon said raising his hands defensively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Watson replied, though her tone indicated otherwise. “But these women, they are someone’s sisters, someone’s mothers, someone’s daughters. And he’s not going to get away with this.”
“No, he’s not,” Dixon agreed. “We’ll get him, Abby. It may take a few days, maybe a few weeks. But we’ll get him.”
“We’ll get him today,” she assured him, setting her coffee down.
He stared at her in confusion, wondering how she could sound so confident. “How do you know that?”
“Because there he is.”
