The drive from Dallas to Joplin took ten hours, but Keller didn’t mind. He liked the thinking time — just him, the hum of the highway, and the files spread across the passenger seat like old friends that refused to leave.
The Joplin tornado had flattened entire neighborhoods in 2011. Keller remembered watching the news footage: splintered houses, cars in trees, survivors wandering in shock. It was the kind of chaos where a stranger with a clipboard could melt into the scene and be gone before anyone noticed.
Now, fourteen years later, the scars were mostly paved over — new homes, new streets, life rebuilt. But the address on the report was still there, even if the house wasn’t.
Karen Silva’s place had been replaced by a tidy ranch with a wide porch and fresh paint. Keller parked across the street and studied it for a moment before knocking on the door.
A man in his sixties answered, wary at first, then softened when Keller flashed his retired FBI creds.
“I’m looking into an old case,” Keller said. “You bought this place from the Silva family?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “I’m Dennis. We moved in ’13. What’s this about?”
Keller explained in broad strokes: Karen had died shortly after the tornado, her death labeled stress-related cardiac arrest. Dennis listened, arms crossed, but didn’t interrupt.
Finally, Dennis nodded toward the street. “My next-door neighbor was here when it happened. Old boy named Ray. He talks about the storm all the time. If anyone remembers something, it’s him.”
Ray lived in a smaller house two doors down. He was thin, wiry, with skin like old leather and eyes that still carried the storm.
“Karen,” Ray said when Keller mentioned her name. “Yeah, I remember. She was sweet. Kept to herself. Lost her roof in the twister.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone at her place right after the storm?” Keller asked.
Ray leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Well, hell, there were people everywhere. Neighbors, volunteers, church groups, FEMA, insurance folks…” He stopped, frowning. “Wait. There was a guy. Came the next day. Didn’t look like the others.”
Keller’s pulse ticked up. “How so?”
“Clean. Not a speck of mud. Had a clipboard, but no logo. Drove one of those white SUVs the adjusters use. Parked it half a block away like he didn’t want to be seen.”
Keller’s hand tightened on his pen. “What did he do?”
“Walked right up to Karen’s place. She let him in. I waved, but he didn’t wave back. Stayed in there maybe twenty minutes, then left. She was found dead the next morning.”
Back in his rental car, Keller reviewed his notes.
Burleson, 2005: White SUV. Clipboard. Gloves. Out-of-state plates.
Joplin, 2011: White SUV. Clipboard. No logo. Half-block away.
Same method. Same profile. Same result.
He flipped open his leather notebook and wrote:
Pattern confirmed — spanning at least three states.
Always post-disaster. Always same victim profile.
C-47 claim form present at scene.
Keller drove to the county records office. Tornado recovery files were stored off-site, but the clerk found an old box labeled Insurance – Silva.
Inside: warped papers, water-stained receipts, and a claim form. Keller slid it out carefully. The number was faint but still legible:
C-47-3310.
He stared at it for a long moment. That code wasn’t random — it was a signature. The killer’s mark.
As Keller left the building, he called Agent Whitaker.
“I’ve got three confirmed cases. Burleson, Joplin, Cedar Key. Same MO, same victim profile, same insurance code.”
Whitaker sighed. “Mark, without physical evidence tying them together—”
“Don’t give me that. You’ve got three bodies, three disasters, and one guy walking in like he’s there to help.”
Silence. Then: “I’ll see what I can do. But you know the Bureau — it’s not enough to reopen cold files.”
Keller hung up, jaw tight. He wasn’t waiting for the Bureau. Not anymore.
Somewhere out there, the man with the clipboard was still moving with the storms.
And Keller intended to catch him before the next one hit.
Tomorrow: The Storm That Started It All
