With Visions of Red 3

by Trisha Wolfe

  The agent holds his place. “I’m Special Agent Rollins. Agent Proctor will be here directly. Until then, I have all the specifics to fill you in, Detective Quinn.”

  Recognition lights Quinn’s eyes right before his gaze sharpens on Agent Rollins. “Proctor sent me a fucking proxy?” He laughs mockingly. “I want to see him. Right now. Get that smug SOB here or—”

  “Detective Quinn,” Wexler interrupts. Startled, I turn to see our captain standing fists to hips in his office door. “My office. You, too, Agent Bonds.”

  I know what’s coming. Quinn can roar and stomp his feet all he wants, but when the Feds come in, it’s game over for the local guys. For once, I know how Quinn must’ve felt the times I got assigned to his cases when I was with the General Investigation Section.

  Wexler closes the door behind us.

  “Captain, you know what this means—”

  “Save it, Quinn. Maybe if this were any other case, we’d get into a jurisdictional pissing war with the Feds, but not now. Not with our M.E.’s life on the line.” He crosses his arms. “I’m the one who brought them in.”

  Betrayal colors Quinn’s face, and I feel the resounding burn.

  Wexler rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Nothing changes. You and Sadie keep the task force on point. But let the Feds take the reins.”

  A muscle feathers along Quinn’s jaw. “This is a slap in the face, Captain.”

  “No, it’s an order.” Wexler holds Quinn’s gaze a second longer before he looks at me. “Agent Bonds doesn’t seem to have an issue. Do you?”

  I press my lips together as I try to subdue my anger. It doesn’t work. “Actually, I do.” Quinn turns my way, eyebrows reaching toward his hairline. “The FBI’s main focus will be on apprehending the UNSUB—not on bringing Avery back alive. I take every offense to this method. Especially since Quinn and I weren’t informed beforehand.”

  Wexler releases another heavy breath. “Point taken. But that’s where I’m depending on you two. Let the Feds have the glory of capturing the bad guy. You two make sure Avery stays safe. That’s it. Not another word. Dismissed.”

  As Quinn and I leave Wexler’s office, he says to me, “This feels like some bureaucratic bullshit. Something tells me this wasn’t Wexler’s call at all.”

  “Possibly,” I say. “And I don’t like it any more than you do, for Avery’s sake…but regardless, he’s right, Quinn.”

  “How?”

  “Because, now we can put our full attention on tracking down Avery. Let the Feds investigate the UNSUB. They can bring him down, dead or alive. I don’t care how or with what means.”

  “You sure about that?” He glances over at me, concern etched on his features.

  No. Not at all. The FBI will scrutinize every detail about Lyle Connelly. Which will inevitably link back to me. But I already decided to face my consequences when this ends. As long as it ends with Avery alive and safe, it will be worth the sacrifice.

  “Let’s just get back to work,” I say. “Every fucking second that we deal with some setback, that’s another second Avery suffers.”

  As Quinn addresses Kyle, his first in command on the task force, I give Agent Rollins the update on the profile. His keen observation about the connection between the Roanoke killings and the current killing spree puts me on edge. Obviously, the Feds have been conducting their own investigation. Whereas they now have access to all our data, we don’t have any insight into theirs.

  That barrier presents a blind spot I can’t see around.

  I’ve lost the advantage to anticipate what’s coming.

  As we start out of the bullpen, I’m impressed with Quinn’s ability to suppress his urge to punch one of the agents going through his office.

  I can hear the restraint in his voice. “What’s your thoughts on how the UNSUB will handle the FBI taking over?”

  “Honestly. He’ll enjoy the attention. This might actually buy Avery more time.” The downside? If the FBI decides to seize communication with the UNSUB. That could trigger a volatile reaction.

  I clutch my phone, reassured by the fact that the Feds didn’t confiscate it or the burner in my pocket. I’m sure that’s coming, but right now, I have two communication links to Avery. Two lifelines that the FBI will have to pry out of my hands before I give them up.

  * * *

  Quinn knocks on the door for a second time. “You sure this is the right address?”

  I check Carmen Moore’s info on my phone. “It was logged by Avery herself. She keeps tight records.” Even in her personal, handwritten notes.

  On the way here, I read through her journal. Her last log was on the missing evidence—the rope from the suspended vic crime scene. She noted the discovery of epithelial cells within the fiber. Possible DNA from the perpetrator.

  In her mention, she theorized that although the offender wore gloves (the presence of synthetic polymers were also found on the rope), if he had wrapped the rope around his arm to hoist the body, the rope could’ve picked up transfer skin cells.

  It’s such a simple, logical but ultimately brilliant finding.

  My only misgiving is accepting that the UNSUB would make such an obvious oversight.

  But everyone—no matter how well they plan—makes a mistake eventually.

  The computer analyst confirmed that it was the last entry made on her computer. That coupled with the call she made to Quinn shortly after, requesting his help with building a physical profile of the UNSUB with a simulation, gives us a close approximation of the abduction time.

  At 10:35 PM, Avery’s file was deleted from her computer.

  Quinn has the task force techs trying to recover surveillance footage of the M.E. lab from that night. Our mission: to investigate if the missing lab tech knows about the discovery of the epithelial cells.

  “Avery had to create a sample when she found the skin cells,” I say, anxiousness clawing at me.

  Quinn adjusts his stance, his growing impatience as evident as mine. “If she had, why wouldn’t she run it through CODIS?”

  “Maybe she didn’t have time.” Or maybe she did run it through the database and got a hit on someone within the department. It’s possible that’s why she called Quinn to meet her the next day, feeling unable or unsafe to mention her findings over the phone.

  I run my hand over my face, as if I can physically organize my wandering thoughts into a straight timeline. I’m making leaps without facts; we need this tech to have the answers.

  I angle my phone away from Quinn and toggle to the GPS app. Colton and Carson are on the move away from The Lair. Knowing that Special Agent Proctor and his team infiltrated the club, I’m relieved. I send Colton a quick update, then close the screen.

  “How do you know Proctor?” I ask.

  Rolling his shoulders, Quinn works out his neck. “I don’t. Not really. But he’s stepped on my toes before on a couple of cases in the past.” He raises his hand to knock, then changes his mind and rings the doorbell. “You surprised me back there.”

  “How?”

  “I figured you’d be all about the FBI coming in. Isn’t Quantico like, the profiler mother planet?”

  I bite down on my lip. “With my past cases—” I avoid his eyes “—I don’t want the FBI looking too closely.” And there it is. The reason why I never applied to the FBI. Now Quinn’s question—the one he’s wondered since I first transferred to the ACPD—has been answered.

  He gives me a sideways look, his gaze probing. But he doesn’t push. It’s safer to leave things unsaid until we reach that point of no return.

  It will come soon enough.

  Quinn checks the handle and it turns. He glances at me. “It’s open.”

  I have the sudden impulse to remark on Quinn disregarding his own by-the-book protocol, but I resist the urge. If the lab tech who lives here has the information we need to help Avery, I will back him one-hundred-percent on breaking all the rules.

  I follow Quinn inside the foyer. The so
und of loud voices comes from the direction of the living room, and Quinn places his hand on his piece inside his coat.

  “Carmen,” he shouts. “It’s Detective Quinn with the ACPD.” He nods to the hallway as he continues toward the living room. “I’m here to ask you some questions. Are you home?”

  I check the short hall, nodding once to let him know it’s clear.

  “We need your help in a matter involving—” He breaks off at the sight of the woman sprawled on the floor. “Sadie, radio in a bus.”

  The amount of red soaking the gray carpet around her head gives me pause, just for a second, before I unclip my radio. I fumble with the hem of my shirt, using it to grab the remote on a table and mute the TV, then radio for an ambulance.

  “Be careful of the blood pool,” I say as Quinn kneels beside her. He reaches into his pocket and yanks out a glove, using it as a barrier between himself and the blood coating her neck.

  “I got a pulse. But it’s weak. She’s unresponsive.” He stands and looks over the scene. “Jesus.”

  I get closer to inspect. The laceration on her neck is severe, but the carotid was missed. On purpose? The UNSUB wouldn’t make this mistake, unless he wanted her to bleed out slowly. Only…why? It doesn’t work for me.

  As Quinn locates a hand towel from the kitchen to staunch the bleeding, I calm my racing heart enough to examine the scene: her pants are unzipped and pushed down around her calves, but her underwear is in place. Not torn or stretched. Her chest is bare, and her wrists are bound with rope and pulled up over her head. But her skin is clear of marks. No contusions or cuts. No burns. No wax. Other than her arms being bound during the attack, there’s no evidence that she was tortured beforehand.

  I remove a pen from my notebook and lift the hem of her jeans. There’s no discerning ligature marks. Her ankles weren’t bound. This whole attack feels…off.

  “This was a hasty job,” Quinn says, echoing my thoughts as he applies pressure to the wound.

  I point to her neck. “But he didn’t complete it. He doesn’t leave his victims alive, Quinn.”

  Quinn shakes his head. “He could’ve been rushed. Something interrupted him. Or he knew he didn’t have enough time.”

  I nod my agreement, but I’m not convinced. Why start if he knew he couldn’t finish? That’s not his MO. The UNSUB stalks his prey for days, even months beforehand. He has their schedules memorized, knows all the important details of their life to plan a methodical attack that will give him plenty of time to stage his scene.

  For him, orchestrating the kill is just as important as the kill itself. It’s his signature—torture. If he can’t bring his victim to the brink, revel in his power, instilling her with fear…then there’s no admiration for his efforts.

  And he needs the admiration.

  The second crime scene stated a blitz attack, where the UNSUB was rushed and infuriated when the vic fought back…but he made sure to complete his kill, even if he couldn’t perform his ritual. If the case were similar here, Carmen would’ve suffered greatly. The torture would’ve been evident.

  And the kill method… The UNSUB has enough training in forensics and medicine—either self taught or schooled—to know exactly how to sever an artery to perfectly direct the spray to lead us to a clue, but he misses on accident this time?

  There’s no logical reason as to why he’d leave a victim—a witness—alive.

  Quinn picks up on my line of thought. “She might’ve seen his face, or some other defining characteristic. We have a witness.”

  “There’s a reason why he wanted her silenced,” I say, looking at Quinn. “She’s more than a witness. She’s a clue.”

  As the EMTs load Carmen onto a gurney and hurry her into the ambulance, I can’t stop going over it in my head. No forced entry—just like with the other vics. The attack is similar enough; the MO seems to be the same, excluding the torture. With the amount of blood, it was difficult to tell, but I could determine a waved pattern to the laceration.

  God, Avery… She would be able to deduce so much with just one look, where I’m only guessing. I’m trying hard to trust my instincts, but I’m not Quinn, either. I don’t operate purely on my gut. I need more facts.

  My thoughts halt as I feel a hand on my shoulder. “We should follow them in,” Quinn says. “Soon as she comes around, we need to be there to take her statement.”

  I move out of his touch, glancing around the house, needing something…else. Something more as to why the UNSUB chose her. What did he leave behind? Where’s the damn connection to Bathory?

  “Sadie?”

  I find Quinn’s gaze. “Okay. Let’s hope she recovers soon.”

  His gaze narrows as he studies me a moment longer. I pull my wall into place. Quinn’s not getting past it this time. There’s too much unknown…and I have more than myself to keep protected.

  While Quinn secures the crime scene, I take another look around Carmen’s living room. My gaze is drawn to the rich blood pool. So thick it’s the darkest shade of crimson. Did he hold her in place while she bled out? How long did he watch the red flow? Was he so mesmerized by the life fading away slowly in her eyes that he couldn’t bring himself to end her quickly?

  I know what it’s like. The first time you see real, violent blood. The life-force of it, the power. I understand how intoxicating the draw to analyze it is—to try to comprehend it’s meaning when you first feel it…

  I walk over and inspect the pool. There it is. One shade lighter than the rest. A clear impression. A slight touch of the hand to sample the kill.

  Only someone taking a life for the first time would be this riveted, this careless.

  And he’s not the UNSUB.

  7

  Me

  UNSUB

  If one is to understand himself, one must consider the nature, that is, the essence of humankind in general. It’s an undertaking into the study of philosophical anthropology. Granted, I’ve earned a degree in order to work among peers in my field, to earn a living—but it was merely a requirement, a burden placed upon me by society.

  I pride myself in the fact that I’m an autodidact, and have amassed most of my knowledge and mastery in the human condition through years of arduous study and research.

  I’ve analyzed myself as much as I’ve placed others under the microscope.

  And what I’ve discovered is that people—as a whole—are easily manipulated.

  We yearn so desperately to make a connection, to know that we are not alone, that there is another in this world who feels what we feel. Who thinks how we think. Who accepts us wholly, unconditionally, and whom we can build companionship with so that we do not suffer this lonely existence in solitude, that we will do almost anything—anything—to avoid it.

  When you understand that fundamental necessity, then it’s only a matter of pulling the right strings—the heartstrings.

  The most difficult moment of my study was in realizing that I’m not above this human condition, this affliction. However, there is liberation in stripping ones self of all misconceptions and lies to find true self discovery. It’s a painful process, but then pain, as I’ve come to realize, is the purest method.

  Most seek to ignore this yearning. They don’t want to admit they are weak, would rather live in denial and leach off others to feed their needs. It’s a selfish way to exist. And ultimately, we are a selfish species.

  Why is it so difficult to admit our limitations, and in turn, strive to fulfill our desires? At any cost? Is there ever too high a price for absolute ecstasy?

  After all, by doing so, we gain strength. He who controls his world commands the weak souls around him.

  And every fucking one of them is weak.

  I run the cane across Avery’s back, reveling in the tremble of her racked body. She’s hardly a weakling; so full of vibrant rebellion when she first arrived. But the beauty in understanding the human condition is in knowing how to break that character.

  It’s all just a
matter of time and pressure. Much like with a rock. Water cascades over the rock, weathering away the stone, sending tiny fragments downstream as they break further apart. Just like that process, people can be eroded.

  Leaning in close, I whisper, “Let’s give our Sadie a show, shall we?”

  She flinches, making the chains above rattle. Even now, after hours of weathering her stone surface away, she still believes in the lie. That she is strong enough on her own to overcome any hardship.

  She’s fighting against the current, her own nature, but she can only withstand so much force before she breaks. It’s just a matter of time and pressure.

  I wrap my arms around her tenderly as I twirl her to face the camera. Giving her what she so stubbornly denies she needs: connection.

  “We must keep the world updated,” I say, sliding the tip of the cane up her thigh. “Their utterly boring lives are invested in us. We should always please our audience. And Sadie needs this, even more than you do.”

  Oh, Sadie needs it terribly. She’s like a diamond—hardest substance in the world. Chipping away Sadie’s stone surface will take far less time with the help of breaking Avery.

  It will send my love to her knees…then right into my arms.

  Where she belongs.

  A smile pulls at my mouth as I raise the cane, and I can’t help but look directly into the camera lens. As if Sadie is watching me right now. Me. Her inevitability.

  Avery’s feet kick, trying to find purchase to push her away. Her cries swell into a forlorn tune, reaching only my ears. I brace my arm, but her sweet screams fade into the background as I pick up on the newscast. Annoyed, I turn toward the overhead screen.

  A reporter stands before the hospital, giving viewers an update on the Arlington Slasher case, as a woman is wheeled in through the front doors on a gurney. Unable to reveal the victim’s identity, the reporter does say the victim is a survivor of what’s believed to be a related attack connected to the spree of serial killings.