by Trisha Wolfe
Only I’ve been in the center of a great storm before. I know the lie it feeds you right before the sky tears, and you’re swallowed.
There’s always more to come.
“CSU is waiting for us to make the first sweep,” Quinn says as he pulls the car along a sidewalk. “The unis have already secured the scene, and Wexler said to take only my best in.” He glances over at me as he removes the keys. “You ready?”
I should appreciate the compliment. He considers me one of his best. We’re going into the third crime scene and God only knows what the UNSUB has left for us this time. But my mind is still churning the discovery from moments ago. I’m mentally grasping for that wisp as it floats just out of reach, trying to latch on before I’m plunged under the monsoon.
“Ready,” I say, beckoning fortitude as I push open the door. I glance at the sky, noting again the looming darkness. “Let’s get in before the rain catches us.”
A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, phones snapping pics, people craning their necks to get a glimpse around uniforms barring the entrance to the apartment building.
This means the UNSUB—who’s just graduated to serial killer status—is now making the news. I’m sure Quinn hoped we could keep this under wraps, at least for the next week. But once the press gets a whiff of a serial killer case, it’s game over. Someone made a buck leaking it to a reporter, and now we’re looking at constant press interference throughout the rest of the investigation.
We push through the throng, and Quinn gives his officers a couple of directions before a small group of us head toward the unit marked off with yellow crime scene tape.
“You need to suit up,” one of the uniforms says, and I look over at him. He’s covered head-to-toe in a white Tyvek coverall. The kind CSU wears—the kind we have to wear when the scene requires it.
Quinn and I are quick as we pull on the suits, and once we finally make our way into the apartment, I’ve adopted a numbness from practiced behavior over the years. I’m prepared…and then I’m not.
“Mother of God,” Quinn whispers. And I can just picture him crossing his chest like he’s saying a prayer, though I have no idea if he’s Catholic. He doesn’t actually do this, of course, but the action is so fitting for what we’re seeing that I wish he would. Someone needs to say a prayer.
The metallic taste hits my senses first. A bitter aftertaste that resonates in the back of my throat. The air crackles with a suffocating, dark energy.
Red paints the walls. Impact splatters. Cast-off stains. High velocity, low velocity. I could spend a week alone analyzing every drop and spray pattern. My eyes take in each spine and satellite stemming from the larger bloodstains. From the arterial spray—the UNSUB’s one signature slash across the neck—to the blunt force splatters that indicate how badly the victim was beaten before the real torture even began.
My mind drifts, and I’m sixteen. Standing in front of a mirror at the hospital. Examining the spray pattern that sheets my skin. Studying the different shades of red. Darker burgundies contrasting against my light skin; lighter pinks flecked across my cheeks. I could not love nor hate the blood; it became a part of me that day.
“Bonds.” Quinn’s voice reaches into the dark recesses of my mind, and I’m again at the crime scene, uniforms capturing the scene in pristine condition before it’s torn apart to uncover the story.
My gaze is steadily locked on the body. Quinn is already there; his first priority.
I carefully maneuver through the room, trying to disturb as little as possible, my plastic suit whispering in the still air, as I sidestep broken picture frames and blood pools, until I’m by his side and staring up at the suspended corpse.
The body has been hung from the ceiling by three lengths of rope. One band circles her shoulders, the next around her upper thighs, the third across her chest. And all I can think is: this is a new pose.
When Avery arrives and begins her examination, I won’t need to inquire. I won’t need to ask about what was done to her. My eyes snag and hold exactly what Quinn is staring at. What he’s trying so hard not to turn away from.
“This countess,” he says, obvious revulsion in his voice. “Was she known for this?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
“Hell,” he breathes out.
And there’s no better descriptor to capture this scene. Hell. This is hell.
I’ve never worked a case that involved mutilated genitalia. And I don’t want to ask Quinn if he has. Past experience won’t matter, regardless. The MO of the sadist who could go to this extreme would be a very different profile than the one I’ve already compiled for this case. He’s a copycat. Torture is his signature. And it’s not even his own.
We remain quiet as we inspect her battered and disfigured private parts. Besides the numerous contusions and cuts, and seared flesh covering her body, the mutilation of her lower region makes her nearly unidentifiable as a woman. Right now, I’m thankful for the blood that obscures most of her injuries.
“Back here,” someone shouts from the side bedroom.
Without words, Quinn and I both head toward the master bathroom that has garnered new attention.
“No one drain that tub,” Quinn instructs. “I want it skimmed out first. Look for anything hidden beneath the surface and around the vic.”
Bathed in blood. Poetic. The second victim is something right out of a Bathory legend. A fictional work that depicts the Countess as a creature of the night who exsanguinates women to bathe in their blood.
I’m lost in the meaning, confused as to why a purest—as the UNSUB has been so far—would lower his standards to hearsay and fictions…until my eyes discern the brutality masked under all the swirling red decoration.
A single, jagged slash across the second victim’s collarbone.
He sacrificed his kill method to send a message. The recipient: me.
The air becomes thick, my lungs struggle to accept a full breath. The bathroom is so small…too many bodies pressing against me. This whole apartment is like a tomb; taking on the shape and surroundings of a lightless, dank basement.
“Where are you going?”
But I can’t answer Quinn right now. I’m making my way back through the press of uniforms and through the living room, and then out through the front door, where I finally drag in an unobstructed breath.
No one knows about me. What happened all those years ago. My scar. That’s personal, and that’s mine. He’s been inside my house. He’s watched me. He knows secret details I’ve scribbled in my journal. The one place where I share my history.
The poem. What it means to me…the pain. The terror. The shame. The unbearable verses recited to me over and over, my captor making me feel each line. Fashioning and molding me into the perfect, virtuous woman through his special brand of torture. I was a dirty girl, one he desired to transform into a delicate beauty that was above reproach.
I know every stanza by heart. And back at the first scene, when I read those words, the old wound tore wide. And I’m bleeding…
“Sadie…” My name, softly spoken by Quinn, snaps me out of my panic. “You can’t have a meltdown here,” he says, gripping my elbow. He guides me down the pathway, away from the apartment building. “Too many people. I’m sure some of them reporters.”
I notice Quinn removing his coverall, and I decide to do the same. I slip out of the plastic, forcing it down my body with shaky hands, and kick out of the suit.
As I crumple the plastic into a tight ball, what Quinn said finally registers. “Wait.” I stuff the balled suit under my arm and turn to face the crowd.
“We can catch Avery later. Let’s go get some food in you. We’re going to have a long night—”
“No, Quinn. He’s here.” Swinging my gaze around to Quinn, I widen my eyes, discreetly nodding to the gathered bodies. “The profile suggests he’ll insert himself into the investigation.” And my life. “This was his big masterwork. The crime scene that would undoubtedly link ev
erything together.” I scan over the crowd, seeking each individual face. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to keep away.”
From my peripheral, I see Quinn take out his phone and put it to his ear. “Make sure you get shots of the crowd. I want every gawker at this crime scene photographed.” I give him a raised eyebrow as he lowers his phone. “Well, we can’t go up to each one and ask if they’re the killer, can we?”
I press my lips together, conceding. “No…yeah, you’re right.” But I have to recognize him. Maybe. I’m so careful about who I allow to get close. My world consists of a handful of people.
Except at the club.
The place where I go to unleash the side I keep hidden from those people.
He could be a member. He could’ve followed me home one night. Waited until the right moment to break in and pry into my life. But the question remains: why?
“It doesn’t match the profile,” I say to myself. But Quinn picks up on it.
“What doesn’t?”
Damn.
Facing Quinn, I prepare to deprive him of the truth. For the first time in our working relationship—that has had its almost good moments, and its difficult ones—I cannot give him the unvarnished truth.
I have to withhold evidence—or at the very least, my suspicions.
Without knowing how this is linked to me, or why, I have to keep my guard up. And the truth is, I’m afraid. Though I don’t want to admit it, there’s the possibility that my mind is selectively piecing together this terrible reality with my past. After the abduction, there was a time when I seriously doubted my sanity—but that was a long time ago.
I’ve overcome so much, and I do not want to degrade back into that doubt. But that’s exactly what the UNSUB is making me do; doubt myself.
Until I discover just what it has to do with me, Quinn has to remain in the dark. He may pull me off the case, otherwise. And if the UNSUB’s game does revolve around me, that will only anger him. I’ll play his game—for now. I have to, to see what the rules are. Then I’ll turn them around on him.
“There may be a subtle difference forming from the initial profile,” I say, working out the weak details as they form in my mind. Quinn cocks his head. “We’re still dealing with a copycat, but I was off on his reasoning. He’s not just emulating Bathory, he doesn’t just admire her…he believes they share a special bond. A romantic relationship…” Quinn’s features shift, his face contorting in confusion, and I know I’m losing him. “Erotomania,” I blurt.
He shakes his head. “Really? You’re going there? With a delusional UNSUB who believes that a dead woman—for over four hundred years—is in love with him?”
Yeah. Hearing it out loud doesn’t seal the deal for me, either. But it’s all I have to work with. And I have to keep my conjectures close without giving anything personal away. I nod assuredly. “It might not be romantic at all, actually. He could think that he’s one of Bathory’s accomplices. That he’s carrying out her work in tribute. But yes, ultimately, he would believe that the Countess has true affection for him. Whether he thinks her to be dead or alive, that’s irrelevant. In his delusion, he could’ve created a conspiracy around the vampire legend. He may think she’s come back from the dead…” I trail off at Quinn’s grimace. “Look, his reasoning isn’t as important as the clear fact that he’s striving to impress someone. He probably believes that she’s been sending him secret messages, telling him how to fulfill her will.”
“Jesus,” Quinn says. He groans and turns to unlock his Crown Vic. He opens the door and lays his neatly folded coverall on the floorboard. “Can we just go get some food?” he asks, spinning to face me, his arm braced on the hood of the car. “I can’t deal with this on an empty stomach.”
So I guess he doesn’t want to hear the part where I profile the UNSUB’s next move.
At least Quinn’s looking where I want him to, and not in the one place where the answers lie. The perpetrator very well could suffer from erotomanic delusions, only it may not be the deceased Countess he’s trying to impress.
There are now too many variables I have to consider before I come to a firm conclusion—but I need a safe place to sort through them. Quinn reads me too well, and I’m shaken. I admit it. I’m the one who analyzes the killers…not the other way around. And this UNSUB is most definitely invading my head.
As I reach for the car door handle, I hear my name being called. I turn to see Avery flagging us down. We meet her away from the crowd. “What do you have?” Quinn asks.
“Hell, good to see you too, Quinn,” she remarks.
Despite my unease, I smile. I hope she has something solid; some evidence that will lead us in the right direction. I’m through being a chess piece maneuvered around a board. I want to make the next move.
She looks at me. “Got that update on the rope,” she says, and I actually hold my breath. “First of all, it’s made entirely of jute fibers, not cotton. Secondly, it is handmade. But it’s the third variable that’s the kicker. The origin.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Vienna.”
My breath expels.
Quinn looks between us, hands fisted on his waist. “Am I missing something?”
Yes, Quinn. With this case, you’re definitely missing it all. But I don’t clue him in. Instead, I focus on what I can reveal. I shift the rumpled suit under my arm and reach into my bag. Pulling out my tablet, I select the most recent eBook on my virtual shelf, then hand him the device.
“The section is already highlighted,” I tell him.
He reads aloud. “She tortured them by binding their arms with Viennese cord.”
Avery’s head jerks back, her shock evident. “Then you already have a suspect.”
Handing me back the tablet, Quinn scoffs. “Yeah we do. If you count four hundred year-old dead countesses.”
Avery looks to me for clarity, but then she holds up her hand. “You know what, not my field. You guys handle the perps.” She digs out a folder from her satchel and hands it to Quinn. To me, she says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of doing a bit of my own investigating. I was curious about why someone would select a specific rope from a specific country; like Vienna. It just seemed too particular.”
As Quinn flips the file open, his eyes scanning the document inside, he says, “Where did you find this?”
She beams. “The Internet. Simple search pulled it right up. Pretty strange, don’t you think? I’m not sure if it has anything to do with your case, but it seemed worth mentioning.”
Curious, I move closer to Quinn’s side and take a look at the page. “Viennese Rope Gala,” I say, and look up at her.
“It’s an annual bondage and rope fetish event. I checked it out; it’s pretty intense. For the rope enthusiast in us all.”
But her words are starting to fade as I’m drawn within myself, my mind linking aspects together. Bondage. Rope. Suspension. An image of the vic inside, hung from the ceiling, merges with memories of last night at the club. I hear Quinn’s voice, but can’t discern his words.
“Shibari,” Avery says, bringing me out of my musings, and suddenly a vise-like grip squeezes my chest as the puzzle piece rattling around my brain slides home. “It’s the main attraction, why the hardcore bondage patrons attend the event. It appears there’s a whole subculture within the bondage world centering around it.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I just thought it was interesting. It may not tie back to your UNSUB at all.”
“No, this is good, Avery,” Quinn says as he closes the file. “Some good detective work.”
She laughs. “I’ll tell the Internet you said so.” Her gaze sweeps over me, her pretty features drawing together. “Sadie, are you all right?”
I’m calling attention to myself. Don’t. I school my face into what I feel is a neutral, calm expression, even though my heart is battering my chest. Stomach acid is rising to my throat. I can only focus on my breathing; in, out. Even breaths. In, out.
“I’m fine,” I say, nodding. “
I’ll look more into this. Thanks, Avery.” I start to walk away, but Quinn catches my arm.
“Where are you going? The car’s that way.” He motions in the opposite direction.
Avery saves me the interrogation by cutting in. “I hear I have a lot of work waiting for me.” She gestures toward the apartment building. “I’ll get back to you on my findings as soon as possible.”
Quinn offers her a faint smile and his thanks, then his attention is back on me. Moody hazel eyes assessing me closely. I just can’t do this right now—I can’t be here.
“I think we should split up,” I say. His forehead creases as he continues to stare down at me, expression wary. “We’ll cover more area if you check out the weaponry shops, and I follow this new lead.”
He crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a lead, Bonds. What are you going to do? Track down a list of all the attendees of that rope event and interrogate them?”
No. Just one.
“It may turn out to be nothing.” I hold his unyielding gaze, infusing myself with strength I don’t feel. My legs ache, like they’re going to buckle under the pressure bearing down on me. “But we can’t afford to overlook anything. The UNSUB is devolving, Quinn. Two more bodies. We don’t have time to even argue this point.”
He sighs a heavy grunt that comes out sounding as exasperated as he appears. He looks past me, at the gathering storm clouds in the distance. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” He glances at me then. “I’ll touch base with the task force. Get updates and head to the first shop. You keep me abreast on anything you uncover. Even if you think it’s not worthwhile, I want to know.”
“I will,” I say. He continues to stare at me, as if there’s more he wants to add, his eyes probing like he can suss out the many thoughts jumbling my brain. Quinn hates being out of the loop. But this is one knotted loop I have to unravel on my own.
“You need a ride back to the station?” he asks, and I shake my head.
