by Trisha Wolfe
“How do you…?” Another pause. “Shit. I can give you early access to what’s going to the media at the end of the week. That’s it. The best I can do.”
“You know where to send it,” I say, then end the call. I slam the portable phone down on the desk. Sit back in the chair. Look down at the stack of folders. It’s going to take fucking forever to compare that information to every member.
Time Sadie may not have.
Fuck.
The tension building in my neck reminds me I’ve had no release for the past week. The unexpected visit from her didn’t help. I can still taste her on my lips, feel her slick, hot flesh all over me. My dick throbs just thinking about our moment in the hallway. I could’ve carried her off to my room and spent hours…
I shut down that train of thought, or else I’ll be tempted to go find her. Right now.
But if I did—just blow off every impending fear I’m bottling up to be near her—at least I wouldn’t be sitting here, waiting. Wondering. Imagining her out there with some fucking psychopath stalking her. I should’ve kicked that asshole detective out of the club and tied her little, stubborn ass up.
I reach into my pocket, groaning as I nudge my hard cock aside to grab my rope. Running the course length over my palm, I close my eyes, feel and taste Sadie. Just for a moment to stave off the cruel sting of patience.
It’s a virtue I have very little of right now.
7
Tether
Sadie
The marshy river smell floats over the crime scene on a delicate breeze. My gloves stick to my palms and fingers, the humidity not yet ready to yield to fall. As I step directly behind Quinn, my Tyvek-covered feet half the size of his footprints, I study the shoe impressions filled with white plaster in the mud.
“CSU has already started on casting shoeprints,” Quinn says. “They’re only making molds of the freshest tracks. It might help, since the crime scene confirms the vic was murdered somewhere else and brought to the river.”
As we near the taped-off area, he directs one of his unis. “Handle her delicately. I want a detailed tape-lifting procedure. She may have evidence on her from the kill site. Every fiber, every hair, every grain of sand or dirt…bag it and tag it.”
“Who reported the body?” I ask, coming to a halt behind him.
When my eyes discern the naked woman among the river grass to our right, I exhale a long breath. Her flesh is so battered she’s nearly the same shade as the dirt and marsh concealing her.
Pointing to an older man just off the bank talking to uniforms, Quinn says, “Just a guy out looking to throw his pole into the water.” He faces me, a grimace tugging at his worn features. “She was dropped here recently. If he hadn’t found her when he did, she would’ve been fish bait when the tide came in.”
Which makes no sense if someone wanted to hide the body. You don’t leave it on a riverbank, in the middle of the day, with cars traveling above and likely fishermen visiting a well-known fishing spot and high tide just hours away.
Unless the perpetrator got scared and tried to dispose of the body quickly. An amateur making a major rookie mistake, or a freaked out lover. Which denotes a crime of passion—but by the faded look of some of her contusions, she was tortured for hours if not days. This was not a spur of the moment murder.
“This isn’t our guy,” Quinn says. “Doesn’t match his ritual. Not sure whether that’s a relief or not, though.” Kneeling next to the victim, he sets down his evidence kit and lifts a section of the vic’s matted dark hair to reveal the side of her face. “Jesus.”
Red welts and deep cuts mar her pale skin, forehead to chin. This vic is unidentifiable by her features, and will need the M.E.’s full workup.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask him, studying the jagged laceration across her neck. “We’ll definitely need Avery’s expertise, but the wound looks like it could be a match to the other victims.”
After moving her hair aside to fully expose the slash that severed her carotid, he sits back on his heels. Props his elbows on his knees and looks at me. “It can’t be. Granted the UNSUB has been inconsistent before…but this derails completely from his MO.” He ticks off on his fingers. “He moved the victim. She’s not posed. And once we get an identification, we’ll check her home, but I’m going to make the call that she wasn’t held captive there while the perp tortured her.”
“I agree.”
His eyes squint. “So the offender abducts her, takes her to his turf, then dumps the body here. Why?” He looks around the marsh. “It feels…sloppy. Too spontaneous for our guy. Not at all like the calculated and methodical scenes he’s crafted so far.”
Inspecting the neck wound closer, I say, “Okay. Then a copycat? Someone trying to pin a murder on the recent serial killings.” I look up at Quinn.
He shakes his head. “A copycat of a copycat,” he says with disgust.
“Isn’t all murder just a vicious reproduction in the whole scheme of things?”
“Point taken.” He stands, brushing his gloved hands down his slacks. “But still, that would mean a huge leak in the department. Nothing about the rare murder weapon has been on the news or in the media. It’s a slim chance that someone out there knows the specifics, and just happened to have a flamberg sword handy.”
“You’re arguing my point, Quinn.” I get to my feet, stretching out my back. “So it’s less likely that someone is trying to pass this off as one of the serial killings, and more probable that the actual killer is changing his MO.”
“Son of a bitch.” Turning his gaze out over the river, Quinn rolls off his gloves. Then, “All the crime scenes have left a message linking his killings to Bathory.” He looks at me. “We need to find that message. And we need to start unraveling the meaning behind them or else we’ll never be able to predict this psychopath.”
I glance down at the victim, remembering the very specific message the UNSUB left at the last crime scene: the slashed collarbone. It was loud and clear, aimed directly at me. Only I’m still unsure if it was executed in homage or as a threat.
“Bathory was known to torture her victims for long periods of time,” I say, walking a path around the yellow crime scene tape. “It’s expected that he’d escalate to more precise measures. He’s probably convinced we’re on to the Bathory connection. Doesn’t feel it necessary to leave clues anymore. Instead, he’s taking his kills to the next level, showing us just how devoted he is to his work. He wants us not only to recognize, but to appreciate his dedication. His grandness.”
“He’s vain.”
My head snaps around at the interruption. Carson stands with his hands to his hips, looking up at the bridge.
“That’s an obvious observation,” I say, not concealing the annoyance from my tone.
Pointing toward the bridge, Carson says, “I took the liberty of scoping out the scene from above. He put the vic on display. He’s got a god complex, and doesn’t fear being caught.”
Quinn clears his throat. “Carson, why don’t you let the profiler do the profiling, and get to work marking evidence.”
“Oh, I have been,” Carson says, not allowing Quinn’s reprimand to deter him. “Check this out.” He brings up his phone and taps the screen, then hands it to Quinn. “I’ve already done a quick Internet search. Looks like this is the Blood Count’s work, Detective Quinn.”
Quinn’s gaze drifts from the image on the phone up to Carson. “What the hell did you just say?”
Carson grins, either completely oblivious to Quinn’s ire or asking for more. I cringe, backing away from the both of them.
“It’s a crest,” Carson says, nodding toward the device. “In the reeds. Right over there.” He motions past the victim to the high marsh grass. “He probably tracked the design for a good while to get the impression right. Then—and I’m guessing here—coated the grass with the vic’s blood. Color looks like dried blood to me, and the design matches the Bathory crest.” His eyebrows hike as he aims
his attention my way. “This is your area of expertise, right? Take a look.”
He goes to take the phone from Quinn, but Quinn drops it to his side. “What the hell did you call the UNSUB, Carson?”
Carson’s head jerks back. “The Blood Count.”
“And where the hell—?”
“It’s all over the news right now. That’s what the media has dubbed the serial killer.” Carson shrugs. “I think it has a better ring to it than the Arlington Slasher, which is what’s going nationwide—”
Before Carson can finish his sentence, Quinn has him by the collar, yanking him upright. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I’m there in a second, pushing on Quinn’s arm to break his hold. “Quinn. We have media hovering around out here now. Back. Off.”
With a growl of frustration, Quinn releases Carson. He spears his fingers into his hair and curses. “Fucking…mother fuck.” The tirade continues as he pivots, searching the crowd of officers. “Smith!” he shouts, and the officer wearing a Tyvek suit lifts his head. “Get that damn what’s his face on the line. The press fucker from this morning.”
“Jerry Renaldi?” Officer Smith offers helpfully.
Quinn snaps his fingers. “Yeah. That guy.”
“Someone’s about to get a thorough ass-reaming,” I whisper to Carson, trying to diffuse the tension. And I might be gloating a tiny bit that some of that has deflected to the arrogant detective. I won’t lie; having Quinn’s focus away from me for the time being is exactly what I’m counting on with this diversion. Still, Carson doesn’t deserve to get thrashed this harshly for his ignorance.
“What the hell?” Carson says. “What is his deal? Every serial killer ever has had some kind of moniker before they were apprehended.”
“John Wayne Gacy didn’t,” I say, picking up the evidence kit and starting toward the high reeds. Carson follows.
“Uh, the Killer Clown—?”
“Nope,” I interrupt. “That didn’t stick.”
“Fine. Serial killers at large for a good amount of time typically get nicknames. Anyone ever tell you it’s annoying to be so…right all the time?” Carson motions toward the grass, directing me. Despite my annoyance with him, I smile. Quinn never lets me forget it. Really, I don’t mind if Carson needs to vent a little after he was just chastised by his superior. “There. See the matted down grass?”
Although I’m loath to admit it, Carson is right. Someone purposely tracked a pattern into the grass. As I bend to touch one of the blood-coated reeds, I discover it’s still fresh. The stem was broken recently. Logically, during the same time as the body dump.
I take out a Heme-Stix from Quinn’s kit and run the swab along a blade of grass, then break the end of the stick as I drop the swab into the clear tube. I crack both ends of the tube and watch the liquid mix and cover the brown tip. It turns blue. Positive for blood.
A very daring move. Either the UNSUB is so devoted to his work, to his delusion, that the risk outweighs the fear of being caught, or he’s someone of authority who doesn’t worry about his actions being questioned.
“Let me see that pic, Carson.” I look up at him.
“Damn. Quinn took my phone.” He shoves his hands into his slacks’ pockets, coming off like a pouting child rather than a skilled detective. I haven’t spent much time with him, haven’t looked into his past, but I’m probably not too far off with the assumption that he was raised in a distant home. No siblings. Parents preoccupied with their own life and jobs. Where he had to go to extremes to gain their attention.
His overzealous nature might come across as cocky and abrasive, but I’m starting to see he’s merely looking for approval. Like from Quinn, who he was trying desperately to impress. Almost makes me feel sorry for the guy. Almost.
“It’s fine,” I say, standing and lifting up onto my toes to get a better areal view of the design. “You’re probably right, anyway. It looks like a very basic design of the Bathory coat of arms. Three horizontal dragon talons, but it was usually depicted in a more simplistic style with horizontal triangles representing the talons.” I glance over to see him fighting a smile. “In the middle ages, not everyone had the means or talent to create accurate artwork. Nice work, Carson.”
My praise brings out his full, hundred-watt smile.
When you can figure someone out, you can usually coax the response you want from them. Not that I take advantage…usually. But right now, I need Carson on my side, and I need him to be wary of this case.
“So it is the same killer,” Carson says, rocking on his feet. “He’s putting a calling card on this place, letting us know this kill is linked to the others. Why Bathory?”
“Why not?” I take out my phone to snap my own pics of the area. “She was methodical and dedicated. Powerful in a time when women held little power. Devoting a lifetime to torturing and killing takes its toll even on the most devout serial killers. Most need a cooling off period. If there was ever a killer to emulate, one for the sadistic to praise, she’s an ideal choice.”
As I continue to maneuver around the grass, taking pictures from different angles, a long lapse of silence builds between Carson and me. I lower my phone and look at him. “What?”
He ticks his head to the side in a half shrug. “You sound like you’re praising her rather than profiling a killer, Agent Bonds. I understand that you’re a Bathory expert, but…”
“But what? I shouldn’t offer her my respect?” I slip my phone into my pocket and walk toward him. “Let me give you a little advice, detective. I know you’re experienced, I know you’ve put the hours in. You’ve got a real handle on despising the enemy.” His features shift into a confused expression as I go on. “But don’t try so hard to put up a barrier between yourself and the damned. Understanding that we are all capable of some measure of sin is what keeps our guard up. Separating yourself from your enemy with such clear precision comes across as fear. And fear leads to the dark side.”
He shakes his head. “Did you just quote Star Wars to me?”
I offer him a smile. “George Lucas is a freaking genius.” Then I start back toward the crime scene, saying, “But seriously. Every killer you hunt deserves some of your regard. Psycho analysis and great sci-fi aside, there’s a fine line between hate and fear. Sometimes the lure to become the thing we fear—just to alleviate that fear—is too great a temptation.”
Words of wisdom once given to me by my mentor. And though I’ve kept that advice close to me through the years, it didn’t save me in the end. My monster just shouted louder.
As we approach the scene, Quinn is hollering into his phone, giving the lead reporter at the local news station a royal ass-chewing.
“And to answer your question from before,” I say to Carson. “We don’t want to give serial killers nicknames because it fuels them on. Yes, the UNSUB is vain, and the media egging him on, when he’s already demonstrated he doesn’t need an audience to go on a killing spree, only suggests that he’ll become bolder.”
Carson groans. “Quinn’s going to put me on desk duty, isn’t he?”
I shrug. “Maybe for the rest of the day. But he gets over things pretty quickly.”
“So how was the third victim linked back to the Countess?” Carson asks suddenly.
My chest prickles with apprehension, and I don’t look his way. “I’m not sure yet.”
“But if you don’t know, then who does? If the UNSUB is mutilating women based on the Blood Countess’s murders, then—”
“Carson. The UNSUB’s methodology is evolving. Even though he’s emulating Bathory, he’s still his own killer.” I face him then. “He’s a sadist who derives pleasure from torturing and killing his victims. He’s delusional—he’s built an alternate reality for himself where Bathory plays a role, but he’s still feeding his own sick need to kill. He’s capable of anything, really.”
Carson studies me closely, brown eyes flicking over my face, and I suddenly regret giving him an inch back there to g
et close to me. “You’re saying you think the third murder of the rope suspended victim was more his own method and not related to his overall masterwork?”
“Yes.” And for the most part, I have to believe that. Because the alternative is too frightening to admit. That both the victims at the last crime scene were a message to me—and that the UNSUB knows intimate details about my relationship to Colton.
“I’ve already covered all this with Quinn and Wexler,” I say, exasperation edging into my voice. “You’re on a need-to-know basis as far as the full profile goes, Carson. Work your assignments. Or else you’re just going to tick Quinn off even more.”
I glimpse his smug smile from the corner of my vision. “Not when I give him the report about the victims’ connection to The Lair.”
Shit. With the new crime scene taking precedence, I nearly forgot about that detail.
Carson moves forward, not waiting any longer to give Quinn that information. As soon as Quinn hangs up with the reporter, Carson is there, ready to gain Quinn’s favor again.
“Dammit,” Quinn shouts, then cups the side of his face.
“You should really get that root canal,” I say as I walk past, quickly getting out of the line of fire before he can lash back.
Leaving Carson to give the full report on the victimology linkage, I put my full attention on the current victim. With the Bathory crest in full view—something bold that differentiates from the past, subtle hints—the UNSUB is very well trying to tell me something new.
Now that the UNSUB is abducting victims to torture for longer periods of time, that means he could already have another woman. I take out my phone and make a note to update the task force to start scouring the local reports of missing women, starting from the last twenty-four hours and going back through the past month.
“Avery,” I say to myself, “where are you.” I really need the M.E. to give us a timeline. How long the victim was tortured, her time of death…and if possible, an identity. I need to know if this victim was also a member of The Lair.
