by Trisha Wolfe
It could be that the acceptance of the profile caught me off guard, or that this case being upgraded to a serial killer has everyone on edge. The atmosphere in the task force meeting hummed with high tension. Maybe it’s just getting to me, too.
And then there’s the missing link; the signature. What every serial killer case needs to be official. With only two bodies, both that were killed just similarly enough, I wasn’t able to produce a clear signature for the UNSUB.
As Avery opens the wall locker and pulls out the slab with the most recent victim, I reach down and rub the tender skin of my ankle, feeling the embedded rope marks left on my skin from Colton. My chest stirs with heat. Just the subtle reminder—the feel, the tenderness—is enough to make me crave him.
I drop my foot and right myself when Avery flips open her file to gather her notes.
“Someone was in his heyday,” Avery says, her gaze dropping to the covered victim as she peels back the white sheet. The body of the mutilated woman, now cleaned, is nearly more gruesome than when her wounds were hidden by blood. “I know you’re working quickly to catch this guy, so I’ll keep this short and direct. You can listen to the full examination if you want all the details.”
She runs through the most evident torture the victim suffered, which is an extreme reproduction of the first vic. Then concludes with, “Postmortem stab wounds cover her body. From chest to thighs.”
“That signifies sexual homicide,” Quinn prompts.
Avery nods. “She was raped. But this… Well, it’s extreme overkill.”
“I noticed that,” I say.
“Which is markedly different than the first victim,” Avery adds. “He tortured her. Pure and simple. Tortured her before he killed her, and he didn’t stop even after she was dead.”
The connection hits me hard and fast; the one thing I couldn’t nail down for the profile.
Whirling toward Quinn, I say, “Torture could be our UNSUB's signature. I mean, the methodology is usually unique. An offender whose preference is fire doesn’t typically use a knife, and vice versa.”
He huffs out a hard breath. “So we’re back to the prospect of more than one killer?”
“Not really….look.” I press my gum into my cheek, ready to dive into my explanation. “Usually torture falls into two categories: sadistic and functional. We can cross out functional, because we’re fairly certain our UNSUB isn’t trying to extract information. Though he could be punishing.” My chest tightens as the memory of a cane connecting to my back steals the air from my lungs.
“Bonds.” Quinn’s voice pulls me back. “You’re doing that thing you do again. Time. We don’t have a lot of it.”
Nodding, I brush my bangs away from my eyes. “Right. Okay. It’s more likely that we’re dealing with a sadist who uses torture to sate an emotional need. Sadists are sexually deviant, and even though there’s no proof the first vic was raped, sex is irrelevant. He’s satisfying his urges through torture. Or he was…”
“Not in the mood for a longwinded hash out, Bonds.” Quinn stuffs his hands in his pants’ pockets, impatient. I don’t fault the guy. I’ve already given the profile, and now I may have to expand on it.
“Torture might not be enough to satisfy his sadistic needs anymore,” I continue, working out the methodology in my head as I go. “He now needs to sexually torment his victims, too.”
“Either way,” Avery cuts into my theory, “the UNSUB is a sure psychopath. I was on the fence with the first victim, but this one is proof of what’s going on in his head.”
“Agreed. He’s one twisted fuck,” Quinn adds. “And because it’s easier for a sadistic killer to torture someone they don’t know personally, chances are we won’t find an outright common denominator between the victims.” He glances my way. “We should check in with the task force and see what they’ve dug up around the profile so far.”
I nod. “And maybe recheck ViCAP—go back at least five years outside the statewide area. This level of sadistic torture might show up somewhere else.” My thoughts intersect as I look down at the victim. “Most sadists restrain their captives on their own turf, so why would he take the risk at his victims’ houses? We need to cross-reference that, too.”
Quinn groans, his frustration mounting. “If we go nationwide, we’ll bury the task force. We’re already short on time. Not to mention resources.”
He’s right. But if we can find one significant clue, one important fact to ground our search, then it would be worth the extra effort.
Avery waves a hand through the air between us. “Hey, I know I’m no detective, and you’re probably already a step ahead of me—but don’t you want to know about the second message?”
A prickling sensation sweeps over me, and I narrow my eyes in her direction. At my confused look, she continues, “I’m assuming, of course, that you found a message at the first crime scene.”
“Avery, don’t assume. What are you talking about?” Quinn pulls his hands from his pockets and moves closer to the slab.
Grabbing one of the evidence bags from the table, Avery holds it up before us. Inside is a small section of what she found in the vic’s mouth. “I sent most of it to forensics, but I first took a closer look. When I opened up the particles, I found words—too small to the naked eye—printed and layered within the oakum.”
My thoughts grind to a halt. “Wait. Oakum?”
“Words?” Quinn says, almost in unison.
Avery’s gaze flicks between us. “Before you two went all Sherlock and Watson, I was trying to get to this. It read: Her walls talk.”
“Her walls talk,” Quinn repeats, as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue, trying to connect each one to the case. But it’s a far-off echo hitting my ears too slowly. My brain is already thumbing through literature, texts surfacing, blurring and tracing across my vision. Then, a portrait comes into focus as the pieces connect at an alarming speed.
My throat thickens as a surge of nausea coats my stomach. I realize I’ve swallowed my gum a second too late—but what does that matter? The answer is here. Right here. And I’m so stupid for doubting my first hunch.
“We need to go to the first crime scene,” I say, my feet already in motion and leading me toward the door.
“Jesus, Bonds…” Quinn catches up to me quickly. “What the hell? Are you going to let me in? We weren’t done back there—”
“I know…or at least think I know…where that first message is.” I don’t look over at him. I don’t want to see the doubt I know is on his face.
But he surprises me when he says, “Should I alert the task force of anything yet?”
My pace slows some as I glance his way. “No. Not yet. I need to make sure first.”
He nods. “Okay then.” He digs out his car keys as we exit the building. “I’ll drive. You talk. And don’t leave out any details.”
Fair enough. “Did you ever get around to brushing up on your medieval history?” I ask, and he sends me an annoyed glare. “Our UNSUB might be a copycat.”
12
Masterpiece
UNSUB
In the daylight, everything is pure, rich. It sparkles with a brilliant clarity, and it cannot be hidden. Such deeds should not only be committed at night. They lose some of their beauty if not greeted by light.
I almost laugh; I made a rhyme. Fitting, since I’ve been reciting poetry to my newest pets. She Walks in Beauty. Lord Byron, one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era—of the millennia, really—and neither can appreciate the poem’s stanzas.
I suppose, honestly, it’s not so much their inability to grasp it, rather than my inability to describe something so…ineffable. That which cannot be named. Something so exquisite, so delicate in its brilliance, that it’s impossible to explain. It just has to be felt.
Sometimes these things are so beautiful they make you ache. To feel pain is the only measurable way to experience an ineffable beauty.
I’ve tried to gift my love poetry. I�
��ve left her little verses. But I feel I’ve failed to get her attention. I don’t want to admit that I’ve failed her—that would be impossible. We’re the only two people on the planet who completely understand each other. The depth that we share. No, I haven’t failed her. I just need something grander that in some way measures up to her standards.
She’ll appreciate my latest gift. It’s a sentiment right out of the history books for which she adores. And when that moment strikes—when all ends meet, and she realizes the brilliance of us…
Oh, how I yearn to see her face. Place my hand to her chest and feel that one, momentary second of awe that makes her heart skip a beat.
We’re unique. See, she’s the only one that truly understands the significance of that. I searched for so long…hunted for so many years…just to make sense of the why.
Why the flame is just as intoxicating as the razor’s edge. Why the shrill cry wrenched from the slice of the blade gives equal satisfaction as the shriek from searing flesh.
It should be wrong. I’ve read all the material, sat through countless lectures. The brain doesn’t work this way, so I’ve been instructed. Preference is as much an art form as the stroke of a brush.
Just to test my theory—because I love to test—I guide the tip of the blade close to my newest pet’s throat. Her body trembles and her sobs grow chokingly thick. Clear liquid trails her pink cheeks, and as I nip her skin, she releases a wail that sends an electric current through my veins.
I revel in the delicious shivers skittering over my skin. It’s a shame there’s no one else around to hear her beautiful cries—but that’s how it has to be. People off living their lives, unaware of the masterpiece being created right next door to their living space.
So busy…everyone’s so busy today. Not a soul near enough to hear the pleas.
And that’s how I find them. The ones who gallivant at night, seeking acceptance. Those who work hard to maintain a normal, functioning life so artificially balanced it’s robotic during the light of day. The lonely ones who no one misses right away. I have journals full of such souls; their schedules. When they leave, when they come back. Where they go. No pets. That’s important. Can’t have irritating yapping interrupting my delicate work.
And I love to watch. As they stir their coffee; this one here, she prefers light cream, no sugar. No siblings. No calls from Mom and Dad, who live in Wyoming, so her last letter from Mom was stamped. Oh, all the hard, hard work that goes into detailing a life. But all those wonderful details make up a roadmap that leads to this long-awaited moment.
Where they experience their fate. What all the other, lame nonsense was just leading up to. I’m giving them a gift, really. Now Lucy doesn’t have to complain to the other waitresses at the diner about how “if she could just find the right man, then she’d stop sleeping around with all those losers…”
See? How horrible her life was before I knocked at her door. And I could see it in her eyes—that clear second of realization; sun illuminating her hair like a halo—that she knew: salvation.
Her salvation from the mundane had finally come.
She’s free from all the toil, the heartache, the struggle. Free.
She no longer has to suffer her monotonous routine.
She was so tired, anyway. So, so tired.
Just enough spunk left over to offer me her sweet cries.
And how I relish them. Her present to me.
But her ultimate gift? Being a part of my grand masterpiece. My offering to my love. Dear Lucy just doesn’t quite possess the fortitude to appreciate how special she is.
I get chills just thinking about it.
Lucy can’t possibly comprehend our connection, my love. When I was lost, you showed me the way. You opened my eyes to who I truly am. You gave me my signature.
A man cannot lack his signature—it’s damn near the most important aspect.
For that, I’m eternally indebted to you.
I start slowly, nicking, slicing. Watching red bead against milky flesh. The gorgeous red—our favorite color. The metallic tang scents the air, and I inhale deeply, impatient for the moment when I’m able to bathe you in blood.
13
Finding Blood
Sadie
“CSU dusted every inch of this apartment,” Quinn says. “Just tell me what you’re looking for.”
The unseen beam from the ultraviolet light scans the wall as I move through the room. “I’ll know it when I see it,” I tell him. I snagged the equipment from Barry—a nice tech who was kind enough to meet us halfway here and “lend” me a few supplies.
Quinn is not impressed with my methods, however. If I wasn’t in such a rush, I might offer him a psych evaluation on his overly anal, control freak issues. Some rules are just made to be broken, as cliché as that is. But it’s true. As Quinn pointed out, we’re pressed for time, and we don’t have enough resources to call in another sweep.
So far, we’ve checked every wall in the master bedroom, spare bedroom, hallway, and we’re now scouring the living room. I thought for sure we’d find something in the victim’s bedroom; that’s where the UNSUB focused his attention.
But…nothing.
“Dammit,” I breathe out, and drag my arm across my forehead.
Moving close to my side, Quinn extends his hand to accept the light. I lay it in his open palm. “Let me in, Bonds,” he says, his deep voice conveying a heavier meaning.
With a full inhale, I nod. “Okay.” I face him and look up into his hazel eyes. “Her walls talk. I know it can have any number of meanings for our UNSUB…or maybe it’s just meant to throw us off. But I don’t think so. Everything he’s done so far…it looks chaotic, but it’s a calculated chaos.”
Quinn holds up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me. Just say it.”
Licking my lips, I prepare myself. I’m not sure I want to voice this aloud. “I think our UNSUB is copycatting a medieval serial killer. The Blood Countess.”
And there it is; the second the words are unleashed, doubt rushes in. I feel it in my bones, see it on Quinn’s hard face. It’s too…reaching. Hopeful is the wrong word, but I can’t claim another.
I’ve spent so many hours researching Elizabeth Bathory, I’m damn near an expert. But that’s just it; I’m too close. Of course I would connect all the pieces and link them together in this fashion. My vision is skewed. I need an outside opinion, and Quinn is as outside as it gets.
“Explain,” he says simply.
And I do. Starting with my initial hunch right here at the first crime scene, I take him through each torture technique—needles under the nails; candles to burn flesh; sharp objects to draw blood—that Bathory and her accomplices enjoyed inflicting on their victims. The way the methodology ties to Bathory’s own, strange signature: torture. With all my study, the only thing I could genuinely understand about the infamous lady was her non-preference.
She was accused of torturing young girls in a variety of ways…so that there’s no one clear method to claim as her signature. It was in that moment, agonizing over the details, that I realized all sadists—no matter their perfected signature; however vain—spoke their specialized method of evoking suffering through torture.
Such a simple concept. Such a profound revelation.
“What else,” Quinn says, gaze steady on the wall as he hunts. “What else about these cases can be linked back to this woman, other than a few similarities.”
To myself, I shrug. “The tarred oakum, for one. It’s how Bathory concealed the bodies, and I’ve only ever read that specific detail in translated documents of her trial. The UNSUB had to do a lot of research to unearth it. I can’t overlook how explicitly connected it is to Bathory.”
Quinn nods. “Okay. That’s unusual, but lot’s of contractors still use oakum to seal…”—he waves his hand, as if trying to grasp the thought from the air—“pipes and stuff. What if the UNSUB is a plumber? It’s a possibility. You said you’ve studied this Bathory inten
sively. Your mind wants to make the connection—”
I shake my head. “That’s what I thought at first. Believe me, Quinn. I’ve considered that. I don’t make these kind of leaps, you know this.” I meet and hold his gaze, imploring. “There’s also the message itself. After Bathory was prosecuted and found guilty…which is a whole other story,” I add. “I have my own theories about how her case was handled, but we’ll stick to the historical facts to make our case. Anyway, she was sentenced to be walled up in a room of her own home. It was documented that she spent the last two years of her life in there, writing on walls. When she ran out of parchment, she wrote her thoughts, ramblings, whatever on the walls of her cell. And it’s just too close…the message, the method of torture—burns, contusions, the rope—” I break off as my mind continues to connect evidence.
“What?” Quinn says, pocketing the light.
I take out my phone and pull up Avery’s personal contact number, click it. She answers right away. “This better be an invitation to get a drink,” she says.
“When we catch this guy, I’ll buy every round,” I say.
Her short sigh catches at the end. “I’m taking you up on that. All right, what do you need?”
Glancing at Quinn, I nod once. Then, “I know we’ve asked you to all but give up sleep, but have you had any time to check-up on the rope origin?” I bite my lip. “You said you thought it was handmade, Avery. Can you confirm that yet?”
“I do have other cases, Sadie, and this UNSUB isn’t really giving us enough time between victims.” I hear the ruffling of papers on her end. “But I really like you. Don’t tell Quinn. He’s not my favorite.” I smirk at that. “All right. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll get you an update. Oh, and I just completed that work-up sketch on the murder weapon. I’ll snap a pic and shoot it over to you now.”
