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And amongst the debriswas the room’s grim centerpiece – the lifeless body of a woman, flat on herback, arms outspread, eyes wide open in a parody of death.
‘Carbon copy,’ Ripleysaid behind her.
Ella's stomach churnedat the sight. Anger simmered inside, a seething, white-hot fury at thesenseless brutality laid bare before her eyes. She applied her latex gloves,bent down and gently checked the victim’s pulse, as though the act mightmiraculously jolt her back to life.
Chief Caldwell came inthrough the door. He’d been securing the scene when Ella had arrived.
‘Chief, what do weknow about her?’ Ella asked.
‘Her name’s PenelopeOlson. Forty-six years old. Longtime therapist. We got the call barely twentyminutes ago.’
‘Who called it in?’
‘Victim’s daughter.She’s outside.’
Ripley asked, ‘Anyreceptionist? Anyone else work here?’
‘Small office likethis? Just Penelope. No one else, according to her daughter.’
Ella scanned thesurroundings. The office was a lone building spaced out among similar officesin the row. Going off size, it certainly wasn’t a franchise establishment.
‘CCTV?’
‘None that I can see.Might be some on the other buildings in the row, but they’re pretty far out.’
Ella knelt beside thevictim, sweeping over the woman's features. Blonde hair, cut just below theshoulders, framed a face that would have been striking in life. Piercing greeneyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, their spark extinguished. High, tight cheekbonesset in pallid skin.
Carefully, Ellaexamined the woman's hands, her clothes, looking for any sign, any clue thatmight speak from beyond the grave. The ritual was familiar, yet no lessheart-wrenching. Each victim was a story cut short, a life stolen. And now,Penelope Olson joined that tragic narrative.
Ripley joined her.‘Thoughts?’
‘Blonde, green eyes,barely one-twenty pounds dripping wet. You know what that says?’
‘Yup. It means ourkiller’s got a type. This woman looks exactly like the other two.’
Ella scanned the bodyfor marks, bruises and lacerations, but the only anomaly on her otherwiseperfect skin were the red marks around her neck.
‘Trauma to the throat,larynx has been depressed. He strangled the life out of her.’
‘No defensive marks,no bruising to the head. He didn’t blitz her, nor did he try to subdue herbeforehand. Our killer went straight for the throat.’
‘Fully clothed,’ Ellacontinued. ‘No sexual assault. What the hell is this killer trying to say?’
Ella stood slowly, thepieces of a gruesome puzzle assembling in her mind with frustratingincompleteness. Her gaze swept the room once more, noting the disarray not as aresult of a struggle, but as a deliberate act of violation, a symbolic act ofcontrol over his victims' sanctuaries.
As Ella moved throughthe wreckage, a glint of something beneath a toppled chair caught her eye—aleather-bound diary, its cover scuffed but intact among the chaos. She reachedfor it, the leather cool and slightly gritty under her fingertips. Flipping itopen, she found the meticulous handwriting of Penelope Olson detailing herappointments.
The pages suggested awoman of meticulous organization, filled with names, times, and brief notes onher clients' progress. Ella's fingers traced the entries, stopping abruptly attoday's date. The last appointment, written in Penelope's neat script, was withsomeone named Darren.
‘Ripley,’ Ella said.‘Our killer’s called himself Darren this time.’
‘Then he’s smartenough to use a different name every time. But look at this mess. This is evenmore destructive than the last two scenes.’ Ripley pointed to a few framedawards on Penelope’s wall. ‘He’s even smashed the glass on her picture frames.’
Ella's gaze followedRipley's pointing finger, taking in the shattered frames, their contentsspilling onto the floor like memories turned to dust. The violence of the sceneclawed at her, a physical manifestation of the killer's rage—or perhapssomething deeper, a perverse need to obliterate every trace of his victims'identities, their achievements, their lives.
‘Why?’ Ella whispered,not expecting an answer. The question was more for herself, a puzzle she wasdesperate to solve. ‘Has his rage progressed, or is there something morespecific he's trying to erase?’
‘Honestly, Dark, Ithink our unsub just has a hard-on for violence. I don’t think he has anyspecific mission. He just hates the world and wants to watch it burn. Sadly,these therapists are easy targets for him. He’s Richard Ramirez, but instead ofbreaking into houses or stalking alleyways, he’s getting close to his victimsin a more creative way.’
