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“It’s not madness; it’s anger,” Sam said softly.
He looked up. She wasn’t even looking at him, but somehow, she seemed to read his thoughts. It was almost as if there was some kind of connection between them—yet that was impossible, given that he’d learned to raise shields so strong that not even his twin could share his thoughts. “What do you mean?”
She motioned almost absently toward the victim as she continued to leaf through the paperwork on the desk. “The murderer was angry with this woman. There was no care taken here, no time. Look at the way the victim’s throat was slashed. Another eighth of an inch, and our killer wouldn’t have even hit the carotid.”
He swept his gaze around the room. No ashtray full of cigarettes was sitting on any of the tables, and there was no immediate evidence that the killer had even stayed to watch this victim die. In fact, the only thing linking this victim with the other murders was the hole in her gut and the color of her hair.
“Why the anger here, though?” He glanced back at Sam, interested in hearing her observations—or was it something else? Not the training of a cop, but a perception coming from her developing psychic talents? The clouded look to her eyes certainly suggested it was the latter. “Why not with the previous three victims?”
“That’s presuming it’s the same killer.”
He nodded. She pursed her lips, her gaze finally rising from the desk and sweeping the room.
“Maybe in this case, it’s something as simple as the white coat the victim is wearing.” She hesitated, frowning. “I don’t think the killer was expecting a doctor.”
He frowned. “Yet the precision of the wounds on the first two victims indicates the killer has some sort of medical background. Our killer might even be a doctor. Why react so strongly against a fellow practitioner?”
Her gaze came to rest on his. Her blue-gray eyes were suddenly unclouded and amused. “Find the answer to that and you might just find your killer.”
True. He rose and crossed to the windows. Outside, rain had begun to sheet down, and on the street below, men and women scurried for cover. This street was always busy—surely someone, somewhere, had seen something.
The killer hadn’t cut an escape hole in the smoke-colored glass, so if he or she was a shapechanger, the killer certainly hadn’t escaped that way this time. He headed into the doctor’s office to check the windows there, but there was nothing. Nor did anything appear disturbed or out of place in the room itself. Meaning their killer had come in and out through the front doors—either in human or nonhuman form—and had to be on the security tapes.
He returned to the reception area. Sam was looking through the diary.
“Anything?”
She shook her head. “No appointments during lunch. Looks like the postman had just been here, though.” She motioned toward a stack of mail, half of which had been opened.
“We’ll track him down, see if he saw anything.” He frowned and studied the corpse for several seconds. “Someone must have seen the killer leave this time. If she left in human form, she would have had blood all over her.”
“Has anyone checked the restrooms?”
“You up to it?” The trembling in her hands had definitely eased and color was back in her cheeks.
She nodded and walked from the room. He squatted next to the body again. It didn’t make any sense. The killer had been so careful up until now, so why do this? And why accelerate the time frame? He scanned the room to check if they’d missed anything, but there was nothing he could see. He swore softly and thrust a hand through his hair as he pushed to his feet. They needed to catch this psycho before he or she killed again, and yet there was nothing—absolutely nothing—here that could help them.
His wristcom beeped. “Yes?” he said, scanning the room yet again.
“Think you’d better come down to the restroom.”
Sam’s voice was devoid of all inflection, giving no hint as to what she’d found. “On my way.”
He made his way over to the main door. O’Neal stared at his com-unit, viewing the security tapes.
“Anything?” Gabriel said.
O’Neal shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
“Did anyone check the restrooms either on this floor or on the floors above and below?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
Slack as well as dumb. Gabriel shook his head, took off his plastic glove and dumped it in the nearby bin. Then he headed down the hall to the restrooms. Sam was waiting outside the ladies’—which could have meant their killer was a female, as the presence of Heat at the last crime scene seemed to imply. Or maybe it was simply a case of the ladies’ room being closer.
“What did you find?” he said, the moment he saw her.
“A f
