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Damp warmth sprays over me. Covers me, drenching me in blood.
Silence hums. I close my eyes. A blink that lasts an eternity. And when I finally open my eyes, the world is red.
1
Scene One
Sadie
Blood calls to me.
There’s a story in every drop. A song in the spray pattern. A flickering movie reel projecting images in slow motion—life—as it oozes its last drip. If you look beyond the violence, past the gruesome, a kind of poetry unfolds. Its rhyme and rhythm is what reaches out to me, and its what I use to find you.
“Bonds.” The gruff voice gains my attention, breaking my connection to the killer. I look up from the bloody crime scene to see Detective Quinn. He nods toward a shuttered bank of windows. “Might have a print.”
Unlikely, but I step around the dead woman and blood-soaked carpet, my clompy sneakers wrapped in shoe covers, to meet him. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m putting myself in the scene, and he knows it. “You do your job, Quinn, and let me do mine,” I say, nodding back toward the victim. “Why else did you call me here?”
His dark eyebrows furrow, weathered eyes crease at their corners, hinting to the many years he’s spent investigating scenes just like this. “I didn’t.” Turning toward the shades, he places a yellow marker next to a smudge. “An hour ago, I told Wexler this was a domestic. The boyfriend called it in and then did a disappearing act. But Boss Man insisted I bring you in. Cover all the bases.” Looking at me, he frowns. “So here you are. Just thought steering you in the right direction would help speed this up. But do your thing, psycho analyst, so that I can get on with making my case.”
I catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from lashing out a snide retort, and instead give him a tight smile. Stuffing my hands into my jean jacket pockets, I turn and stare at the scene once again. I stopped taking offense to how the detectives—the real case solvers—view behavioral analysts. Or profilers, though that term is likely to garner even more mockery. It doesn’t bother me because, as much as Quinn has given me a hard time over the years, he depends on my insight. And he knows it.
Just won’t ever admit to it. Not in front of his uniforms.
And because I can easily sum up his hesitancy and anger to macho male aggression and being the product of a single parent who put too much pressure on him…I give him some slack. There are other factors, too, in why he’s such a dick, but his profile is actually pretty boring.
Right. Boring. Nothing like the passionate scene here displayed in red and domination. Which has me seriously doubting Quinn’s judgment call on the boyfriend.
I take a couple of deep breaths, then move through the bedroom, letting my gaze roam and snag on the details. I try to block out the unis marking evidence and snapping pictures. Push everyone and everything out of the room except the victim and her attacker.
Blood is pooled around the vic’s head and torso. The fatal wound a deep laceration to her throat. Inadvertently, my hand goes to my own chest, my fingers applying a slight pressure to my collarbone.
She’s been positioned on her stomach. Dress ruched up past her hips. Ankles bound together with rope, knees spread, placing her in a prime, demeaning position for the offender. One can only assume she was raped until the M.E. examines her fully, but everything about the way the perpetrator posed her indicates that this was a sex crime.
No gun. At least, the perpetrator didn’t use one to end her life. No bullet holes or neighbors complaining about noise. But the uniforms haven’t completely canvassed the apartment complex yet. Murder weapon could be from her own kitchen. Although, with how meticulously staged this scene is, I doubt it. I’m almost certain he brought his own rape kit. Still, we need to discover if anything’s missing or out of place.
No discernable stab wounds. No angry, sloppy slashes or strikes signifying she knew the offender personally. And no castoff bloodstains from the weapon indicates he killed her slowly, precisely. He wasn’t enraged; he took his time.
And he knew how to kill. Her carotid is perfectly severed. The arterial spray reached the ceiling—and no transfer stains, no castoff, suggests he wasn’t surprised by the amount of blood. Rather, I presume he enjoyed it, and he worked to get this desired effect.
The torture he inflicted—battered face and body; hours of restraint; burns to the thighs—signifies measured and controlled. Intended to heighten her suffering, not kill her quickly.
The possibility of this being a revenge-motivated kill decreases by the second.
She’s wearing an evening gown. Black. Elegant. Yet no makeup. The perpetrator could’ve interrupted her while she was getting ready for a Friday night out, but being a woman myself, I have to make an assumption on this one. Makeup first, then hair. Dress last. And her hair, though having been handled roughly during the attack, doesn’t look like it was styled recently.
No jewelry, either.
I walk toward the open closet and peer inside. Then back around the room. No shoes have been removed. No heels kicked off anywhere. She wasn’t planning a night out. I head toward the corner of her room where a robe has been discarded. After slipping on gloves, I adjust my holstered SIG and kneel down to lift the seam of the garment. A T-shirt and underwear lay beneath.
My eyes flick back to the closet, and I note the gap in the row, where clothes hangers have been pushed aside.
Standing, I shake my head. What method of coercion did the assailant use to force her into changing into a dress? What’s more, why?
“We got the boyfriend,” one of the uniforms announces. “They’re taking him to the station.”
Quinn nods to the cop and looks over at me. “I’m going in to question him. You want to watch?” He pushes his gray coat sleeves back as he starts to remove his gloves.
I look at the shuttered windows again, to where Quinn found his first clue. Maybe mine, too. “The perpetrator most likely did close the blinds. Although I seriously doubt you’ll find his print, he wanted some privacy. He needed enough time to play out his fantasy. And somehow, he knew he had that time.” Could’ve been opportunity, or he may have been stalking her, or maybe he did know her. I tilt my head, imagining myself laying in wait. Watching her. There were no signs of forced entry. “Find out about the boyfriend’s porn collection.”
