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Quinn scoffs. “Real original,” he mumbles. “Bondage, I assume?”
Exhaling heavily, I clarify, “Find out if he’s prone to voyeurism. If he likes to watch or be watched, Quinn.” I nod to the blinds. “There’s more to a killer’s porn than bondage.” I glare at him, keeping my own suspicions about his porn collection to myself.
As he wraps up his instructions with CSU, I move toward the vic. It’s not my job to put myself in her place; I’m here to identify with her killer. Get inside his head and break him down. That’s the only thing I can do to help her now.
I reach for her fisted hand tucked closely to her chin along the white carpet. It’s next to her lips, as if she’s stifling her last scream. Ligature marks wrap her wrist in red, puffy welts. But unlike her ankles, the binding device has been removed. Time of death was determined to be just a couple of hours ago. No rigor, and her skin is dry.
How many hours did he play? How long did he torture her? The dress, with all my speculations, doesn’t really point to a clear time of entry. I look over her exposed skin, studying the shades of bruising, trying to determine a better timeline based on the facts.
I uncurl her fingers.
Red stains their tips. My forehead scrunches as I move in closer. A flutter hits my chest, stealing my breath. Puncture wounds dot her fingertips just beneath her nails. One nail has been torn off, and the nail bed is ripped from an object being inserted.
Recognition smacks me hard and fast. But I push past the similarity, noting the high unlikeliness of a connection. During my training, I spent far too many years investigating my own obsessions.
I look up at Quinn as he’s leaving the room. “Better yet, Quinn,” I say, nodding to her hand. “Try to get a warrant for his computer to access all his porno while you’re at it.”
“That’s going to be a bitch to get,” he says on an exhale. “Unless you got something solid to tie this to the boyfriend.” Quinn adjusts his blue tie before running a hand through his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. “Defensive wounds?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No. Whoever our UNSUB is, he likes his torture techniques.”
I see it as soon as frustration crosses his face; this case just got a whole lot more complicated.
* * *
“I’m assuming the needle job on the vic’s nails wasn’t to treat smashed fingers,” Quinn says. He props his shoulder against the doorjamb of my small office, his leanly muscled arms defined well against his standard white button-up.
Shrugging, I say, “He could’ve first wounded her hands, then treated them. Maybe a nurse or even a doctor playing out a husband-wife fantasy.” I reconsider. “Could even be a doctor-patient fantasy.”
Quinn groans. “See, that’s why this shit will never be a science, Bonds. You just jump around, grabbing at randomness, hoping to nail down a perp.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Did you just say perp and make a pun on the nails?” I refuse to take his bait. When I first met Detective Quinn on assignment two years ago, it was my first high-profile case. We did this song and dance then; I know his opinion on criminal profiling. And I also know that it was the combined effort of both the Arlington County PD and the Virginia State General Investigation Section that brought in the offender.
This man is very territorial, though. He won’t acknowledge outside help, but at least he isn’t so stubborn that he down right refuses to take it.
Then there’s also the thing where he doesn’t trust my reasons for requesting a transfer to ACPD—not when I was in line to be promoted within the Fairfax field office to the BCI (Bureau of Criminal Investigations).
I see it in his eyes, even now; he thinks I fucked up somehow. That I was demoted and my blunder buried by bureaucratic bullshit. But I’m not so special that I’d warrant that kind of elite treatment. I have no friends in high enough places to pull something like that off. But from Quinn’s perspective, why else would a person in my field willingly stray from the path that leads to the FBI?
But those reasons border on my personal life…and they’re none of his damn business.
His hazel eyes narrow. “I saw your face when you noticed the fingers. You know something. Something that’s not head shrinking or total bullshit guesswork.” He steps into my office and sits down in the chair across from my piled-high desk. Loosening his cross-shoulder gun harness, he says, “Spit it out.”
“I’m offended you think your time is more valuable than mine.” Just because I’m used to the scorn of the department, doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. Sighing, I settle into my chair, deciding I’m too drained to battle this argument. Again.
One thing about Quinn: he keeps my guard up. I never have time to relax into my job. As if that would even be possible. But it’s now been seven months with the ACPD, and it’s like I just started yesterday.
“It might be going way out on a limb,” I begin. “And I’d rather wait to hear back from the M.E. first. See what object was used. Needle, syringe, nail, some other kind of tool.”
Pressing his lips together tightly, Quinn adopts an impatient countenance.
“You’re cranky, you know that?” I glare at him. “Maybe you need more fiber in your diet.” Or your ass needs to get laid. But I also keep that to myself. I need to take it easy on the guy; his wife did just leave him a few months back. Just one of the many perks of our job: romantic relationships rarely make it.
“Yeah? Well you need to start dressing like the job you want, instead of the one you have.” He makes a face. “Wait. You actually do need to start dressing for the damn job you have. I’m sick of having to convince officers at my crime scenes that you’re not some teenager.” He looks over my baggy jean jacket and even baggier jeans. The frumpy, untucked T-shirt I’ve had since college.
“My choice of style really can’t bother you,” I say. But in truth, I know it does. Quinn is a neat freak. And what’s more, he’s all about order. On the job and off.
“Lack of style, you mean. Just saying, Bonds.” He shrugs. “You’re never going to get the Bureau to look your way dressing like some rookie.”
