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I hold up my phone so he can see the image.
“You’re fucking with me.” Driving a hand through his hair, he says, “A sword? Really? How the hell does a person walk around carrying a sword and not stand out in this city?”
Flipping the screen around, I study the sketch. “Not just any sword, a flamberg.”
“Which is significant how?”
“Its pique of popularity was during the middle ages. Around the same time of Bathory.” I shrug.
“Of course,” Quinn says.
“Only,” I say, squinting at the screen. “The proportions are off. I mean, I know Avery’s thorough in her work, but a flamberg is a huge sword. Heavy, tall…and like you said, would be exceedingly difficult to sneak around town and into a victim’s home without their notice. Unless he stashed it there. But Avery’s drawing depicts it as half the actual size. I’ve never seen this sword designed like this.”
Quinn walks my way, stopping a couple feet before me. “But you’ve seen it nonetheless.”
I look up. “Not in person. In drawings, and paintings. Internet images during research. It’s possible someone could’ve had one specially made—”
Quinn’s already ahead of me, though. He flips his phone out and is scrolling through webpages before I can finish my thought. “Three custom weaponry shops in downtown alone.” He glances at me. “We can start there.”
“All right.”
As I begin to pack up the supplies, I can’t shake the feeling that this new search will produce little, also. I know we have to follow each lead; that’s the job. But this is too simple for our UNSUB. Too…naïve. All this planning…all this meticulous staging…just to be caught by one thoughtless lapse?
I halt putting away the reagents, my hand clasping a bottle of luminol held aloft.
He wants us to find his message.
We didn’t discover it the first time, and that’s probably why he made the second one so obvious. So the inane detectives couldn’t miss it. Part of his demonstrated frustration at the second crime scene could’ve been his anger toward us not seeing his whole design.
But it’s the glaringly obvious omission that is bothering me the most. If this UNSUB is in fact copycatting Bathory, where’s the blood?
The infamous lady, the first documented woman serial killer, was made immortal by the blood she spilled. Countless legends have been created around her trail of gore; the vampire, for one. It’s her legacy. Her ultimate signature; stained in red.
While I’ve been lost in thought, my feet have tracked back to the master bedroom. I stand in the middle of the room, close my eyes. Unlike my first walkthrough, where I focused on the pool stain around the victim, I concentrate on what I can’t see.
The negative space.
I’m a creator. An artist. Every slice of my blade and singe of my flame purposeful in its placement. I leave nothing to fate; I control all elements. You see what I want you to see. And I’ve worked hard to design this stage for you.
Inhaling a deep, slow breath, I taste the air. The muted whoosh of sounds bleed into my ears. Feel the fibers of the dress…soft, tantalizing. It’s time.
I run my sword across her throat and hold her close as she gasps for air. I open my eyes to watch her fall to the floor and bleed out—but I’m far from through. Her silence is just one aspect; the kill.
The other game pieces need to be linked to complete the puzzle.
There is no other above me… I am her god, standing over her, judging her. This is my game board, and all others are my pawns as I stare down on them…
I look up.
There.
“Quinn!”
His footsteps echo from down the hallway. “What is it?” He peeks his head into the room. “We got to move if we’re going to hit all three shops before tonight.”
My face still tilted toward the ceiling, I say, “He knew what he was doing when he severed her carotid artery in this exact spot. He wanted the spray to dust the ceiling. Not splash it…just a hint in the right direction.”
“CSU covered it. It’s in the report.”
