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It takes all shapes and sizes, can strike at any moment. Most of the time, we’re not ready. I’m not ready now. But the eye of the storm is hovering, taunting. A false calm luring me into believing we’re close, and that once we connect this last, final piece, we’ll find our killer.
Only I’ve been in the center of a great storm before. I know the lie it feeds you right before the sky tears, and you’re swallowed.
There’s always more to come.
“CSU is waiting for us to make the first sweep,” Quinn says as he pulls the car along a sidewalk. “The unis have already secured the scene, and Wexler said to take only my best in.” He glances over at me as he removes the keys. “You ready?”
I should appreciate the compliment. He considers me one of his best. We’re going into the third crime scene and God only knows what the UNSUB has left for us this time. But my mind is still churning the discovery from moments ago. I’m mentally grasping for that wisp as it floats just out of reach, trying to latch on before I’m plunged under the monsoon.
“Ready,” I say, beckoning fortitude as I push open the door. I glance at the sky, noting again the looming darkness. “Let’s get in before the rain catches us.”
A crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, phones snapping pics, people craning their necks to get a glimpse around uniforms barring the entrance to the apartment building.
This means the UNSUB—who’s just graduated to serial killer status—is now making the news. I’m sure Quinn hoped we could keep this under wraps, at least for the next week. But once the press gets a whiff of a serial killer case, it’s game over. Someone made a buck leaking it to a reporter, and now we’re looking at constant press interference throughout the rest of the investigation.
We push through the throng, and Quinn gives his officers a couple of directions before a small group of us head toward the unit marked off with yellow crime scene tape.
“You need to suit up,” one of the uniforms says, and I look over at him. He’s covered head-to-toe in a white Tyvek coverall. The kind CSU wears—the kind we have to wear when the scene requires it.
Quinn and I are quick as we pull on the suits, and once we finally make our way into the apartment, I’ve adopted a numbness from practiced behavior over the years. I’m prepared…and then I’m not.
“Mother of God,” Quinn whispers. And I can just picture him crossing his chest like he’s saying a prayer, though I have no idea if he’s Catholic. He doesn’t actually do this, of course, but the action is so fitting for what we’re seeing that I wish he would. Someone needs to say a prayer.
The metallic taste hits my senses first. A bitter aftertaste that resonates in the back of my throat. The air crackles with a suffocating, dark energy.
Red paints the walls. Impact splatters. Cast-off stains. High velocity, low velocity. I could spend a week alone analyzing every drop and spray pattern. My eyes take in each spine and satellite stemming from the larger bloodstains. From the arterial spray—the UNSUB’s one signature slash across the neck—to the blunt force splatters that indicate how badly the victim was beaten before the real torture even began.
My mind drifts, and I’m sixteen. Standing in front of a mirror at the hospital. Examining the spray pattern that sheets my skin. Studying the different shades of red. Darker burgundies contrasting against my light skin; lighter pinks flecked across my cheeks. I could not love nor hate the blood; it became a part of me that day.
“Bonds.” Quinn’s voice reaches into the dark recesses of my mind, and I’m again at the crime scene, uniforms capturing the scene in pristine condition before it’s torn apart to uncover the story.
My gaze is steadily locked on the body. Quinn is already there; his first priority.
I carefully maneuver through the room, trying to disturb as little as possible, my plastic suit whispering in the still air, as I sidestep broken picture frames and blood pools, until I’m by his side and staring up at the suspended corpse.
The body has been hung from the ceiling by three lengths of rope. One band circles her shoulders, the next around her upper thighs, the third across her chest. And all I can think is: this is a new pose.
When Avery arrives and begins her examination, I won’t need to inquire. I won’t need to ask about what was done to her. My eyes snag and hold exactly what Quinn is staring at. What he’s trying so hard not to turn away from.
“This countess,” he says, obvious revulsion in his voice. “Was she known for this?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
“Hell,” he breathes out.
And there’s no better descriptor to capture this scene. Hell. This is hell.
I’ve never worked a case that involved mutilated genitalia. And I don’t want to ask Quinn if he has. Past experience won’t matter, regardless. The MO of the sadist who could go to this extreme would be a very different profile than the one I’ve already compiled for this case. He’s a copycat. Torture is his signature. And it’s not even his own.
We remain quiet as we inspect her battered and disfigured private parts. Besides the numerous contusions and cuts, and seared flesh covering her body, the mutilation of her lower region makes her nearly unidentifiable as a woman. Right now, I’m thankful for the blood that obscures most of her injuries.
“Back here,” someone shouts from the side bedroom.
Without words, Quinn and I both head toward the master bathroom that has garnered new attention.
“No one drain that tub,” Quinn instructs. “I want it skimmed out first. Look for anything hidden beneath the surface and around the vic.”
Bathed in blood. Poetic. The second victim is something right out of a Bathory legend. A fictional work that depicts the Countess as a creature of the night who exsanguinates women to bathe in their blood.
