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I roll my eyes. “Can we chill on the clichés for today?”
But his eyes nail me with a serious, insightful glare. “The quicker you apply, the faster I get you and your analytic bullshit out of my department. And I know you want to. Who goes into your field and doesn’t want the FBI? So what’s the hold-up?”
And…here we go again. A slight pressure builds between my eyes. I press the tips of my fingers against the ache. “I’d miss this too much. It’s so gratifying working with detectives who not only put my work into question, but my wardrobe, too.” I mock smile. “Now. Get off the FBI trip,” I tell him. And he really should, because I’ve been over it for a while.
“All right,” he says. “Just remember, you’re already twenty-six, and you’re not getting any younger.”
Thanks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Moistening my lips, I shift forward and move this convo back on topic. “Medieval torture,” I say, and he tilts his head. “I’m not saying it is…but you asked. They used to insert needles, sometimes heated, under the nail beds. Sometimes it was punishment for sloppy needlework, other times a way to extract information from the person. An admittance to a crime. And sometimes it was just to be cruel.”
His tongue pokes at his cheek as he considers this. “Guess I’ll go brush up on my medieval history.” He goes to stand, but pauses. “You’re thinking the boyfriend has a history of violence. That this isn’t his first victim.”
“You don’t want to hear what I think.” Averting my gaze, I look down at my paperwork. “It’s all just conjecture, anyway, until I get some facts. Like whether she was sexually assaulted.”
“Humor me,” he says.
Huffing, I glance up at him. We’ve done this so many times before. “I’m thinking that this is premeditated murder. The work of a sadist. And I’m thinking that the boyfriend might be innocent. At least, of this.”
“You haven’t even seen this guy.” Quinn grits his teeth, immediately wincing. And I roll my eyes. “Pure scum. He’s been in and out of the system since nineteen. And I can say with almost certainty that he probably has a juvi record, too.”
“That might be,” I say, standing to see him out. I’m weary and want to get back to my own work so I can get out of here. “But your UNSUB probably wouldn’t have a record. He’d be too careful, leery of leaving a trail. The crime scene stated caution. Regardless of how practiced the scene looked, it might have been his first acted out fantasy. He probably would’ve been planning it for months, maybe even years.”
“The same woman?”
I shake my head. “No. His victim probably wasn’t chosen randomly, but he’s had her role in mind for a long time.”
“Let me guess,” Quinn says, making his way to the door. “He matches a certain profile.”
Internally groaning, I say, “Yes. The perpetrator’s actions highly suggest a distinct profile. Though there may be some slight variations, as there are always variables that differ from person to person—”
“Killer,” he corrects.
“—he’d still be inline with the profile.” I nod toward the door. “If the boyfriend snapped and decided to play out his fantasy with the girlfriend, there’s always that. But I really believe the perpetrator was calm, collected though aroused, while he took his time torturing the victim.”
Quinn nods before leaving. He plays the tough, grumpy cop well, but there’s a good guy buried under that stiff exterior who wants to catch all the bad guys. And he’ll probably never admit to needing my advice, but I wouldn’t still be in this department if he didn’t.
That, right there, says more than he’ll ever voice.
“And go see a damn dentist,” I tell him as I usher him out of my office. “You’re driving me crazy worrying that tooth.”
He grunts. “No time for a root canal.”
“Right. Big baby.”
He waves me off as he leaves, and I shake my head. He’s seen more pain and suffering than the average person, been up against some of the most vicious criminals, and the dentist scares the man.
I walk back to my desk and open the crime scene file. Standing over it, I stare down at the quickly processed photos. I roll my shoulders, then release the hairband holding back my tightly bound, dark layers.
Studying the photo of the victim’s hands, I run my fingers through my tangled tresses and massage my scalp. I imagine the killer snatching the victim’s hair, dragging her over the bed, threatening her until she removed her robe and underwear.
His hands shaking—adrenaline pumping—as he searched her wardrobe until he found the dress he first saw her in. The one that drew his attention to her; the fantasy he’d been visualizing, rehearsing over and over, that didn’t have a face until that moment.
Something about that dress drew him in—it’s his selection process, why he chose her, and possibly even a clue to his past victims. As practiced as the scene was, this might’ve been his first kill—but there’s likely a trail of crimes he’s left in his wake. And if this was his first, any mistakes he made he’ll quickly correct. He’ll become even more difficult to catch.
I jot down a list of most notable aspects of the crime scene to run through ViCAP—the choice of the victim’s home for the attack and the dress could link this to other unsolved cases.
I sigh, knowing that I’m already building a profile that won’t align with the boyfriend. I don’t even have to sit in on the questioning. This wasn’t a crime of passion, or a revenge killing. This was too calculated. Planned. Carefully executed. A fantasy realized.
Clearing my dry throat, I flip through the photos, imprinting them in my mind. Seeking anything that stands out. I reach into my pocket and take out my packet of gum. I stopped smoking a few years back, but the gum habit stuck. I crave the idea of smoking. Having something to do while I’m working, looking through crime scene images. It always helped me not get pulled in too closely—a smoky barrier between the killer and me—while I delved into his world.
