AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Jerry Renaldi?” Officer Smith offers helpfully.
Quinn snaps his fingers. “Yeah. That guy.”
“Someone’s about to get a thorough ass-reaming,” I whisper to Carson, trying to diffuse the tension. And I might be gloating a tiny bit that some of that has deflected to the arrogant detective. I won’t lie; having Quinn’s focus away from me for the time being is exactly what I’m counting on with this diversion. Still, Carson doesn’t deserve to get thrashed this harshly for his ignorance.
“What the hell?” Carson says. “What is his deal? Every serial killer ever has had some kind of moniker before they were apprehended.”
“John Wayne Gacy didn’t,” I say, picking up the evidence kit and starting toward the high reeds. Carson follows.
“Uh, the Killer Clown—?”
“Nope,” I interrupt. “That didn’t stick.”
“Fine. Serial killers at large for a good amount of time typically get nicknames. Anyone ever tell you it’s annoying to be so…right all the time?” Carson motions toward the grass, directing me. Despite my annoyance with him, I smile. Quinn never lets me forget it. Really, I don’t mind if Carson needs to vent a little after he was just chastised by his superior. “There. See the matted down grass?”
Although I’m loath to admit it, Carson is right. Someone purposely tracked a pattern into the grass. As I bend to touch one of the blood-coated reeds, I discover it’s still fresh. The stem was broken recently. Logically, during the same time as the body dump.
I take out a Heme-Stix from Quinn’s kit and run the swab along a blade of grass, then break the end of the stick as I drop the swab into the clear tube. I crack both ends of the tube and watch the liquid mix and cover the brown tip. It turns blue. Positive for blood.
A very daring move. Either the UNSUB is so devoted to his work, to his delusion, that the risk outweighs the fear of being caught, or he’s someone of authority who doesn’t worry about his actions being questioned.
“Let me see that pic, Carson.” I look up at him.
“Damn. Quinn took my phone.” He shoves his hands into his slacks’ pockets, coming off like a pouting child rather than a skilled detective. I have
n’t spent much time with him, haven’t looked into his past, but I’m probably not too far off with the assumption that he was raised in a distant home. No siblings. Parents preoccupied with their own life and jobs. Where he had to go to extremes to gain their attention.
His overzealous nature might come across as cocky and abrasive, but I’m starting to see he’s merely looking for approval. Like from Quinn, who he was trying desperately to impress. Almost makes me feel sorry for the guy. Almost.
“It’s fine,” I say, standing and lifting up onto my toes to get a better areal view of the design. “You’re probably right, anyway. It looks like a very basic design of the Bathory coat of arms. Three horizontal dragon talons, but it was usually depicted in a more simplistic style with horizontal triangles representing the talons.” I glance over to see him fighting a smile. “In the middle ages, not everyone had the means or talent to create accurate artwork. Nice work, Carson.”
My praise brings out his full, hundred-watt smile.
When you can figure someone out, you can usually coax the response you want from them. Not that I take advantage…usually. But right now, I need Carson on my side, and I need him to be wary of this case.
“So it is the same killer,” Carson says, rocking on his feet. “He’s putting a calling card on this place, letting us know this kill is linked to the others. Why Bathory?”
“Why not?” I take out my phone to snap my own pics of the area. “She was methodical and dedicated. Powerful in a time when women held little power. Devoting a lifetime to torturing and killing takes its toll even on the most devout serial killers. Most need a cooling off period. If there was ever a killer to emulate, one for the sadistic to praise, she’s an ideal choice.”
As I continue to maneuver around the grass, taking pictures from different angles, a long lapse of silence builds between Carson and me. I lower my phone and look at him. “What?”
He ticks his head to the side in a half shrug. “You sound like you’re praising her rather than profiling a killer, Agent Bonds. I understand that you’re a Bathory expert, but…”
“But what? I shouldn’t offer her my respect?” I slip my phone into my pocket and walk toward him. “Let me give you a little advice, detective. I know you’re experienced, I know you’ve put the hours in. You’ve got a real handle on despising the enemy.” His features shift into a confused expression as I go on. “But don’t try so hard to put up a barrier between yourself and the damned. Understanding that we are all capable of some measure of sin is what keeps our guard up. Separating yourself from your enemy with such clear precision comes across as fear. And fear leads to the dark side.”
He shakes his head. “Did you just quote Star Wars to me?”
I offer him a smile. “George Lucas is a freaking genius.” Then I start back toward the crime scene, saying, “But seriously. Every killer you hunt deserves some of your regard. Psycho analysis and great sci-fi aside, there’s a fine line between hate and fear. Sometimes the lure to become the thing we fear—just to alleviate that fear—is too great a temptation.”
Words of wisdom once given to me by my mentor. And though I’ve kept that advice close to me through the years, it didn’t save me in the end. My monster just shouted louder.
As we approach the scene, Quinn is hollering into his phone, giving the lead reporter at the local news station a royal ass-chewing.
“And to answer your question from before,” I say to Carson. “We don’t want to give serial killers nicknames because it fuels them on. Yes, the UNSUB is vain, and the media egging him on, when he’s already demonstrated he doesn’t need an audience to go on a killing spree, only suggests that he’ll become bolder.”
Carson groans. “Quinn’s going to put me on desk duty, isn’t he?”
I shrug. “Maybe for the rest of the day. But he gets over things pretty quickly.”
