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It’s such a simple, logical but ultimately brilliant finding.
My only misgiving is accepting that the UNSUB would make such an obvious oversight.
But everyone—no matter how well they plan—makes a mistake eventually.
The computer analyst confirmed that it was the last entry made on her computer. That coupled with the call she made to Quinn shortly after, requesting his help with building a physical profile of the UNSUB with a simulation, gives us a close approximation of the abduction time.
At 10:35 PM, Avery’s file was deleted from her computer.
Quinn has the task force techs trying to recover surveillance footage of the M.E. lab from that night. Our mission: to investigate if the missing lab tech knows about the discovery of the epithelial cells.
“Avery had to create a sample when she found the skin cells,” I say, anxiousness clawing at me.
Quinn adjusts his stance, his growing impatience as evident as mine. “If she had, why wouldn’t she run it through CODIS?”
“Maybe she didn’t have time.” Or maybe she did run it through the database and got a hit on someone within the department. It’s possible that’s why she called Quinn to meet her the next day, feeling unable or unsafe to mention her findings over the phone.
I run my hand over my face, as if I can physically organize my wandering thoughts into a straight timeline. I’m making leaps without facts; we need this tech to have the answers.
I angle my phone away from Quinn and toggle to the GPS app. Colton and Carson are on the move away from The Lair. Knowing that Special Agent Proctor and his team infiltrated the club, I’m relieved. I send Colton a quick update, then close the screen.
“How do you know Proctor?” I ask.
Rolling his shoulders, Quinn works out his neck. “I don’t. Not really. But he’s stepped on my toes before on a couple of cases in the past.” He raises his hand to knock, then changes his mind and rings the doorbell. “You surprised me back there.”
“How?”
“I figured you’d be all about the FBI coming in. Isn’t Quantico like, the profiler mother planet?”
I bite down on my lip. “With my past cases—” I avoid his eyes “—I don’t want the FBI looking too closely.” And there it is. The reason why I never applied to the FBI. Now Quinn’s question—the one he’s wondered since I first transferred to the ACPD—has been answered.
He gives me a sideways look, his gaze probing. But he doesn’t push. It’s safer to leave things unsaid until we reach that point of no return.
It will come soon enough.
Quinn checks the handle and it turns. He glances at me. “It’s open.”
I have the sudden impulse to remark on Quinn disregarding his own by-the-book protocol, but I resist the urge. If the lab tech who lives here has the information we need to help Avery, I will back him one-hundred-percent on breaking all the rules.
I follow Quinn inside the foyer. The so
und of loud voices comes from the direction of the living room, and Quinn places his hand on his piece inside his coat.
“Carmen,” he shouts. “It’s Detective Quinn with the ACPD.” He nods to the hallway as he continues toward the living room. “I’m here to ask you some questions. Are you home?”
I check the short hall, nodding once to let him know it’s clear.
“We need your help in a matter involving—” He breaks off at the sight of the woman sprawled on the floor. “Sadie, radio in a bus.”
The amount of red soaking the gray carpet around her head gives me pause, just for a second, before I unclip my radio. I fumble with the hem of my shirt, using it to grab the remote on a table and mute the TV, then radio for an ambulance.
“Be careful of the blood pool,” I say as Quinn kneels beside her. He reaches into his pocket and yanks out a glove, using it as a barrier between himself and the blood coating her neck.
“I got a pulse. But it’s weak. She’s unresponsive.” He stands and looks over the scene. “Jesus.”
I get closer to inspect. The laceration on her neck is severe, but the carotid was missed. On purpose? The UNSUB wouldn’t make this mistake, unless he wanted her to bleed out slowly. Only…why? It doesn’t work for me.
As Quinn locates a hand towel from the kitchen to staunch the bleeding, I calm my racing heart enough to examine the scene: her pants are unzipped and pushed down around her calves, but her underwear is in place. Not torn or stretched. Her chest is bare, and her wrists are bound with rope and pulled up over her head. But her skin is clear of marks. No contusions or cuts. No burns. No wax. Other than her arms being bound during the attack, there’s no evidence that she was tortured beforehand.
