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“You noted that he let them bleed out instead of saying he stabbed them to death. That’s actually important to the profile. Now tell me your opinion.”
“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Logan. Don’t show me things you’re not supposed to, and stop telling me things you shouldn’t.”
She eyes me, scowling a little.
“Right now, there’s not a lot they’d do to me if they found out I was sharing details with my girl. I’m a badass. Just read it and give me your thoughts.”
A smile spreads over her lips for some reason, but she tucks her hair behind her ear and ducks her head before she begins reading over the files.
“That excites you?” I muse, remembering she said this stuff makes her stomach churn.
“You called me your girl,” she says quietly.
My grin spreads as I lean over, brushing a kiss over her bare shoulder since she’s wearing a camisole.
“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”
She clears her throat, and I lean back, enjoying the hell out of the way she blushes.
Her face turns serious as she studies the file, taking in the details, and reading over it pretty damn quickly.
“At first glance, it looks like overkill because of all the stab wounds. But they’re all shallow and not lethal on their own. He most likely does it while he rapes them, pushing the tip of the blade in just enough to draw blood. They get deeper as he goes, because it’s part of the high he gets. Rape is usually about power.”
“It’s almost always about power,” I amend. “Contrary to popular belief, there are very few sexual assault cases that have anything to do with sexual desires.”
She nods absently, but I notice a distant look in her eyes. “He’s a sadist. Relative to the case, he’s most likely unable to orgasm without the life threatening pain he inflicts. Impotence was probably a factor in his psychotic break. Maybe he stumbled upon this feeling of euphoria by mistake, and he’s escalated now to actually killing women. He gets high on the power, and gets off on the pain.”
She blows out a breath as her hands tremble, and I start to apologize. She really can’t handle seeing this shit, and it was stupid of me to even involve a civilian who hasn’t been desensitized to the point of seeing them as dead bodies and facts instead of people and merciless assaults.
But she speaks before I can.
“He’d be unnoticeable to the world. Probably a blue-collared worker who doesn’t draw any outward attention. He’d likely be unsocial, given the struggle he’s had with impotence. It would have left him withdrawn because he’d have felt like he was lacking, emasculated even. Now he enjoys the shadows where he’s dwelled because it allows him
to hunt without being noticed.”
Damn, she’s good.
She flips another page. “In the beginning, there was a lot of rage—again, that stems from the impotence. Now there’s a controlled method to his psychosis. He’ll develop an immortal complex where he feels as though he’s untouchable. I’d say a white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty. He’s right handed, and he has the ability to blend in with the unremarkable. Possibly in the custodial field.”
My eyebrows pinch together.
“You were dead on until the custodial field. We guessed someone in law enforcement or security, due to the fact he has been able to gain access to homes with no effort, and the cameras to the apartment buildings have been disabled each time.”
She shakes her head. “He may have an understanding of security measures, but most custodial workers do. They come in after hours, spend long amounts of time talking with night shift guards or behind the scenes issues that no one else sees.”
I narrow my eyes at her, studying her features as she looks up to meet my gaze.
“What makes you so sure you’re right?”
She smirks before sliding a page in front of me. “How he cleaned up after himself. He shined the murder rooms up.”
“Forensic countermeasure,” I point out. “Most seasoned killers always clean up after themselves.”
She nods. “I said how he cleaned up after himself. He didn’t just clean. The room was spotless, and each surface was cleaned with an appropriate cleaner.”
She points to a line. “Window cleaner for windows. No streaks left behind either, whereas it’s noted the rest of the windows were dingy.” She points to another line. “Hardwood floors were cleaned with hardwood cleaner. No streaks.” She points to another line. “The tables were all shined with wood-safe cleanser. No streaks…”
As my head wraps around the facts I should have already caught, she goes on.
