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The classy heels were on classy red booties in some sort of textured pattern that matched a skinny and useless belt on a suit in what—for some reason—they called winter-white.
Mira’s soft sable hair curved in a smooth bob today that showed off little earrings where a tiny pearl dripped from a red stone.
How did anybody think clearly enough in the morning to coordinate that exactly—and not look like a fashion droid, but accessibly human?
“Thanks for stopping,” Eve began.
“The price is some of that coffee. I was going to tap you for tea, but then I smelled your coffee.”
Mira set aside her coat, her purse—white with a surprisingly bold red center stripe—and stepped to Eve’s board.
“I saw the media reports, and read your report. Still no discernible connection among the victims except being on the skating rink?”
“None, and only a few people knew the third victim would be there, and even that’s vague on timing.”
“Killers of this type often choose randomly. The who doesn’t matter. It’s the kill itself, the panic it causes. A public place, from a distance— Thank you,” Mira added as Eve passed her the coffee. “The three are diverse. Two men, one girl. The two men straddle two gene
rations in age. One was alone, one part of a couple. It isn’t a particular type of target, which again leans random.”
“The first and third would have been dead instantly, or close enough. First, in the spine, nearly severing it. Third head shot. But the second, mid-body, and he was conscious for at least a minute or two, bleeding out. One and three didn’t know what hit them. Two did.”
“I see. And that leads you to suspect the second victim was target specific.”
“That, and the fact the shooter had to be set up for this in advance—and the third victim’s presence wasn’t set in stone. The first victim . . . it’s just long odds seeing her as target specific. Unless we go back to pure random. The red outfit, the skill on the ice.”
“All right.” Mira leaned a hip against Eve’s desk. “You already know he’s organized, skilled, a planner, which means controlled, at least situationally. To add to that, the purely random LDSK has a grudge against society or a political agenda, an anger at a kind of place—a military base, a school, a church. The goal would be to kill or injure as many as possible, to cause panic and alarm, and often to die as a martyr for the cause that drives him.”
“‘As many as possible.’ These strikes took serious skill, and he only takes three? I keep coming back to that,” Eve said. “So I’m low on the anger or grudge against the place when he stopped at three. In about twelve seconds—that’s all it took. And yeah, suicide by cop or self-termination after the damage is done. But not this guy, at least not yet.”
“He may not be finished with that agenda or grudge.”
“Yeah.” Eve blew out a breath. “Yeah, I keep coming back to that, too.”
“I agree with your leanings toward a more specific target, or targets, due to the low body count.” Studying death as Eve did, Mira sipped her coffee. “And now with the strike on the second victim not being instantly fatal as were the others? If he meant the second victim to suffer, that adds more weight.”
“It could just be the nature of the strike, given the distance, the movement, but it sticks out for me.”
“If the victim was specific, the killer chose this public arena, killed others to cover the specificity, and chose a difficult kill. We both know there are much more direct and simple ways to end a life, but the method is part of the purpose and pathology. He’s not just skilled but the skill is part of his self-worth, his ego.”
“There you go,” Eve murmured, adding that to the picture she needed to build in her head.
“I would say causing panic, causing the media fury was certainly part of the motive. Also, the distance—not just the skill involved, but the actual distance—adds dispassion. A target, not a human being. As a military sniper must think, or a professional assassin.”
“I haven’t eliminated a pro, but it’s low on my list. And if it’s a pro: Who hired him and why? It goes right back to: Why these three? And for my gut: Why Michaelson?”
“He was a doctor?”
“Yeah, a, you know, woman doctor deal. Checking the works, delivering babies, and like that.”
“All right. You might check on mortality. A patient who didn’t survive treatment, or a woman who died in childbirth, a baby who didn’t survive. It’s extremely rare, but it happens, particularly in emergency situations. Or if the patient went against medical advice.”
“Cross that with someone connected to her—spouse, lover, brother, father.” Eve nodded, adding to the picture. “Or, rare but not impossible, we’re dealing with a female shooter. If we draw those lines, this could be it. Why kill again—except . . .”
“It went so very well, didn’t it?”
Eve looked back at her board. “Yeah, really good day. We’re heading to Michaelson’s office now. Maybe we’ll hit something. Otherwise.”
“You expect another strike.”
