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CHAPTER 16
For the next hour, I study the pictures Simon pins to the wall alongside the city map. His drawings of Perrete and the alley are discomforting, but I’d seen the reality.
The sketches he made from his visit to Madame Emeline’s are much harder to take. He covered her breasts and lower parts with cloths—or at least depicted them covered, but I suspect if those areas had contained clues, he would not have done so. His talent for rendering such gruesome images on paper is also somewhat disturbing. Despite the ache from my bruises, I hug my arms over my middle as he points out the injuries and mutilations he cataloged in his examination.
“Seven stab wounds in her lower abdomen.” Simon taps each one in the picture with an ink-stained finger. Like the blood on the wall, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen that pattern, but that it’s somehow off. I must be remembering what I saw that night, except that rather than finger marks making it messier, the damage has been cleaned.
“Cuts on the insides of two fingers,” Simon continues, his voice as emotionless as if he were listing geography facts. “She grabbed at her stomach when he began stabbing her, and oneor more strikes went between. The wounds match up, making it probable he used a blade with two edges, like a dagger, rather than, say, a carving knife. Damage to her eye sockets also supports that.”
The porridge Mistress la Fontaine insisted I eat at breakfast surges upward. I swallow it back down with effort.
Juliane’s pen flies across the paper, recording his words. He pauses to let her catch up, though I suspect it’s not necessary. “Scraped fingertips and torn nails from grabbing at the wall,” he says, and I make a fist against the phantom throbbing in my own. “Once she stopped struggling, he dragged her over here and laid her down.” Simon points to a sketch of the alley from above, resembling an architectural drawing. “As Cat pointed out, that was so she was lying in moonlight, where he could see.”
My thrill from his acknowledgment is short lived.
“He smashed her face next. Whatever he used was heavy and likely awkward to carry around, so it may have been lying nearby. A stone, perhaps, or a brick.”
Or a hammer. But Simon has no reason to suspect one was there.
“But nothing left behind could have done that,” Simon continues. “Which means he took it with him.”
A sweat breaks out on my forehead that has as much to do with my revulsion as with my fear of what that may mean for Magister Thomas.
Simon crosses his arms, still facing the drawing. “The removal of her eyes was messy, but he’ll learn.”
“Are you saying he’ll get better at it?” I ask.
He nods. “His methods will improve every time.”
What a thing to become skilled at, like it was a profession:apprentice, journeyman, tradesman, master. Was this the work of a mere beginner?
Simon rubs his chin, leaving a purple smudge of ink. “These wounds on her stomach appear chaotic, maybe due to her resistance, but it’s also evidence of his limited experience. He’s right-handed though. You can tell from the angles and the wound in her neck which hand was holding the knife.”
“You keep saying ‘he,’” says Juliane. “Could it not have been a woman who did this?”
Simon shakes his head, his focus on some point beyond the wall in front of him. “No, this was a man.”
“You don’t think women are capable of violence?” I ask.
He turns to look at me. “Capable? Yes. But this kind of violence, this type of rage…” Simon shakes his head again. “It’s masculine. I can’t explain it other than to say it feels like…”
“Revenge,” I finish. “Against a woman. I remember you said that.”
“Yes.” From his troubled expression, Simon’s mind is back in the alley.
“But not necessarily against Perrete.”
Simon purses his lips thoughtfully, making the blue-violet stain on his jaw more visible. “He might have a general feeling that women judge him, but it likely stems from one in particular. The first.”
I grit my teeth. “Are you blaming this on a woman for rejecting him?”
“No.” Simon’s attention comes flying back to me, his answer absolute. “He may use twisted logic to justify murder, and there may be a woman who deliberately exercises some sort of perverted power over him, but the killer’s actions are his own. Driven by madness, perhaps, but always his own.”
Somewhat mollified, I ask, “But if it’s madness, doesn’t that make himlessresponsible for his actions?”
“There are several types of insanity.” Simon pauses, glancing at Juliane. “You needn’t write any of this down,” he tells her. She continues nonetheless, her face blank, almost as if she’s rendering what she hears without understanding, like a mockingbird.
Simon gestures to the gruesome drawings. “The killer knows when and how he must hide. He knows what he’s doing is wrong but doesn’t care. In fact, he revels in the fear he creates.”
