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“Ready as ever. One last time,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
Ella flipped through the crime scene reports in the back of the car. Mia sat beside her, staring out the window, unusually silent. It was only a one-hour journey to the crime scene so they’d opted for a taxi. They’d borrow a vehicle from the local PD when they arrived.
The details burned in front of her, toying with her, luring her to make the connections. However, Ella’s mind was on her partner’s recent revelation. She had questions but she didn’t want to probe too much. How would Ella even cope without Ripley in the field? She’d solved a couple of cases on her own, but they hadn’t been without their hardships. If memory served her correctly, she was pretty sure she consulted Ripley on both anyway.
Ella broke the silence. “Why the sudden decision?”
Ripley continued staring out the window at the passing city. They were just early enough to miss the morning rush hour, but in this city, every hour of every day was rush hour.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past week. Stuck in that hospital bed. I hated it when I was there, but the way it made me feel when Edis asked me to come out here… suddenly I want nothing more than to sit in bed and watch crap television.”
Fair point, Ella thought, but this wasn’t the Ripley she knew. Something was wrong with her. Something was clouding her perception.
“So, retirement?” Ella asked.
“Yup. Far away from crime and death and tragedy and serial killers. I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel that… passion. I feel like I’ve lost my life to these people. The other day I was young and energetic and wanted the world and everything in it. Now I feel like the old guy at the party. The veteran who’s overstayed their welcome. The one they wheel out for a greatest hits show.”
“Like KISS,” Ella said, trying to lighten things up. She’d never seen this side of Ripley before and something about it disturbed her. Had this version, this Ripley 2.0, been living inside her partner this whole time?
“Exactly like KISS,” Ripley said. She took out her phone and showed Ella a photo. It was a young baby with plump cheeks, smiling at a rattle in his hand.
“That’s a cute baby. Who is he?”
“This is my grandson. He’s three months old and I’ve never met him.”
“How come?”
“Whenever my son has been in D.C., I haven’t been.”
Ella looked between the photo and her partner, catching sight of a small tear in her eye. She dug her fingernails to make sure this wasn’t some bizarre hallucination, because this woman, this hardened warrior who only last night shot six men in the head was now cooing over baby photos. Maybe that was the trigger. Last night’s mass slaughter was the most traumatizing ordeal of Ella’s life, and she was positive that she hadn’t fully registered it all yet. Maybe Ripley had, and this was her reaction – a lust for a life less bloody.
“I’m sorry to hear that. When this is over, I think you should go squeeze those cheeks of his.”
“You’re not going to miss me?” Ripley asked.
“Absolutely I am. I’m going to be screwed without you, but if I had grandkids – or even just kids – I wouldn’t put myself in harm’s way every single week.”
Ripley reached over and took the file out of Ella’s lap. The director had only given them one to share, annoyingly. “You’ll be alright without me. The future of the Bureau is in good hands with people like you and Byford and your new protégée.
“Don’t worry about us. The show goes on. It’s not too late to go back to D.C. if you want.”
“No, the director needs us on this. We’re public servants at the end of the day. If people are in danger, it’s our duty to help them. Plus, I need to see what you’ve learned. It feels like I haven’t seen you profile anyone in months.” She leafed through the casefile and landed at the crime scene photos of the most recent victim.
“Talk me through this. What are you seeing here?”
“A clear copycat of the Black Dahlia murder. Elizabeth Short, an aspiring young actor, found dead in a disused lot in 1947. Severed at the waist. The perpetrator was never caught. For some reason, maybe because of Short’s status, the murder became one of the most notorious in history.”
“What makes you think is anything to do with the Black Dahlia? Just the bisection?”
“The victim looks about the same age and she has a similar haircut. Hard to find that kind of bouffant curls in today’s world.”
Ripley looked a little closer. “My hair would be like that if I didn’t tie it back. It looks like that when I untie it, actually.”
“So that means he posed her,” Ella said. “He specifically targeted this woman then mimicked the Black Dahlia scene as closely as he could.”
“Victimology is specific to him then. What about M.O.?”
