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“So what are our preliminary findings?” he asked.
For a second I thought he was talking to me, but Gabriel cut in, “This murder is slightly different from the rest. More aggressive. More… public. And he left a note shoved in the victim’s throat.”
“Are we sure it’s the same killer?” DCI Wood asked. “With the different MO—”
“The MO is the same,” I interrupted. “The signature is different.”
Damn it. I was doing that American thing.
The chief glanced at me. “Is that so?”
“Well, um, perhaps…” I blustered.Ah, fuck it.“The MO is the method used to commit the crime. In this case, cutting a young woman’s throat with a knife is the MO. It’s how he’s killed all his victims. The signature is what he did later to satisfy his emotional needs. Mutilating her body postmortem—that’s his signature. But this time he left a note. His signature has been modified.”
“I see.” He nodded slowly. “And what does a different signature indicate?”
It was a sensible question, but his tone clearly implied he thought I was full of shit.
“Serial killers modify their signatures constantly,” I said. “They evolve and change after each murder. A different signature isn’t unusual, but it suggests that his emotional needs may have changed.”
He looked at Gabriel. “What are your thoughts, Detective?”
Gabriel shrugged. “I agree with her assessment so far.”
The crime scene technicians were wrapping the body’s hands with paper bags, and someone had rolled over a stretcher.
How long would it take to clean all this up? Would tomorrow’s bankers stroll past the large stain on the cobblestones, not knowing why it was there?
As DCI Wood walked away, I nodded at the crowds. “How are Londoners handling the crimes?”
Gabriel frowned. “A mixture of fear and rage. They think it’s a form of terrorism.”
Irritation sparked. “It clearly isn’t.”
“For now, Wood is keeping the media in the dark, so they’re creating their own narrative. Foreigners did it. That’s the story.”
I exhaled slowly. If Wood allowed this to continue, people could get hurt.
Gabriel stared at the body. Under his breath, I heard him say, “Thesavage man is never quite eradicated.”
Surprised, I turned to him. “Thoreau. He’s from my home town.”
He seemed to study me for a minute, as if his curiosity had been piqued. “Where are you staying? I can walk you to the hotel.”
“No need. I’m only five or ten minutes away—the hotel connected to Liverpool Street Station. And I don’t imagine our killer will be striking again within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Gabriel,” I assured him. “I’m an FBI agent. I can take care of myself.”
