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“Hands not recovered.” Monck.
The scribbling expanded as we both pulled data from our files.
Height. Weight. Eye color. Hair color. Ancestry. Hometowns. Occupations. Accommodations in Provo. Restaurants or businesses visited, as documented by credit card bills or witness accounts. Last-knownsightings. Times of disappearance. Body locations. State of decomp. Patterns of dismemberment.
No matter how much minutiae we recorded, other than Polly’s, nothing emerged to link any two victims. Except for the grim combo of murder and mutilation.
“Time to think about the perp,” I said. “His MO. His motive.”
“Let it fly.”
That triggered an idea.
“All the victims arrived by air. Maybe the killer stalks the airport. Maybe that’s his hunting ground. Maybe he has access to the terminal. To the tarmac. To flight manifests.”
Monck began a catalog to the right of the vertical line.
“Wait.” I sat forward. “We’re both saying ‘he.’ But we don’t know that.”
Monck pivoted, brows dipping low.
“Who says the killer can’t be a woman?” I asked.
“Females use guns,” he said slowly.
“And have skills with cutlery.”
“Okay. Let’s unpack that. Why would a chick shoot a guy, then lop off his hand?”
“It’s symbolic? Maybe she suffered trauma at the hands of a man? No pun intended.”
“Daddy?”
“Or her hubby, her ex, her pimp.”
“So she hates men?”
“Yes. But maybe she doesn’t want her victims to suffer. She’s driven to kill but does it humanely—a quick bullet to the chest—then removes the hand as cleanly and painlessly as possible.”
“Why keep the hands?” As usual, Monck sounded dubious.
“We don’t know that’s the case.”
A mechanical finger circled impatiently. “We’re speculating now.”
“Maybe it’s part of the psychosis. Part of the fantasy that must play out.”
“Uh-huh.”
I swept my gaze across the row of young faces topping the board. Had the same reaction as when Musgrove first showed me the photos.
“All three vics were extraordinarily good-looking,” I said. “Maybe she was—”
“Agreed. They were hot. But I’m not feeling a female vibe. Let’s go back to thinking the perp is male.”
I lifted a palm, indicating he should continue.
“Maybe the guy’s not a looker. He’s the sad little loser who never gets the girl. Maybe he sees himself as a victim, perpetually eclipsed by more attractive dudes.”
