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Faith met his eyes. “You don’t go around telling peoplemysecrets, do you?”
He returned her gaze with another smile. “Of course not. Those are all mine.”
***
Faith listened to the police sergeant explain that there still was no sign of Dr. West. His home, of course, was abandoned when the police burst through the front door the week prior. His car was missing, but nearly everything else was left behind.
And what was left behind was a horror house. Pictures littered every available surface—pictures of his victims before, during and after their murders. Odd possessions were strewn everywhere—a blanket here, a purse there, a shoe, a bracelet, an earring—a keepsake from every one of his victims.
As Faith took a mental inventory of everything found, she realized there was one more thing missing.
His tools.
Dr. Franklin West, the copycat killer, emulated the MO of a previous killer, Jethro Trammell, known as the Donkey Killer, liked to tie people to chairs in the middle of abandoned buildings and torture them by cutting them and occasionally severing ligaments and tendons before finally allowing them to bleed out. Thanks to Faith’s own experiences with Trammell, she knew that he also liked to taunt his victims.
Let’s see how you bleed, little girl.
She shook the memory off and asked, “Any luck with the fingerprints?”
“Nothing,” the sergeant—a predictably gruff, well-muscled man in his early forties—replied with thinly veiled frustration. “No DNA either. His house is a mess, but absolutely none of that mess can be traced back to him.
Faith nodded. “Keep trying.”
She left the police station, Turk at her side. The big German Shepherd, normally ebullient and energetic, a puppy despite being over eight years old, was deadly serious now. He had suffered his own tragedy at Trammell’s hands, and in his own way was just as troubled as Faith was by the existence of a Copycat Killer.
Dr. West, was, if anything, even more cruel than Trammell. His victims were left worse off than Trammell's, and there was sign of significant psychological torture on several of the victims as well.
Faith knew what that felt like.
She managed to keep her frustration at bay until she got behind the wheel of her old Crown Victoria. Then she slammed her fist against the dash and swore.
She hit the dash again, and Turk barked and pressed his head to hers. She held him, stroking his fur and allowing his presence to calm her.
Dr. West.
Dr. Franklin West.
Dr. Franklin Goddamned Motherfucking West.
She lifted her fist again but this time managed to restrain herself, so she lightly tapped the dash instead of hitting it. She left it there and stared out the window, her lips pressed tightly together.
How could she not have known? She had been seeing him for months. She had spent hours in his office talking to him about her hopes, fears and dreams—everything. She had told him in detail about her relationship with Michael, her relationship with David, her trauma at Trammell’s hands, the fear and bitterness that had followed her ever since. She had told him everything about the Copycat Killer, everything she knew, everything the FBI knew.
And the entire time, he had been the killer—smiling, sympathizing, laughing with her.
“Goddammit,” she whispered.
She put the car in gear and started for home. She was coming to the end of a one-week leave, and she was strongly considering asking the Boss to extend it. She was supposed to be relaxing and allowing herself to recover from the shock of learning that her Bureau-assigned therapist was not only not assigned by the Bureau but wasn’t even a therapist.
Oh, and the little part about him murdering thirty people. There was that too.
She wasn’t relaxing, though. She had spent the past week doing exactly what she wasn't supposed to do: investigating the Copycat Killer case.
The Boss, in his infinite wisdom, had decided after Gordon’s death to not only pull Faith from the case but pull the entire Philadelphia Field Office from the case. It now belonged to the New York field office, who, although predictably unhappy about having to pick up Philly’s slack, would never allow Faith to take so much as a glance at the file.
The worst part was that the Boss was right. Objectively, the Copycat Killer had fooled all of them so badly that the only thing to do was give it to someone else and hope that they had more success.
But Faith couldn't do that. She needed this one. He had followed in the footsteps of the man who had nearly killed her and Turk. He had made her look like a fool for months. He had murdered one of Faith’s friends and mentors.
