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Rick talks them through his evening. Working on an essay in his room. Went to bed about eleven.
“Did anyone see you?” Noah asks.
Apparently not.
* * *
They wrap up the interview. Rick leaves. Cara and Noah watch him as he pushes the double doors open, stepping out into the crisp January afternoon.
Cara glances at Noah. He’s deep in thought, then he runs his hand across his hair.
“Not our guy, is he?” he says.
“He’s short but he’s strong. He could have easily done it. But stolen a car, driven an hour out of town, murdered them like that? What would be the motive?” Cara screws up her face. “We’ve taken his samples—who knows what forensics might show. But no. I don’t think it was him.”
“So we’re saying it’s a random?” Deakin asks. They turn and walk back up the stairs to the office.
Cara doesn’t answer his question. She knows what he’s thinking. The majority of murders are committed by someone close to the victim. An attack in a pique of rage, obvious motives. Easy to find. Something like this, out of nowhere—it’s tricky.
They open the door to the incident room. There’s nothing for it, but good solid police work. CCTV. Forensics. Door-to-door. The boring stuff. Following up on witness statements until something pops out.
She glances at the clock on the wall: it’s four already. She knows she won’t be home for dinner.
Because below the clock are new photos, taken that morning from the crime scene. Shenton has obviously received them from the lab, and they demand her attention. She tears her eyes away from the dead women, the disembodied heads, to the rest of the car.
The bloodied back seats, handprints across the doors, smears on the roof. She frowns. Deakin catches her expression.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“It’s just …” She taps one finger on the crime scene photo. “Everything about this scene screams frenzied attack. The stabbing. The blood. Up close and personal.”
“Yes. And?”
“But the location—in the middle of nowhere—and the removal of their heads.” She looks at Noah. “That seems planned. He’d have needed tools, the right sort of knives. And why decapitate them, Deaks? When would we expect to see that normally?”
“For easy disposal of the body?”
“Right. But there’s none of that here.”
“Perhaps he changed his mind?” They stand side by side, facing the board. Their postures mirror each other’s: arms crossed, identical frowns.
“Rape gone wrong?” Noah suggests. “They did something to piss him off, he lost control?”
“Escalated pretty badly, then,” Cara mutters. “This was overkill.”
Cara doesn’t want to add her last thought. Deakin knows what will be going through her head, but to say it out loud feels like tempting fate.
If this guy lost control, she thinks grimly, it won’t be just once. There’s a high chance he’ll do it again. And soon.
CHAPTER
6
WHEN JESS WAKES, the room is darker. She feels muddled, struggling to get a grip on how much time has passed.
She looks to the chair by her side. Nav is slumped, his head at an uncomfortable angle, dark hair falling over his face, fast asleep. He’s obviously been away and come back: a bag is by his feet, his coat draped over the chair.
Even with Nav here she feels sick and alone. She thinks about Patrick, about how they argued last night. About how they left things, without even a goodnight kiss.
