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“I thought I was your best friend,” he continues with a pout that makes Louise laugh.
“You’re my only friend, stupid. At least until now.”
“Kids these days. Always wanting what’s new.” He sighs as Louise walks away, chuckling.
“You’re not that much older than me,” I say, rolling my eyes as he shows me into the room. I thought it would be an interview room, but when I look around, I realize it’s one of the spaces the cops use to work in. There are a bunch of tables running along three of the four walls. Each table has a computer and a chair.
The table-free wall has a large dry-erase whiteboard, which doubles as a viewing screen, judging from the projector sitting in front of it. The board is covered in writing. There are no photos and no red strings linking everything together like you see in the movies. It’s just a bunch of bullet points and a whole lot of information. It’s not quite the murder board I envisioned.
I walk over to it anyway, feeling Nathan come up behind me.
“Victim number four: Abigail Martin. Sixty-three years old. Broke her neck falling down the stairs.”
I turn to look at Nathan. “How did they know she was one of the killer’s victims?”
“By that point, any reported death of a person who was once a patient or employee of Briarwood House was immediately investigated, even if it didn’t scream foul play. Her death was assumed an accident until the tox screen came back and they found traces of Sono-d in her system.”
He tips the board so it flips, revealing a wall of photos. I can’t help but snort.
“What?”
“I was wondering why your murder board doesn’t have photos.”
“It’s not my board; it’s yours. And if I had to guess, I’d say there were too many photos to put them up with the rest of the information.”
That’s a sobering thought.
I frown at the writing. “Are you sure I wrote that? It doesn’t look like my writing.”
“And you’d recognize your writing?”
“Good point,” I mumble, staring at another name.
Victim number five: Marvin Harris. Forty-four. Gunshot wounds.
“Wounds? I’m sure it said wound in the article I read. Was it wrong?”
“No. Mr. Harris died from a gunshot wound to the head, but he was also shot twice in the groin.”
In the groin? “Wait, someone shot his dick?”
He huffs out a laugh, pulling out a chair for me to sit in before taking a seat himself. “Yes, he had three gunshot wounds. Two were to the dick and testicles.”
I whistle. “Doesn’t that change things a little?”
“How so?”
“Acts of violence to that general area are usually investigated as?—”
“Sexual assault, cases” he cuts me off, shaking his head. “There was no sexual interference in any of the victims, though. Except for Harris here, none of the others’ genitals were harmed in any way.”
“It just doesn’t fit. Combined that with another vision I had, and I think it’s safe to say we missed something.”
“What do you mean, another vision? Why didn’t you call me?”
“It isn’t a new one, Nathan. There’s nobody to save. I couldn’t even tell you which of these victims it was,” I tell him, staring at the female victims. Most serial killers have a type, a preference, if you like, yet these victims were all different ages, races, and sexes—something that threw off the criminal profilers. The only connection between them is their link to Briarwood House.
“What happened in the vision?”
