Sadie

Blood calls to me.

There’s a story in every drop. A song in the spray pattern. A flickering movie reel projecting images in slow motion—life—as it oozes its last drip. If you look beyond the violence, past the gruesome, a kind of poetry unfolds. Its rhyme and rhythm is what reaches out to me, and its what I use to find you.

“Bonds.” The gruff voice gains my attention, breaking my connection to the killer. I look up from the bloody crime scene to see Detective Quinn. He nods toward a shuttered bank of windows. “Might have a print.”

Unlikely, but I step around the dead woman and blood-soaked carpet, my clompy sneakers wrapped in shoe covers, to meet him. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m putting myself in the scene, and he knows it. “You do your job, Quinn, and let me do mine,” I say, nodding back toward the victim. “Why else did you call me here?”

His dark eyebrows furrow, weathered eyes crease at their corners, hinting to the many years he’s spent investigating scenes just like this. “I didn’t.” Turning toward the shades, he places a yellow marker next to a smudge. “An hour ago, I told Wexler this was a domestic. The boyfriend called it in and then did a disappearing act. But Boss Man insisted I bring you in. Cover all the bases.” Looking at me, he frowns. “So here you are. Just thought steering you in the right direction would help speed this up. But do your thing, psycho analyst, so that I can get on with making my case.”

I catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from lashing out a snide retort, and instead give him a tight smile. Stuffing my hands into my jean jacket pockets, I turn and stare at the scene once again. I stopped taking offense to how the detectives—the real case solvers—view behavioral analysts. Or profilers, though that term is likely to garner even more mockery. It doesn’t bother me because, as much as Quinn has given me a hard time over the years, he depends on my insight. And he knows it.

Just won’t ever admit to it. Not in front of his uniforms.

And because I can easily sum up his hesitancy and anger to macho male aggression and being the product of a single parent who put too much pressure on him…I give him some slack. There are other factors, too, in why he’s such a dick, but his profile is actually pretty boring.

Right. Boring. Nothing like the passionate scene here displayed in red and domination. Which has me seriously doubting Quinn’s judgment call on the boyfriend.

I take a couple of deep breaths, then move through the bedroom, letting my gaze roam and snag on the details. I try to block out the unis marking evidence and snapping pictures. Push everyone and everything out of the room except the victim and her attacker.

Blood is pooled around the vic’s head and torso. The fatal wound a deep laceration to her throat. Inadvertently, my hand goes to my own chest, my fingers applying a slight pressure to my collarbone.

She’s been positioned on her stomach. Dress ruched up past her hips. Ankles bound together with rope, knees spread, placing her in a prime, demeaning position for the offender. One can only assume she was raped until the M.E. examines her fully, but everything about the way the perpetrator posed her indicates that this was a sex crime.

No gun. At least, the perpetrator didn’t use one to end her life. No bullet holes or neighbors complaining about noise. But the uniforms haven’t completely canvassed the apartment complex yet. Murder weapon could be from her own kitchen. Although, with how meticulously staged this scene is, I doubt it. I’m almost certain he brought his own rape kit. Still, we need to discover if anything’s missing or out of place.

No discernable stab wounds. No angry, sloppy slashes or strikes signifying she knew the offender personally. And no castoff bloodstains from the weapon indicates he killed her slowly, precisely. He wasn’t enraged; he took his time.

And he knew how to kill. Her carotid is perfectly severed. The arterial spray reached the ceiling—and no transfer stains, no castoff, suggests he wasn’t surprised by the amount of blood. Rather, I presume he enjoyed it, and he worked to get this desired effect.

The torture he inflicted—battered face and body; hours of restraint; burns to the thighs—signifies measured and controlled. Intended to heighten her suffering, not kill her quickly.

The possibility of this being a revenge-motivated kill decreases by the second.

She’s wearing an evening gown. Black. Elegant. Yet no makeup. The perpetrator could’ve interrupted her while she was getting ready for a Friday night out, but being a woman myself, I have to make an assumption on this one. Makeup first, then hair. Dress last. And her hair, though having been handled roughly during the attack, doesn’t look like it was styled recently.

No jewelry, either.

I walk toward the open closet and peer inside. Then back around the room. No shoes have been removed. No heels kicked off anywhere. She wasn’t planning a night out. I head toward the corner of her room where a robe has been discarded. After slipping on gloves, I adjust my holstered SIG and kneel down to lift the seam of the garment. A T-shirt and underwear lay beneath.

My eyes flick back to the closet, and I note the gap in the row, where clothes hangers have been pushed aside.

Standing, I shake my head. What method of coercion did the assailant use to force her into changing into a dress? What’s more, why?

“We got the boyfriend,” one of the uniforms announces. “They’re taking him to the station.”

Quinn nods to the cop and looks over at me. “I’m going in to question him. You want to watch?” He pushes his gray coat sleeves back as he starts to remove his gloves.

I look at the shuttered windows again, to where Quinn found his first clue. Maybe mine, too. “The perpetrator most likely did close the blinds. Although I seriously doubt you’ll find his print, he wanted some privacy. He needed enough time to play out his fantasy. And somehow, he knew he had that time.” Could’ve been opportunity, or he may have been stalking her, or maybe he did know her. I tilt my head, imagining myself laying in wait. Watching her. There were no signs of forced entry. “Find out about the boyfriend’s porn collection.”

Quinn scoffs. “Real original,” he mumbles. “Bondage, I assume?”

Exhaling heavily, I clarify, “Find out if he’s prone to voyeurism. If he likes to watch or be watched, Quinn.” I nod to the blinds. “There’s more to a killer’s porn than bondage.” I glare at him, keeping my own suspicions about his porn collection to myself.

As he wraps up his instructions with CSU, I move toward the vic. It’s not my job to put myself in her place; I’m here to identify with her killer. Get inside his head and break him down. That’s the only thing I can do to help her now.

I reach for her fisted hand tucked closely to her chin along the white carpet. It’s next to her lips, as if she’s stifling her last scream. Ligature marks wrap her wrist in red, puffy welts. But unlike her ankles, the binding device has been removed. Time of death was determined to be just a couple of hours ago. No rigor, and her skin is dry.

How many hours did he play? How long did he torture her? The dress, with all my speculations, doesn’t really point to a clear time of entry. I look over her exposed skin, studying the shades of bruising, trying to determine a better timeline based on the facts.

I uncurl her fingers.

Red stains their tips. My forehead scrunches as I move in closer. A flutter hits my chest, stealing my breath. Puncture wounds dot her fingertips just beneath her nails. One nail has been torn off, and the nail bed is ripped from an object being inserted.

Recognition smacks me hard and fast. But I push past the similarity, noting the high unlikeliness of a connection. During my training, I spent far too many years investigating my own obsessions.

I look up at Quinn as he’s leaving the room. “Better yet, Quinn,” I say, nodding to her hand. “Try to get a warrant for his computer to access all his porno while you’re at it.”

“That’s going to be a bitch to get,” he says on an exhale. “Unless you got something solid to tie this to the boyfriend.” Quinn adjusts his blue tie before running a hand through his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. “Defensive wounds?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No. Whoever our UNSUB is, he likes his torture techniques.”

I see it as soon as frustration crosses his face; this case just got a whole lot more complicated.

* * *

“I’m assuming the needle job on the vic’s nails wasn’t to treat smashed fingers,” Quinn says. He props his shoulder against the doorjamb of my small office, his leanly muscled arms defined well against his standard white button-up.

Shrugging, I say, “He could’ve first wounded her hands, then treated them. Maybe a nurse or even a doctor playing out a husband-wife fantasy.” I reconsider. “Could even be a doctor-patient fantasy.”

Quinn groans. “See, that’s why this shit will never be a science, Bonds. You just jump around, grabbing at randomness, hoping to nail down a perp.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Did you just say perp and make a pun on the nails?” I refuse to take his bait. When I first met Detective Quinn on assignment two years ago, it was my first high-profile case. We did this song and dance then; I know his opinion on criminal profiling. And I also know that it was the combined effort of both the Arlington County PD and the Virginia State General Investigation Section that brought in the offender.

This man is very territorial, though. He won’t acknowledge outside help, but at least he isn’t so stubborn that he down right refuses to take it.

Then there’s also the thing where he doesn’t trust my reasons for requesting a transfer to ACPD—not when I was in line to be promoted within the Fairfax field office to the BCI (Bureau of Criminal Investigations).

I see it in his eyes, even now; he thinks I fucked up somehow. That I was demoted and my blunder buried by bureaucratic bullshit. But I’m not so special that I’d warrant that kind of elite treatment. I have no friends in high enough places to pull something like that off. But from Quinn’s perspective, why else would a person in my field willingly stray from the path that leads to the FBI?

But those reasons border on my personal life…and they’re none of his damn business.

His hazel eyes narrow. “I saw your face when you noticed the fingers. You know something. Something that’s not head shrinking or total bullshit guesswork.” He steps into my office and sits down in the chair across from my piled-high desk. Loosening his cross-shoulder gun harness, he says, “Spit it out.”

“I’m offended you think your time is more valuable than mine.” Just because I’m used to the scorn of the department, doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. Sighing, I settle into my chair, deciding I’m too drained to battle this argument. Again.

One thing about Quinn: he keeps my guard up. I never have time to relax into my job. As if that would even be possible. But it’s now been seven months with the ACPD, and it’s like I just started yesterday.

“It might be going way out on a limb,” I begin. “And I’d rather wait to hear back from the M.E. first. See what object was used. Needle, syringe, nail, some other kind of tool.”

Pressing his lips together tightly, Quinn adopts an impatient countenance.

“You’re cranky, you know that?” I glare at him. “Maybe you need more fiber in your diet.” Or your ass needs to get laid. But I also keep that to myself. I need to take it easy on the guy; his wife did just leave him a few months back. Just one of the many perks of our job: romantic relationships rarely make it.

“Yeah? Well you need to start dressing like the job you want, instead of the one you have.” He makes a face. “Wait. You actually do need to start dressing for the damn job you have. I’m sick of having to convince officers at my crime scenes that you’re not some teenager.” He looks over my baggy jean jacket and even baggier jeans. The frumpy, untucked T-shirt I’ve had since college.

“My choice of style really can’t bother you,” I say. But in truth, I know it does. Quinn is a neat freak. And what’s more, he’s all about order. On the job and off.

“Lack of style, you mean. Just saying, Bonds.” He shrugs. “You’re never going to get the Bureau to look your way dressing like some rookie.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we chill on the clichés for today?”

But his eyes nail me with a serious, insightful glare. “The quicker you apply, the faster I get you and your analytic bullshit out of my department. And I know you want to. Who goes into your field and doesn’t want the FBI? So what’s the hold-up?”

And…here we go again. A slight pressure builds between my eyes. I press the tips of my fingers against the ache. “I’d miss this too much. It’s so gratifying working with detectives who not only put my work into question, but my wardrobe, too.” I mock smile. “Now. Get off the FBI trip,” I tell him. And he really should, because I’ve been over it for a while.

“All right,” he says. “Just remember, you’re already twenty-six, and you’re not getting any younger.”

Thanks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Moistening my lips, I shift forward and move this convo back on topic. “Medieval torture,” I say, and he tilts his head. “I’m not saying it is…but you asked. They used to insert needles, sometimes heated, under the nail beds. Sometimes it was punishment for sloppy needlework, other times a way to extract information from the person. An admittance to a crime. And sometimes it was just to be cruel.”

His tongue pokes at his cheek as he considers this. “Guess I’ll go brush up on my medieval history.” He goes to stand, but pauses. “You’re thinking the boyfriend has a history of violence. That this isn’t his first victim.”

“You don’t want to hear what I think.” Averting my gaze, I look down at my paperwork. “It’s all just conjecture, anyway, until I get some facts. Like whether she was sexually assaulted.”

“Humor me,” he says.

Huffing, I glance up at him. We’ve done this so many times before. “I’m thinking that this is premeditated murder. The work of a sadist. And I’m thinking that the boyfriend might be innocent. At least, of this.”

“You haven’t even seen this guy.” Quinn grits his teeth, immediately wincing. And I roll my eyes. “Pure scum. He’s been in and out of the system since nineteen. And I can say with almost certainty that he probably has a juvi record, too.”

“That might be,” I say, standing to see him out. I’m weary and want to get back to my own work so I can get out of here. “But your UNSUB probably wouldn’t have a record. He’d be too careful, leery of leaving a trail. The crime scene stated caution. Regardless of how practiced the scene looked, it might have been his first acted out fantasy. He probably would’ve been planning it for months, maybe even years.”

“The same woman?”

I shake my head. “No. His victim probably wasn’t chosen randomly, but he’s had her role in mind for a long time.”

“Let me guess,” Quinn says, making his way to the door. “He matches a certain profile.”

Internally groaning, I say, “Yes. The perpetrator’s actions highly suggest a distinct profile. Though there may be some slight variations, as there are always variables that differ from person to person—”

“Killer,” he corrects.

“—he’d still be inline with the profile.” I nod toward the door. “If the boyfriend snapped and decided to play out his fantasy with the girlfriend, there’s always that. But I really believe the perpetrator was calm, collected though aroused, while he took his time torturing the victim.”

Quinn nods before leaving. He plays the tough, grumpy cop well, but there’s a good guy buried under that stiff exterior who wants to catch all the bad guys. And he’ll probably never admit to needing my advice, but I wouldn’t still be in this department if he didn’t.

That, right there, says more than he’ll ever voice.

“And go see a damn dentist,” I tell him as I usher him out of my office. “You’re driving me crazy worrying that tooth.”

He grunts. “No time for a root canal.”

“Right. Big baby.”

He waves me off as he leaves, and I shake my head. He’s seen more pain and suffering than the average person, been up against some of the most vicious criminals, and the dentist scares the man.

I walk back to my desk and open the crime scene file. Standing over it, I stare down at the quickly processed photos. I roll my shoulders, then release the hairband holding back my tightly bound, dark layers.

Studying the photo of the victim’s hands, I run my fingers through my tangled tresses and massage my scalp. I imagine the killer snatching the victim’s hair, dragging her over the bed, threatening her until she removed her robe and underwear.

His hands shaking—adrenaline pumping—as he searched her wardrobe until he found the dress he first saw her in. The one that drew his attention to her; the fantasy he’d been visualizing, rehearsing over and over, that didn’t have a face until that moment.

Something about that dress drew him in—it’s his selection process, why he chose her, and possibly even a clue to his past victims. As practiced as the scene was, this might’ve been his first kill—but there’s likely a trail of crimes he’s left in his wake. And if this was his first, any mistakes he made he’ll quickly correct. He’ll become even more difficult to catch.

I jot down a list of most notable aspects of the crime scene to run through ViCAP—the choice of the victim’s home for the attack and the dress could link this to other unsolved cases.

I sigh, knowing that I’m already building a profile that won’t align with the boyfriend. I don’t even have to sit in on the questioning. This wasn’t a crime of passion, or a revenge killing. This was too calculated. Planned. Carefully executed. A fantasy realized.

Clearing my dry throat, I flip through the photos, imprinting them in my mind. Seeking anything that stands out. I reach into my pocket and take out my packet of gum. I stopped smoking a few years back, but the gum habit stuck. I crave the idea of smoking. Having something to do while I’m working, looking through crime scene images. It always helped me not get pulled in too closely—a smoky barrier between the killer and me—while I delved into his world.

Staring at the photo of the victim with her legs spread, ankles bound, I envision the perpetrator kneeling behind her—degrading her. This position humiliated her, and he was her god. Towering over her, he was all-powerful, and that power intoxicated him. But he didn’t allow the adrenaline rush to overtake him.

He was calm, methodical, in control. Only his victim’s suffering is what he desired. He’s nothing like the weak woman below him. The slut. The whore. She deserves to be stripped bare, her flesh on display for him. She gives it up so easily, why not take what she’s offering?

Before I’m completely consumed by his world, I quickly break away and put in a call to the M.E., asking to be updated as soon as possible on her findings. Then I sit and open a new grid worksheet, and start clicking away at the keys, filling in the fields. Quinn will use what little I can devise from the scene to question the boyfriend further, or he can run it through the shredder. Either wouldn’t surprise me.

The perpetrator is above average intelligence. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties. And like Quinn scoffed at, he probably has an extensive porn collection centering on bondage and demeaning women. The fact that the UNSUB knew he had time to commit his crime in her home, with no interruption, means he was most likely watching her for a while. It could also mean someone who knew her personally—like the boyfriend. But I build on the facts, not the suspect.

I grab the photo of the victim and hold it up, studying it once more. My vision flickers, and the room fades away, replaced by nearly bare white walls. My senses prickle. My skin heats. I can feel the rope tied around my ankles. The coarse threads rubbing against my skin. Smell his sweat; his excitement.

His fingers dig into flesh as he takes his hard-won prize…

My face flushes, and I drop the photo. Dammit. Envisioning this scene from the victim’s perspective is too dangerous. I know this. Shutting my computer off, I swear under my breath. It’s been too long since my last trip. Since I first glimpsed the victim, I knew this case would get to me. I need to go. Tonight.

Before I leave my office, I stand paused near the door, my gaze searching the bookcase in the corner. I march over and snatch a book on medieval serial killers from the shelf. Then I stuff it into my bag as I exit.

Quinn totally called me out. He knows me a little too well. There is more to this kind of specific torture the victim endured—the method the perpetrator used to damage her fingers. But my thoughts aren’t going to be voiced or recorded in that profile until I know more.

It could be a sick coincidence. Or maybe the perpetrator stumbled over the torture technique during his online searches. It might have intrigued him. Excited him. For a sadist, inserting needles under the nails is a vicious deed.

But it’s also very precise to the torture techniques favored by one of the most infamous serial killers of the millennia. A killer I’ve spent countless hours studying, analyzing, speculating. A woman who’s as loathed as she is fascinating.

The Blood Countess.

On my mission to understand, to compartmentalize, how a human can commit such acts of violence, I came across Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian Countess from the sixteenth century. I wanted to understand what kind of energy, hatred, fear was needed to torture and kill over two hundred young girls.

She became my rule, the bar by which I measure—she is the ultimate testament in human cruelty. What we are capable of, and by some degree, what I might even be capable of.

It’s just human nature and a touch of psychology, really. I once thought if I could unravel the mystery around her, I could understand what happened to me. Why it happened. And how someone could fall so far into the darkness they only existed to inflict another living being with their maliciousness.

Bathory is my ultimate intrigue as a profiler. Not only that, but as a victim myself.

The fact that our newest perpetrator emulated her technique is interesting—but that’s as far as I can allow my brain to process it. A strange, yet intriguing coincidence.

Besides, other than the fact that Quinn will laugh me out of the building for trying to link a current killer to the sixteenth century, I have more immediate needs to remedy.

Arlington is a fairly quiet city. Low crime rate. One of the reasons it was my top choice for transfer out of the field office that kept me moving and dissecting crime scenes across Virginia. Now, the carnage has followed me to my own backyard.

I haven’t had a case like this in a while…and I’m going to need my head clear and my conscience subdued in order to work it.