“Stating something that’s probably obvious, he has both an apartment or house and a car. He would need the car to pick up the prostitutes and drop off their bodies, and the victims were found in wide-ranging areas. Both Monique and Krista were embalmed outside their homes, which means he did it somewhere he felt safe. This also indicates he’s living alone.”
“Or he has a workshop,” Tatum said.
Zoe nodded. “That’s definitely a possibility as well. The killer was strong enough to drag the embalmed bodies of Krista Barker and Monique Silva to the locations where he posed them,” she continued. “So I’d say we’re looking for a strong man, but his appearance won’t be very intimidating.”
“Why?”
“Because both Monique and Krista agreed to ride with him,” Zoe said. “Crystal told us Krista had refused to go with another man who seemed suspicious. She was more careful than most working girls. If it was someone intimidating, she would have talked to her pimp first and made sure he was watching her back, or she would have told him no. This also leads me to believe that he drives a nice-looking car or at least a well-maintained one.”
“You don’t think it was the guy Crystal described? The one with the tattoos?” Martinez asked.
“I really doubt it. If it was someone that suspicious looking, people would have noticed. I read in the case report that you had several generic descriptions of Monique Silva’s last client. If it was someone like that, you’d get a very detailed description. And again, I doubt she’d enter willingly into his car.”
“Okay, that’s reasonable.”
“Now . . . the first victim was an art student. He attacked her in her home and then stayed there to embalm her. But the second and third victims were prostitutes. He probably paid them to come with him and then killed them in a safe place.”
“Maybe he killed them on the street or in an alley,” Martinez said.
“Then why tie them up?” Tatum asked. “They were still alive when he tied them, and it would be difficult to do that in the street. He could easily get them to come with him.”
Martinez nodded reluctantly.
“The second and third victims are classic targets for serial killers,” Zoe said. “High-risk occupations and vulnerable. But what about Susan Warner, the art student? And if he already targeted her, why stay at her place? Wasn’t he worried that a roommate or a boyfriend would show up?”
“He knew they wouldn’t,” Tatum said. “He knew her.”
Zoe nodded, feeling an inkling of appreciation she was careful not to display.
“Now, the thing that motivates a sexual serial killer to strike is a fantasy. At a certain point, the fantasy becomes too much, and he has to fulfill it. But reality never quite manages to live up to the fantasy, so he wants to try again. Do it better next time. Our killer was acquainted somehow with Susan Warner and probably fantasized about her murder. He knew she lived alone and was vulnerable. And then one night he struck. But things didn’t go as expected. The embalming didn’t work out so well, and he wanted to do it again, to do it better.”
“But he didn’t know any single women except for her,” Tatum said.
“That’s right.” Zoe nodded. “That’s why he began to target prostitutes.”
Tatum didn’t look bored anymore. His eyes had a spark that Zoe knew well—the spark of a predator catching the scent of his prey.
“Okay,” Martinez said, scanning his notebook page. “So let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Why is he embalming them?”
“He’s not only embalming them,” Zoe said. “He’s posing them and dressing them. The first body had an evening dress on with one of the sleeves torn. I’m guessing it tore when he dressed her because her arms were rigid and hard to maneuver. Krista Barker was wearing clothing that her friend said didn’t belong to her. She had a ring on her finger that wasn’t hers.”
“Okay,” Martinez said. “Why?”
“It could be some sort of power fantasy,” Zoe said slowly, feeling the doubt gnawing at her. “Playing with these dead women like dolls.” It didn’t feel right. Why embalm them? He had sex with the bodies after killing the women. There was clearly a necrophilia angle on this case. But after embalming them, she doubted he could repeat it. That meant a loss of power. It didn’t fit. “But I don’t think so. I don’t know why he’s embalming them. Not yet.”
“Right,” Martinez said. “Anything else?”
Zoe said, “I’d look for reports about stray animals found embalmed and discarded in the streets. Even considering the mistakes in Susan Warner’s embalming, it was a decent job for his first attempt. I’m willing to bet the killer did some practicing.”
CHAPTER 19
He slowed down when he spotted her on the corner. She stood with a group of others, but he hardly gave them a second glance. They were crass, boring, ugly. Unremarkable in every conceivable way.
But she was something else. Her entire being radiated an innocence rarely seen in her profession. The way she looked around, her eyes half-searching, half-terrified of what she might find. Her clothing was more modest, showed less skin, leaving everything to the imagination. And his imagination went wild.
This was the one. He could feel it in his bones. This was a woman who made him feel alive again, who would fill every day with excitement and joy.
This time, it would be different.
When his car stopped near them, one of the prostitutes immediately jumped forward, grinning, bending down, giving him a view of her cleavage. She wore no bra, and she wiggled a bit, grinning at him. But behind the grin, her eyes were tired. The moves were mechanical, calculated, something she had done hundreds of times before. He opened the passenger’s window.
“Looking for some fun?” she asked, and he could almost hear how vacant her soul was in her tone. “You look like you’re in a hurry. Twenty dollars for a quick blow job? Or are you looking for something else?”
He ignored her, turning his eyes to the innocent one. It was probably her first day on the street. He’d save her before she even began.
“What about you?” he said. “Want to join me for a ride?”
She turned to face him, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Me? Uh . . . I mean . . . you want me to come with you? Wouldn’t you rather just go upstairs with me?” she gestured at the motel behind her, its glass-paned door dirty with grime and worse. “I have a room. I just got it—I moved there just a few days ago. It’s really nice.”
He knew it. She didn’t belong here. He smiled at her warmly. “I prefer my own bed,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Wariness. She might be new, but she wasn’t as innocent as he had thought. She knew to take care of herself.
“Do you live far?” she asked.
“Twenty-minute drive from here,” he said. It was more like thirty. She took a small step back. He was losing her. But unlike her, he knew this game well, and he had a trick up his sleeve.
“But, uh, I have a special request,” he said.
“Oh?” she said, taking another step back. “What sort of request?”
“Would you mind if we buy you some clothes? I want to dress you like my ex-girlfriend. It’s kind of weird, I know, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to. But it would mean a lot to me, and you can keep the clothes afterward.” He smiled apologetically. He could see her relax. That was the thing with these girls—living on the streets, they learned to listen to warning signs. They could see something was off about him, even if they didn’t know what. All he had to do was tell them they were right, he was a bit strange, but wearing another woman’s outfits . . . that wasn’t dangerous.
“Okay,” she said. “But it’ll cost you extra.”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“Two hundred fifty,” she said. “It’s a long ride, and I’ll need some money for the cab back to the motel.”
He nodded. “You got it.”
She leaned forward, opened the passenger’s door, and climbed inside. The car filled with her perfume, an innocent, sweet fragrance, something a schoolgirl would wear.
He was in love.