He didn’t release my arm. Instead, he glanced to see that the others were still walking away, then leaned in closer to me. “You saw something on the ground. What was it?”
I clenched my jaw and pulled my arm away from him. “I didn’t see anything. I was just making notes.”
His expression darkened. “Detective Gillian, we do not need to be withholding information from each other. If you saw something, you need to share it with me.”
And have you order a commitment hearing? Fat chance, darlin. “If I had information that would benefit you in the slightest, I promise I would be sure to pass it on.”
He made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat, then jammed his sunglasses on and stalked away. I watched him walk off. He’s going to put an eye out if he keeps this shit up, I thought, then followed after him and returned to my car.
I WAS FEELING ornery, so I took my time getting my notes together, deliberately making the others wait a few extra minutes. I was also dawdling because I’d begged and pleaded and wheedled and promised Saints tickets to Dr. Lanza, and he’d relented and told me that he would go ahead and perform the autopsy on the latest victim that afternoon.
“I’ll let you know the instant I find it, Kara,” he told me after I’d reminded him for the sixth time that I really needed to know where he finally found the symbol.
That he would find it I didn’t doubt. But I wanted that info quickly, to prove to the Feds and Harris that I had a fucking clue.
Now you just have to prove to them that you aren’t fucking crazy, I reminded myself, as I entered the room and plopped my notes onto the table. The others glanced up at me, then returned to their perusal of the photos spread before them. Each murder from both series had been separated into a section of the table, with the photos of the facial reconstructions or IDs at the top and the crime scene photos distributed below.
I cleared my throat, and they all looked back up at me with a variety of expressions: Kristoff frowning, Harris glowering, and Garner smiling.
“The, uh, old bodies were all too decomposed to make any sort of ID,” I began, gesturing to the pictures of the clay faces, “so the previous investigators had a forensic anthropologist work up some reconstructions, just to get a starting point.”
“Any luck?” Agent Garner asked.
“Four IDs were made, confirmed with DNA,” I said.
“Not bad.”
“I don’t know how much time y’all have had to read through the case files,” I said as I began to sort through my notes. “One thing I did want to point out is that the symbol is not always in an obvious location.” I resisted the urge to look pointedly at Harris.
Kristoff nodded, frown still on his rugged face. “The one where it’s on the tongue is particularly gruesome,” he said, as if he were describing an ice cream flavor.
“Yeah, and they’re also all premortem injuries,” I continued. “In fact, the injuries on each of these victims show that they were inflicted over a period of several days, sometimes up to a week.”
“All of the victims died of ligature strangulation?” Garner asked.
I shook my head. “The first eleven victims were killed in a variety of ways—stabbing, shooting, drowning, you name it. Victims twelve and thirteen from before the three-year break were strangled with a ligature, as were these last three. On the first two of these latest deaths, the pathologist said that there was indication that the ligature had been tightened and released several times, judging by the bruising pattern on the strap muscles. He’s performing the autopsy on this latest one today, and he said he’d call with his findings.”
Kristoff leaned back and crossed his arms. “Repeated strangulation. More torture.”
I nodded and sat down. “None of these victims died nicely or quickly. It’s as if he wanted them to be in as much agony as possible.”
“Or as much fear as possible,” he said quietly.
I looked at him. “Or both.” We locked eyes for a moment and then I broke first, pulling my gaze away and clearing my throat. “Anyway, the previous detective wasn’t able to find a link between the victims, other than the fact that they’re all the type who aren’t missed.” I grimaced. “But I’m not sure how hard he tried.”
“You haven’t found a link either,” Harris interjected, and I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a challenge.
“No,” I replied as evenly as I could. “But I’ve had the case for only two weeks.”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” he replied, and once again I wasn’t sure if he was being understanding or condescending.