“So there’s a signature?” I try to blot the anticipation from my voice, but Jesus, it’s hard. “Are we talking ritual now?”
“Officially? Too soon to say. But if you’re asking my professional opinion,” Posner goes on, “we’ve got a whole new heap of crazy on our hands. And if you don’t mind, I need to get this shit over with because I have ten minutes. No longer. And I’ll eat my own socks if the FBI haven’t snatched this one off us by noon.”
I sit back, my arms folded, a grin tugging my lips up on one side. I nudge Leo as I go, but she won’t look at me. She has good reason for this. Is it wrong to enjoy it, regardless?
“We don’t want to keep you,” I tell Posner, gesturing to my bleary-eyed editors. “So go ahead. We’re all ears.”
The detective takes another thick swig of water before pulling a crumpled sheet of notes from his pocket. He unfolds them with the kind of ceremony you get before a football match. “Body found at 2:32 a.m. in a motel near 35th. It had been there a couple hours, we’re thinking—room hadn’t been cleaned before the new occupants got the keys. No ID on the victim as yet. White female, mid-teens, dark hair, slight build. Same presentation as before—naked. She was…” He trails off, swallowing. Discomfort dries him out. “Exposed. Her legs were spread. Early examination suggests similar mutilation to the first victim. Suggestion of choking around the throat; suggestion of restraint on her wrists and ankles. Signature this time was Darling, but obviously, it’s a little early for me to confirm whether or not her own blood was used. Cause of death…again, unconfirmed, but injuries suggest strangulation again. Copycat is always a possibility, but I doubt it.”
“You any closer to finding him?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Forensics already got the place sealed up. We’ll know in a couple hours if he left anything behind. I mean, last time, out in public like that…we had no chance. This time, we got a closed environment. Motel staff are being interviewed as we speak, and maybe we’ll get an e-fit. I’m hopeful. We’ll see.”
Translation: they’ve got fuck all. Music to my ears—career-wise, you understand. If they don’t catch this bastard, he’ll have a third victim in a week or two. Three’s the magic number; three, and we can call him a serial killer, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but real life is sorely lacking in ritualistic serial killers. Hands up—who’s bored of terrorists?
Camden, one of my NN24 channel editors, clears his throat. He has newborn twins at home and judging by the craters beneath his eyes, has been up all night changing diapers. This is entirely his own fault for assuming the world wants, and needs, his spawn. “What kind of lead time do we have on this?” he asks through a yawn.
Posner cocks his head. “Press conference isn’t until noon, but there were crews at the scene when I left. Not that we’ll give them jack shit.”
At least one of those crews was mine, of course. Always best to cover your bases.
I fix my eyes on Posner. “How long before you can ID the girl?”
“Depends on what we find at the crime scene. Initial sweep didn’t find a purse, clothes, anything. The perp paid cash for the room; none of the staff saw her. We’ll cross-check with missing persons reports, and we can use dental records, but…” He sighs. “Little poppet like that isn’t gonna be in our DNA database. Best case scenario is that her parents report her missing in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Assuming she has parents,” I add.
“Kinda hope she doesn’t, for their sakes.” Posner swipes a fat blueberry muffin from the dish at the center of the table, and hauls himself up. “Well. I’ll be seeing you all. Mr Lore?” He holds a bony hand out for me to shake.