My gaze dropped to the photos of the dead women again, and for a moment, I could hear each and every one of their frantic cries ringing in my ears, screaming, begging, pleading for their captor to release them. Promising to do whatever he wanted if only he would let them live. If only he would let them go home to their families. A cold shiver crawled down my spine. I shook my head, but I couldn’t get rid of those dark, wailing echoes.
“But why even take them in the first place if he doesn’t actually do anything to them?” I asked. “If he just wanted to kill women, he could do that easily enough. Snatch them off the street, drag them into some dark alley, beat them, and leave their bodies behind. Not keep them prisoner for days on end.”
Ryan raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know why he chooses these women, what they represent to him. My theory is that they remind him of someone close to him, someone he maybe even loved once upon a time. Whatever happened to that woman, and if he killed her too, well, that’s anyone’s guess. But I think that he’s trying to replace this person in his life. And when the women don’t measure up to his standards or don’t act the way he wants them to, that’s when he flies into a rage and kills them.” He hesitated again. “I think that he paints their lips last, right before he starts beating them. Then, of course, the strangulation is the final death act.”
“Why do you think that he paints their lips last?” I asked.
He grimaced. “Because I’ve found traces of lipstick on all of the women, especially in and around the wounds on their faces. Like it transferred from their lips to the fists of the man beating them and back again first thing, before he did anything else to them, before he strangled them.”
That made sense, but there was another question that I needed to ask. “Are you sure that it’s a man?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes. Most serial killers are men, and the size and the pattern of the strangulation marks around the women’s necks also indicate a man. A very strong man, judging from the fractured bones in the victims’ faces.”
“So you think that it’s most likely a giant or a dwarf,” I said, picking up on his train of thought.
“I do. Or perhaps even a vampire who drinks giant or dwarven blood on a regular basis. Whatever else he is, this man is exceptionally strong.”
My gaze moved from one woman’s photo to the next, their faces all cold, still, and frozen in death. Not just strong but smart too—a dangerous, devious kind of smart that had let him kidnap and murder a dozen women, maybe more, without getting caught.
I turned to Bria. “How long have you known about this?”
“About six months,” she answered.
“And why didn’t you tell me about it before now?”
“Because you’ve got enough on your plate dealing with the underworld and everything else. You didn’t need to be worried about a serial killer too.” Bria crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a pointed look. “Besides, I know you, Gin. You would somehow think that it was your fault that this guy was kidnapping and killing women.”
“Isn’t it my fault?” I growled. “He’s doing it in my city. What’s the point of being the big boss if I can’t stop horrible things like this from happening?”
She shook her head. “No, it is not your fault. You are not personally responsible for all the crime in Ashland, especially not something this terrible.”
I knew that she was right, that people made their own choices, including whether to hurt other people, but anger and frustration filled me all the same. Maybe if I had known sooner, I could have done something to help Bria, Xavier, and Ryan catch this guy. Maybe I could have put the word out on the street about this killer. Maybe I could have offered a reward for information. I glanced at the photos again. Maybe I could have saved some of these poor dead girls.
“I’ve worked several of these cases, but Ryan was the one who first noticed the similarities between the victims, especially the makeup,” Bria said. “He started going back through his files and compiling a list of similar cases. Xavier’s been helping too, and this is what the three of us have come up with so far.”
“A jackpot of evil,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” Bria said. “That about sums it up.”
“So if you know that there’s a serial killer on the loose in Ashland, then why are all of these cases down here in storage?”
Bria and Ryan shared a grim look.
“Our superiors aren’t as convinced,” she said. “They think that the cases are unrelated. Or rather, they don’t want them to be related. They think that Ashland has enough crime and corruption without adding a serial killer to the mix.”
Well, that was certainly true. For as violent as Ashland was, there was usually a method to the madness. Somebody had something that someone else wanted, so they took it by force. Or somebody screwed someone else over in some other way, and the wronged party came back for revenge. Not to mention all the territorial disputes between gangs, criminals jacking their rivals’ shipments of guns and drugs and money, and desperate folks knocking over convenience stores for petty cash. And of course there were the old traditional standbys: people hurting each other because of money, love, jealousy, or all three.
But a serial killer, someone whose dark motives and even darker desires were known only to him, who could strike at any time and in any place without any rhyme, reason, or warning . . . That was truly frightening, even in Ashland.
“And of course the higher-ups are worried about the media attention,” Bria continued. “They can just see the headlines. Dollmaker strikes again. Dollmaker claims another victim. Dollmaker still on the loose.”
“Dollmaker?” I asked.
She shrugged. “We had to call him something. But his name doesn’t really matter, just the headlines he could generate. At least, that’s what our bosses think. They want to avoid the bad press at all costs, along with the resulting panic it would create.”
I snorted. “You mean the esteemed members of the po-po just want to cover their own asses because they haven’t been able to catch this guy yet.”
Bria nodded. “Yeah. That too.”
The three of us fell silent, although my gaze locked onto that plastic bag full of compacts, eye shadow, and mascara again. Out of all the things you could do to someone, why put makeup on them? And why paint every woman’s lips the exact same shade of red? Why not pink or purple or even black? Why not just use the woman’s favorite lipstick from her own purse?
Ryan was right. How these women looked—the young pretty faces, the long blond hair, the makeup—it all had to mean something to the killer. But what? Maybe it was all tied to some woman he’d once loved, like Ryan thought. Maybe he was Dr. Frankenstein trying to create—or recreate—his own perfect mate. Or maybe it was something else entirely. No way to know for sure.
Until I caught the bastard.