Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian 1)

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.

I decided not to take issue with it. The rest of the meeting was uneventful and, to my relief, actually worthwhile. The agents had the potential to be patronizing and annoying, but they also had significant training and access to greater resources than did my dinky little department. Even Harris had some useful input, once he stopped being obnoxious and belittling.

This is cool, I thought, even though I didn’t hold out a lot of hope for success in a mundane route. But, then again, with the murders coming so quickly now, maybe he would slip up and make a mistake. If we have that time. I rubbed my temples. I couldn’t shake the growing certainty that he was preparing for something big.

“Detective Gillian?” Agent Kristoff’s voice broke through my train of thought. I sighed and looked up at him. To my surprise, I saw that the others had already left. I’d been so absorbed that I hadn’t even noticed. “You know this murderer better than any of us,” he continued. “Do you think this increase in murders is going to continue?”

I blinked, somewhat surprised at the admission that I could possibly have insight into the killer’s mind-set. I ran my fingers through my hair. “I …” I grimaced. “I think he’s gearing up to something. Something big.”

“Such as?”

“I’m … not sure,” I said, truthfully enough. I had my suspicions, but I sure as hell couldn’t voice them.

He leaned toward me across the table, green-gold eyes on mine. “But you have suspicions?”

Jeez, could he read my mind? “Well, yeah,” I said, doing my best to not squirm uncomfortably. “But they’re all pretty nebulous, y’know?”