Staring at the photo of the victim with her legs spread, ankles bound, I envision the perpetrator kneeling behind her—degrading her. This position humiliated her, and he was her god. Towering over her, he was all-powerful, and that power intoxicated him. But he didn’t allow the adrenaline rush to overtake him.
He was calm, methodical, in control. Only his victim’s suffering is what he desired. He’s nothing like the weak woman below him. The slut. The whore. She deserves to be stripped bare, her flesh on display for him. She gives it up so easily, why not take what she’s offering?
Before I’m completely consumed by his world, I quickly break away and put in a call to the M.E., asking to be updated as soon as possible on her findings. Then I sit and open a new grid worksheet, and start clicking away at the keys, filling in the fields. Quinn will use what little I can devise from the scene to question the boyfriend further, or he can run it through the shredder. Either wouldn’t surprise me.
The perpetrator is above average intelligence. Mid twenties to mid thirties. And like Quinn scoffed at, he probably has an extensive porn collection centering on bondage and demeaning women. The fact that the UNSUB knew he had time to commit his crime in her home, with no interruption, means he was most likely watching her for a while. It could also mean someone who knew her personally—like the boyfriend. But I build on the facts, not the suspect.
I grab the photo of the victim and hold it up, studying it once more. My vision flickers, and the room fades away, replaced by nearly bare white walls. My senses prickle. My skin heats. I can feel the rope tied around my ankles. The coarse threads rubbing against my skin. Smell his sweat; his excitement.
His fingers dig into flesh as he takes his hard-won prize…
My face flushes, and I drop the photo. Dammit. Envisioning this scene from the victim’s perspective is too dangerous. I know this. Shutting my computer off, I swear under my breath. It’s been too long since my last trip. Since I first glimpsed the victim, I knew this case would get to me. I need to go. Tonight.
Before I leave my office, I stand paused near the door, my gaze searching the bookcase in the corner. I march over and snatch a book on medieval serial killers from the shelf. Then I stuff it into my bag as I exit.
Quinn totally called me out. He knows me a little too well. There is more to this kind of specific torture the victim endured—the method the perpetrator used to damage her fingers. But my thoughts aren’t going to be voiced or recorded in that profile until I know more.
It could be a sick coincidence. Or maybe the perpetrator stumbled over the torture technique during his online searches. It might have intrigued him. Excited him. For a sadist, inserting needles under the nails is a vicious deed.
But it’s also very precise to the torture techniques favored by one of the most infamous serial killers of the millennia. A killer I’ve spent countless hours studying, analyzing, speculating. A woman who’s as loathed as she is fascinating.
The Blood Countess.
On my mission to understand, to compartmentalize, how a human can commit such acts of violence, I came across Elizabeth Bathory, a Hungarian Countess from the sixteenth century. I wanted to understand what kind of energy, hatred, fear was needed to torture and kill over two hundred young girls.
She became my rule, the bar by which I measure—she is the ultimate testament in human cruelty. What we are capable of, and by some degree, what I might even be capable of.
It’s just human nature and a touch of psychology, really. I once thought if I could unravel the mystery around her, I could understand what happened to me. Why it happened. And how someone could fall so far into the darkness they only existed to inflict another living being with their maliciousness.
Bathory is my ultimate intrigue as a profiler. Not only that, but as a victim myself.
The fact that our newest perpetrator emulated her technique is interesting—but that’s as far as I can allow my brain to process it. A strange, yet intriguing coincidence.
Besides, other than the fact that Quinn will laugh me out of the building for trying to link a current killer to the sixteenth century, I have more immediate needs to remedy.
Arlington is a fairly quiet city. Low crime rate. One of the reasons it was my top choice for transfer out of the field office that kept me moving and dissecting crime scenes across Virginia. Now, the carnage has followed me to my own backyard.
I haven’t had a case like this in a while…and I’m going to need my head clear and my conscience subdued in order to work it.
2
First Contact
Colton
I watch her.
Since her first visit to The Lair months ago, I’ve been watching. Just watching. And she watches, too. I assumed she was a voyeur. Only here to feed some curiosity, or feast on the sight of flesh and violence. But the longer I watch, the more I see it in her jade eyes; she’s hungry.
How she even got through the front door, I don’t know. Julian must have been feeling charitable that night. Maybe thinking the same as me—that she
was just wanting to settle some curiosity. But here she is again. It’s her MO.
I round the bar, tapping Onyx on the shoulder to let her know I’m taking off. Then I duck under the bar top, the beat of the house music thumping in sync to my ramped heart rate.
She hasn’t been back for a while. Maybe two weeks. And I’m like a hunter stalking my prey, needing to get a long, lustful gaze at my conquest. Although, truth be told, I have no intention of making a move on her. She’s too perfect. I just want to marvel. To watch as she watches…taking in her labored breaths. Her fingers clamped tightly around her flute of champagne.
I lean my shoulder against the wall and fold my arms over my chest and black T-shirt, letting my gaze travel over the room until it locks on to her. This is just one room in the club. The voyeur. Set up with a stage and plenty of space for the audience to roam and play while each scene is enacted for the members’ enjoyment.