“CSU dusted every inch of this apartment,” Quinn says. “Just tell me what you’re looking for.”
The unseen beam from the ultraviolet light scans the wall as I move through the room. “I’ll know it when I see it,” I tell him. I snagged the equipment from Barry—a nice tech who was kind enough to meet us halfway here and “lend” me a few supplies.
Quinn is not impressed with my methods, however. If I wasn’t in such a rush, I might offer him a psych evaluation on his overly anal, control freak issues. Some rules are just made to be broken, as cliché as that is. But it’s true. As Quinn pointed out, we’re pressed for time, and we don’t have enough resources to call in another sweep.
So far, we’ve checked every wall in the master bedroom, spare bedroom, hallway, and we’re now scouring the living room. I thought for sure we’d find something in the victim’s bedroom; that’s where the UNSUB focused his attention.
But…nothing.
“Dammit,” I breathe out, and drag my arm across my forehead.
Moving close to my side, Quinn extends his hand to accept the light. I lay it in his open palm. “Let me in, Bonds,” he says, his deep voice conveying a heavier meaning.
With a full inhale, I nod. “Okay.” I face him and look up into his hazel eyes. “Her walls talk. I know it can have any number of meanings for our UNSUB…or maybe it’s just meant to throw us off. But I don’t think so. Everything he’s done so far…it looks chaotic, but it’s a calculated chaos.”
Quinn holds up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me. Just say it.”
Licking my lips, I prepare myself. I’m not sure I want to voice this aloud. “I think our UNSUB is copycatting a medieval serial killer. The Blood Countess.”
And there it is; the second the words are unleashed, doubt rushes in. I feel it in my bones, see it on Quinn’s hard face. It’s too…reaching. Hopeful is the wrong word, but I can’t claim another.
I’ve spent so many hours researching Elizabeth Bathory, I’m damn near an expert. But that’s just it; I’m too close. Of course I would connect all the pieces and link them together in this fashion. My vision is skewed. I need an outside opinion, and Quinn is as outside as it gets.
“Explain,” he says simply.
And I do. Starting with my initial hunch right here at the first crime scene, I take him through each torture technique—needles under the nails; candles to burn flesh; sharp objects to draw blood—that Bathory and her accomplices enjoyed inflicting on their victims. The way the methodology ties to Bathory’s own, strange signature: torture. With all my study, the only thing I could genuinely understand about the infamous lady was her non-preference.
She was accused of torturing young girls in a variety of ways…so that there’s no one clear method to claim as her signature. It was in that moment, agonizing over the details, that I realized all sadists—no matter their perfected signature; however vain—spoke their specialized method of evoking suffering through torture.
Such a simple concept. Such a profound revelation.
“What else,” Quinn says, gaze steady on the wall as he hunts. “What else about these cases can be linked back to this woman, other than a few similarities.”
To myself, I shrug. “The tarred oakum, for one. It’s how Bathory concealed the bodies, and I’ve only ever read that specific detail in translated documents of her trial. The UNSUB had to do a lot of research to unearth it. I can’t overlook how explicitly connected it is to Bathory.”
Quinn nods. “Okay. That’s unusual, but lot’s of contractors still use oakum to seal...”—he waves his hand, as if trying to grasp the thought from the air—“pipes and stuff. What if the UNSUB is a plumber? It’s a possibility. You said you’ve studied this Bathory intensively. Your mind wants to make the connection—”
I shake my head. “That’s what I thought at first. Believe me, Quinn. I’ve considered that. I don’t make these kind of leaps, you know this.” I meet and hold his gaze, imploring. “The
re’s also the message itself. After Bathory was prosecuted and found guilty…which is a whole other story,” I add. “I have my own theories about how her case was handled, but we’ll stick to the historical facts to make our case. Anyway, she was sentenced to be walled up in a room of her own home. It was documented that she spent the last two years of her life in there, writing on walls. When she ran out of parchment, she wrote her thoughts, ramblings, whatever on the walls of her cell. And it’s just too close…the message, the method of torture—burns, contusions, the rope—” I break off as my mind continues to connect evidence.
“What?” Quinn says, pocketing the light.
I take out my phone and pull up Avery’s personal contact number, click it. She answers right away. “This better be an invitation to get a drink,” she says.
“When we catch this guy, I’ll buy every round,” I say.
Her short sigh catches at the end. “I’m taking you up on that. All right, what do you need?”
Glancing at Quinn, I nod once. Then, “I know we’ve asked you to all but give up sleep, but have you had any time to check-up on the rope origin?” I bite my lip. “You said you thought it was handmade, Avery. Can you confirm that yet?”
“I do have other cases, Sadie, and this UNSUB isn’t really giving us enough time between victims.” I hear the ruffling of papers on her end. “But I really like you. Don’t tell Quinn. He’s not my favorite.” I smirk at that. “All right. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll get you an update. Oh, and I just completed that work-up sketch on the murder weapon. I’ll snap a pic and shoot it over to you now.”
“You’re the best, Avery.”
“I know. I know. Just catch this guy and lighten my workload, would you?”
After the call ends, Avery’s sketch pops up on my screen. I tap it to enlarge the image, then send it to my email. “I need to grab my tablet so we can enlarge it…but, Quinn. I think we’re finally moving in the right direction.”