“This isn’t our guy,” Quinn says. “Doesn’t match his ritual. Not sure whether that’s a relief or not, though.” Kneeling next to the victim, he sets down his evidence kit and lifts a section of the vic’s matted dark hair to reveal the side of her face. “Jesus.”
Red welts and deep cuts mar her pale skin, forehead to chin. This vic is unidentifiable by her features, and will need the M.E.’s full workup.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask him, studying the jagged laceration across her neck. “We’ll definitely need Avery’s expertise, but the wound looks like it could be a match to the other victims.”
After moving her hair aside to fully expose the slash that severed her carotid, he sits back on his heels. Props his elbows on his knees and looks at me. “It can’t be. Granted the UNSUB has been inconsistent before…but this derails completely from his MO.” He ticks off on his fingers. “He moved the victim. She’s not posed. And once we get an identification, we’ll check her home, but I’m going to make the call that she wasn’t held captive there while the perp tortured her.”
“I agree.”
His eyes squint. “So the offender abducts her, takes her to his turf, then dumps the body here. Why?” He looks around the marsh. “It feels…sloppy. Too spontaneous for our guy. Not at all like the calculated and methodical scenes he’s crafted so far.”
Inspecting the neck wound closer, I say, “Okay. Then a copycat? Someone trying to pin a murder on the recent serial killings.” I look up at Quinn.
He shakes his head. “A copycat of a copycat,” he says with disgust.
“Isn’t all murder just a vicious reproduction in the whole scheme of things?”
“Point taken.” He stands, brushing his gloved hands down his slacks. “But still, that would mean a huge leak in the department. Nothing about the rare murder weapon has been on the news or in the media. It’s a slim chance that someone out there knows the specifics, and just happened to have a flamberg sword handy.”
“You’re arguing my point, Quinn.” I get to my feet, stretching out my back. “So it’s less likely that someone is trying to pass this off as one of the serial killings, and more probable that the actual killer is changing his MO.”
“Son of a bitch.” Turning his gaze out over the river, Quinn rolls off his gloves. Then, “All the crime scenes have left a message linking his killings to Bathory.” He looks at me. “We need to find that message. And we need to start unraveling the meaning behind them or else we’ll never be able to predict this psychopath.”
I glance down at the victim, remembering the very specific message the UNSUB left at the last crime scene: the slashed collarbone. It was loud and clear, aimed directly at me. Only I’m still unsure if it was executed in homage or as a threat.
“Bathory was known to torture her victims for long periods of time,” I say, walking a path around the yellow crime scene tape. “It’s expected that he’d escalate to more precise measures. He’s probably convinced we’re on to the Bathory connection. Doesn’t feel it necessary to leave clues anymore. Instead, he’s taking his kills to the next level, showing us just how devoted he is to his work. He wants us not only to recognize, but to appreciate his dedication. His grandness.”
“He’s vain.”
My head snaps around at the interruption. Carson stands with his hands to his hips, looking up at the bridge.
“That’s an obvious observation,” I say, not concealing the annoyance from my tone.
Pointing toward the bridge, Carson says, “I took the liberty of scoping out the scene from above. He put the vic on display. He’s got a god complex, and doesn’t fear being caught.”
Quinn clears his throat. “Carson, why don’t you let the profiler do the profiling, and get to work marking evidence.”
“Oh, I have been,” Carson says, not allowing Quinn’s reprimand to deter him. “Check this out.” He brings up his phone and taps the screen, then hands it to Quinn. “I’ve already done a quick Internet search. Looks like this is the Blood Count’s work, Detective Quinn.”
Quinn’s gaze drifts from the image on the phone up to Carson. “What the hell did you just say?”
Carson grins, either completely oblivious to Quinn’s ire or asking for more. I cringe, backing away from the both of them.
“It’s a crest,” Carson says, nodding toward the device. “In the reeds. Right over there.” He motions past the victim to the high marsh grass. “He probably tracked the design for a good while to get the impression right. Then—and I’m guessing here—coated the grass with the vic’s blood. Color looks like dried blood to me, and the design matches the Bathory crest.” His eyebrows hike as he aims his attention my way. “This is your area of expertise, right? Take a look.”
He goes to take the phone from Quinn, but Quinn drops it to his side. “What the hell did you call the UNSUB, Carson?”
Carson’s head jerks back. “The Blood Count.”
“And where the hell—?”
“It’s all over the news right now. That’s what the media has dubbed the serial killer.” Carson shrugs. “I think it has a better ring to it than the Arlington Slasher, which is what’s going nationwide—”
Before Carson can finish his sentence, Quinn has him by the collar, yanking him upright. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I’m there in a second, pushing on Quinn’s arm to break his hold. “Quinn. We have media hovering around out here now. Back. Off.”
With a growl of frustration, Quinn releases Carson. He spears his fingers into his hair and curses. “Fucking…mother fuck.” The tirade continues as he pivots, searching the crowd of officers. “Smith!” he shouts, and the officer wearing a Tyvek suit lifts his head. “Get that damn what’s his face on the line. The press fucker from this morning.”