by LENA DIAZ,
She gave him a wounded look that almost had him feeling guilty. “You’re treating me like a student, testing me, aren’t you? Pushing to see if I know what I’m talking about.”
“Do you? Know what you’re talking about?”
Her gaze dropped to the island. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
Her ragged tone put him on alert, had him studying her body language. The best indicator of honesty and genuine emotion as opposed to lies and bravado was how a person moved, how they spoke, not the words they used. Her body language told him that something else was at play here, something she wasn’t yet ready to say out loud, something that had dread curling in his chest. “You were talking about modus operandi.”
She cleared her throat. “What I was saying is that serial killers don’t always maintain the same MO, their method, how they kill. Modus operandi is a conscious choice. They can change it if necessary. Like if a killer starts out tying his victims with shoelaces. If one of them manages to break a shoelace and escapes, the next time he abducts someone he’ll use handcuffs. Different MO, same killer.”
“That’s a good way to explain it,” he allowed. “But I’d add that MO is more about what’s necessary, or what the killer feels is necessary, in order to carry out his crime. Outside of forensics, with no fingerprints or even DNA, what would convince you that some murders were done by the same killer if the MO had changed?” Again, he watched her closely, trying to decipher the subtext, the meaning beneath her words.
“Signature. A serial killer, a true psychopath, is driven to kill. He can change parts of what he does, but the signature is an intrinsic part of his killing ritual. It’s the part of his crimes that he can’t change. Signature is a subconscious action, something he doesn’t choose to do or not to do. It’s something he’s compelled to do.” She clasped her hands on top of the island. “Like the Ripper carving an X across the abdomen of each of his victims after he abducts them. That’s his way of branding them, of letting them know that he...he owns them.”
She wasn’t meeting his gaze anymore. Instead, she slowly traced the veining in the marble top of the island. Her stark words had his throat tightening as he carefully watched her, weighing every move, even the tone of her voice.
“Signature is often a reliable means for linking crimes,” she continued. “But the police often confuse MO with signature, or assume something is the signature when it’s just another thing the killer does each time, but isn’t compelled to do. And even though it’s been documented many times that serial killers can and sometimes do change their victimology, go outside their comfort zone and choose a victim that doesn’t fit with their history, the police automatically think that means it’s a different killer. It’s not their fault. Most will never come across a serial killer case their entire career. They’re not equipped to evaluate the complexities, dive deeper, weigh a killer’s thirst to kill versus his desire not to get caught. They don’t understand his willingness or ability to adapt.”
“You’ve circled back to the Kentucky Ripper again.” He kept his voice gentle, encouraging her to finish what she came here to say, what she so obviously needed to say. And all the while he cursed Mason for sending her, for using her to get to him. “His original victimology included Caucasian women in their mid-to late thirties, married, with children. They all lived within the same fifty-square-mile geographical region in Eastern Kentucky. None of them worked outside the home.”
She nodded. “Yes, but I’m saying he could have changed all of that. He could have moved to another state, gone after someone who was younger, single, without children. Someone who worked outside the home, even if only to take temporary odd jobs to make ends meet. Even if the signature was the same, most people in law enforcement would think it was another copycat, a one-off, since the alleged real guy is in prison. They wouldn’t realize what they’re dealing with, or even that they have a serial killer operating in their midst.”
What he’d started to suspect just moments ago had solidified into a cold hard knot of dread that had him clenching his teeth so hard they ached.
Holding on to the edge of the countertop to maintain his balance, he limped around the island until he was standing beside her. Then, keeping his voice as gentle as possible, he asked, “How old are you? Don’t give me a flippant answer either. I’m serious.”
His question didn’t seem to surprise her. “Just turned twenty-six. My birthday was last month.”
Younger than he’d thought. Her guesstimate of their age difference was off by several years. “You’re not Caucasian.”
Her perfectly shaped brows rose. “Gee, what gave that away?” Her sarcasm did little to hide the underlying pain in her tone.
“Mason didn’t mention where you’re from. I’m guessing it’s not Kentucky.”
“Never even been to Kentucky. My home is in northeast Florida, Jacksonville.” Her bottom lip trembled.
He tightened his grip on the island. “Single?”
She nodded, her eyes over-bright, as if she was fighting back tears.
“No kids?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head. “No kids.”
“You take odd jobs to make ends meet while doing your investigation?”
She slowly nodded.
“Show me,” he whispered, still praying that he was wrong, but just as certain that he wasn’t.
Without hesitation, she gripped the hem of her blouse, then pulled it up to her chin.
Angry puckered welts marred her skin, forming a five-by-five-inch X on her abdomen. His hands shook as he gently pulled her blouse back down. “When?”
“Two years ago.” Pain leached from every word. “I was halfway through my master’s degree program. But I had to put it on hold until...until I recovered. But after that, I couldn’t focus, couldn’t even think about going back. The police had no leads, no suspects. They still don’t.” She shook her head. “That’s when I put my education to the test, began my own investigation. That folder I gave you is a year and a half of my life. My conclusion is that the man in prison known as the Kentucky Ripper killed one person, even though he claimed responsibility for many more. The real Ripper changed locales and victimology.”
She finally looked up, her tortured gaze meeting his. “I believe that I’m a victim from his second spree. There are probably others as well, cases no one has connected, including me. And more women will suffer and die if I don’t stop him. I’m also worried that I’m a loose end for him, that he’ll come back to finish what he started.” Her gaze searched his, as if looking for answers. “Please, Bryson. Help me find him and send him to prison. I don’t want to die.” The tears she’d been holding back spilled over and streamed down her cheeks.
He swore and lifted her into his arms. Daring his hip to interfere, he cradled her against his chest and strode from the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Teagan rubbed her bleary eyes and rolled her head on the pillow. She was in Bryson Anton’s bedroom. In his bed. But he wasn’t there, and his side of the bed hadn’t been disturbed. She didn’t know whether to applaud his old-fashioned gentlemanly conduct or curse him for it. She sighed and threw the covers off her before shuffling to the open bedroom door.
Bryson glanced up from the couch behind the coffee table, a stack of papers in his hand and more spread out across the wooden surface.
She stretched her arms above her head as she padded across the family room in her dress socks. She had no idea where her shoes and purse were. “Not to bruise your ego, but after you took me to bed, I don’t remember anything. Maybe we should have a redo so you can refresh my memory.”
He gave her the side-eye. “Trust me. If I took you to bed, you’d remember.”
She grinned. “I have a feeling you’re right.”
He rolled his eyes. “You passed out in my arms, and I generously allowed you to use my
bedroom to sleep it off. You’re a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.”
“Won’t argue that.” She yawned and gestured toward the cup on the table beside him. “I don’t suppose that’s coffee?”
In reply, he held the cup out to her.
She took a huge gulp before handing it back to him. “I think I’m half in love with you.”
“That’s the tequila talking. You’re still drunk.”
“Can’t be. Had to have slept it off by now. How long was I out?”
He glanced at his watch. “Seventeen minutes.”
“Oh. Then I’m definitely still drunk. More please.”
He handed her the mug without looking up.
She shifted around to see what he was doing, then sat beside him, her thigh pressed to his.
“Boundaries, Teagan.” He glanced pointedly at their legs, plastered together.
She sighed and moved over, just enough so they weren’t touching. “You’re either married, have a girlfriend, or we play for the same team, because nothing I’m trying is working.”
“Never married. My girlfriend dumped me months ago because hanging with a guy with a limp cramped her style. And, trust me, you and I are definitely not playing for the same team.”
“What is it then? I haven’t struck out this many times since high school softball.”
“Maybe you’re not my type.”
“Pfft. Have you seen me? These legs go all the way up.”
He arched a brow. “We need to work on this low self-esteem of yours.”
She laughed and shuffled through some of the papers he’d spread out in front of him. When she realized what he was looking at, hope flared in her chest. “You’re reading my file?”
He shrugged. “I was bored. I had seventeen minutes to kill.”
“Does this mean you’re going to help me?”
“My history of helping people isn’t exactly stellar. I’m only committing to looking through your research to offer suggestions that you can take or leave. Maybe I can put a different spin on it so you can think in new directions. I wouldn’t get excited, if I were you. Like I said, I don’t have a great track record. This ruined hip is because I messed up a pit maneuver a rookie could have performed in his sleep. I managed to knock the killer’s vehicle into a ditch, but knocked myself silly in the process. Before I could even scramble for my gun, I’d been shot, shoved out the door, and the killer was taking off in my car with a hostage. The only reason the hostage survived is because one of my coworkers was able to rescue her after I nearly got her killed.”
“I have a feeling there’s way more to it than that.” She started to pat his leg, then jerked her hand back at his reproachful look. “Have I mentioned that I’m a touchy-feely sort of person? I’ll try to behave.” She bit her lip. “You’re still going to help me, right?”
He blew out a breath. “I thought you were acting earlier, that you were overcompensating.”
“Sorry to disappoint. This is the real me.”
“I didn’t say I was disappointed.”
She stared at him, hoping he’d explain that comment. But instead, he turned back to the papers in front of him. After a few minutes, she said, “If you change your mind about you and me, and I miss a signal, just let me know, okay?”
He let out a deep sigh and pinned her with an exasperated look. “Teagan?”
“Yes, Bryson?”
“Shut up.”
She grinned and scooted back on the couch to sit cross-legged while he reviewed her research. It was taking him far longer than she’d expected. The folder wasn’t that thick. She’d brought the summary, not the detailed reports. But he kept thumbing through the pages, comparing things, rereading. She was dying to know what he thought. She was also dying for an entirely different reason.
She climbed off the couch. “Where’s the nearest toilet in this monstrosity? I’m about to pee my pants.” She hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out.” She ran into his master bedroom and chose door number one. “Found it!” she called back, before slamming it closed.
* * *
BRYSON STARED AT his bedroom doorway where Teagan the Tornado had just disappeared. He’d expected a different woman when she woke, figuring her earlier actions were a type of bravado, a coping mechanism because of what had happened to her. Then again, she hadn’t slept long enough to sober up.
He took his cell phone from one of the piles of paper on the coffee table, idly rubbing his aching hip as he reluctantly pressed a programmed number that he should have deleted months ago. When the line clicked he said, “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Delightful, isn’t she?” Mason chuckled.
“You mean she’s always like this? There isn’t a cure?”
“I’m not taking her back. If that’s what you want, I’m hanging up.”
He turned his head, looking through the glass doors at the back of the kitchen. The creek was too low to see from here unless he stood. But the pilings holding the dock in place reached like spindly fingers toward the bright blue sky overhead, a reminder of his last conversation with Mason. Had it been only yesterday?
“Bryson? You still there?”
“I’m here. You mentioned when I was ready, that you’d throw me a line. Looks like I’m going to at least dip my toes in, whether I want to or not.”
“She’s a hard person to say no to.”
“Yes. She is.”
“Whatever you need, it’s yours. Just name it.” Mason’s tone was all business now.
“My files, all those boxes I foolishly—and against FBI policy—saved from the Ripper case with the Bureau. I asked you to store them along with other case files you archived for The Justice Seekers. Is it possible to get them sent here, when you have time?”
“You’ll have them within the hour.”
Teagan appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking slightly green and more than a little woozy as she gripped the doorframe. She really didn’t know how to hold her liquor, which for some reason he found adorable. “Thanks, Mason.”
“For the files?”
He tightened his hand on the phone. “We’ll start with that, for now.” He hung up. Then he grabbed his cane and laboriously climbed to his feet.
Teagan trudged toward him and stopped a few feet away, her hand clutching her stomach. Bryson had a feeling he was about to finally meet the real Teagan.
She looked up at him, misery drawing tight lines at the corners of her eyes. “Did I really tell you I had to pee?”
He smiled. Maybe he’d already met the real Teagan after all. “Come on. I’ll make you some fresh coffee and my special hangover blaster.”
Chapter Six
When Bryson had mentioned a hangover blaster, the name alone should have warned Teagan to just say no. But she had to admit, even sitting on his master bathroom floor with her head hanging over a toilet, that awful concoction had done the trick. Too bad that meant throwing up everything she’d eaten or drank for the past week.
She shuddered and sat back. At least she could be grateful that the man was a neat freak. Either that or he hired really great cleaning people. His bathroom floor was spotless. She winced. Or it had been, until she’d come along. With her tummy finally settling, she pushed herself to her feet and then wobbled to the sink.
After rinsing her mouth out with some mouthwash that she’d found in a cabinet and brushing her teeth with her finger and a dab of toothpaste, she felt almost human again. She washed her face, made sure her stubborn hair hadn’t escaped its braid, then did a quick refresh of the bathroom. The sound of voices engaged in conversation had her hurrying through the master bedroom and opening the door.
The front double door was wide open. Bryson was in his wheelchair directing a man with a hand truck full of bankers boxes toward a hallway that r
an across the back of the house. Careful not to get in the way, she plopped down cross-legged on a leather padded bench just outside the bedroom and waited.
By the time the man was finished and Bryson locked the door behind him, she’d counted over a dozen boxes.
He wheeled his chair up to her. “Feeling better?”
“Much. Although I’m not sure whether the cure is worse than the hangover.” She motioned toward his chair. “I see you ran out of tequila and traded in the cane.”
“My liver cried uncle for the day.”
“If you strip, I’d be happy to play Helga and massage your hip for you.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation.
“Helga?”
“The masseuse from this morning. What I lack in professional training I’d more than make up for with enthusiasm.”
He coughed as if to cover a laugh. “Yes, well. I appreciate the offer but another massage isn’t going to do the trick at this point. The hip gives out once the muscles get overworked and won’t support me anymore.”
“Are you doing physical therapy?”
“Let me guess. You can help me with that too?”
“If I’d known I’d meet you one day, I would have changed majors in college so I could say yes.”
This time he laughed out loud. “Let me worry about the therapy, or lack thereof.” He waved toward the back hallway. “Go on. Ask me about the boxes. I can tell that your curiosity is eating you alive.”
She frowned. “Your earlier theory about your girlfriend dumping you because of your limp probably isn’t right. I think she left you because you’re always profiling people and reading their minds. Okay, yes, the curiosity is driving me batty. What’s in the boxes?”
“I don’t read minds. Profiling, or more accurately, Criminal Investigative Analysis, is science, not art. Although some might argue it’s both. And the answer to your question is that the boxes contain my research on the Kentucky Ripper. I was fresh out of polka-dot folders.”