The barking continued. Madeline turned toward the sound. Nicholas had asked her to keep a watch for a white shepherd the victim had been walking at the time of her death, but the dog hadn’t turned up in the building or in the area. No leash. No paw prints, blood or anything else that would give her an idea of where the dog might have run after the attack. Nothing. Except the barking. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” West asked.
“That barking.” She headed toward the south side of the scene, and the sound intensified. Hauling the perimeter tape above her head, she moved slowly down the street, West close behind. Sweat pooled in her shirt. Summer in Seattle promised cooler temperatures considering the proximity of the Pacific but had really only delivered humidity that frizzed her hair and drenched her clothing.
The barking stopped, and Madeline froze.
Nails scratched on metal from somewhere nearby, and she spotted a white cargo van parked along the street ahead. If Kara Flood’s dog had gotten back into the habit of protesting any time a stranger came near as Dr. Flood had said, it was possible the killer would want the dog out of the way before attracting attention during the attack. She nodded toward the van and unholstered her weapon. “West.”
West understood, withdrawing his own sidearm, and stepped out into the street to approach from the other side of the van.
Nicholas had taught her some killers liked to revisit their crime scenes, that they enjoyed the hunt brought on by law enforcement, reveled in watching the police try to do their jobs and staying one step ahead. Madeline checked back over her shoulder, gauging how far she and West had walked from the crime scene. From the angle of the driver’s seat, whoever sat behind the wheel would have the perfect vantage point of the bench where Kara Flood had been posed.
They moved as one, West on one side of the van, her on the other, until they met at the bumper. Her partner reached for the swinging door’s handle, those dark eyes on her as he waited for her signal. The front seats were clear, but without windows in the cargo area, they had no way to tell what was on the other side of the doors. Madeline nodded, and West wrenched the door open.
Ear-shattering barking echoed off the inside of the cabin a split second before a white shepherd, matching Dr. Flood’s description of her sister’s dog, came into view. Spots of dirt stained the dog’s once-pristine coat. Madeline holstered her weapon and showed Koko both hands, palms forward. “Hey, Koko. It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.” She turned toward West. “Let Nicholas know we found his missing piece of evidence and call Animal Control to take him in. Not Nicholas, the dog.”
The canine whined, sitting back on its haunches, and revealed a numbered piece of paper under his paws. Something like the numbers she’d seen on the back side of photos. She pulled a set of gloves from her pocket and snapped the latex against the back of her wrist. One hand raised toward Koko, she collected the glossy paper from under the dog’s foot slower than she wanted to go. No point in scaring the poor animal. He’d already been through enough.
He let the photo go, and Madeline pulled herself out of the van. Flipping the evidence over with one hand, she gasped as West brought his phone to his ear, her heart in her throat. She turned the picture toward him. “Then tell him we’ve got another victim out there.”
Chapter Four
The killer had broken into Aubrey’s home, most likely touched her personal effects and uncovered details she hadn’t wished to share with anyone else. Rage coiled low in his gut as the forensic team he’d pulled in swept the loft for fingerprints and anything that could give them an idea of who’d gotten inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out toward surrounding redbrick buildings. Light furniture, hardly used as far as Nicholas could tell, and pops of color in accents brightened the space. Black-and-white modern art pieces had been paired in twos on almost every wall with a beautiful kitchen island and patio that finished off the luxury feel. The aesthetic could’ve come straight out of a home decor magazine, but it wasn’t exactly reflective of the kind of home he’d expected from the medical examiner. Too...cold. Distant. Definitely not the haven Kara Flood escaped to every night after work.
Crime scene techs worked their way across the loft, including the bookcases on either side of a large television screen. In an instant, he imagined Aubrey curled up on the L-shaped fabric sectional watching her favorite children’s show to unwind after a long day of autopsies, facing grieving families and pathology reports. Not in her bedroom packing a few days’ worth of clothing and toiletries to hide in a safe house from a violent killer.
He scanned the titles stacked in neat color-coded rows on her bookshelves and pulled one from the pack. A romance. Flipping through the pages, he studied the pliancy of the spine. Not just a romance. A book worthy of multiple reads. A favorite. Nicholas placed it back on the shelf and continued down the line. More romance, some inspirational nonfiction. Where her sister had been firmly rooted in reality as an educator, Aubrey obviously craved escape from her day-to-day routine, and he sure as hell didn’t blame her.
“There’s a perfume bottle missing from my bathroom. I’ve given your people permission to search through whatever they need, but that looks like the only thing that might’ve been taken.” Aubrey maneuvered into his peripheral vision with a crime scene tech delivering her back to the living room. They couldn’t take any chances of altering or destroying evidence of the break-in. Not when the killer had obviously set his sights on the ME. She clutched the handle of her carry-on–size luggage. Her gaze then lowered to a book still in his hand. “Didn’t peg you for a romance reader.”
Perfume bottle. A possible trophy? But how had the killer gotten past the building’s security measures? He set the novel back on the shelf and pushed the book between the others with one finger. “Guaranteed happily-ever-after, no matter how wrong things go? Beats reality any day. What’s not to like?”
“I agree.” A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth as he’d revealed yet another piece of himself without hesitation, and his insides coiled tighter. “The doorman should be coming on to shift right about now. The elevator bypasses the lobby and goes straight to the parking garage, so it’s better to take the stairs.”
“CSU is almost finished here. I’ll make sure they lock up when they’re done.” He motioned her toward the front door and stepped into line behind her. His phone vibrated with an incoming call, and he pulled it from his slacks without missing a step. Dashiell West. Hitting the large green button at the bottom of the screen, he brought his phone to his ear as they left the apartment. “What’s going on, West?”
“We found the dog,” West said.
Nicholas slid his hand around Aubrey’s arm and turned her into him. He lowered the phone between them and put the call on speakerphone. “You’re sure you’ve got the right dog?”
“White shepherd, approximately three years old with a collar that says his name is Koko. We’re double-checking the chip in his neck, but Striker and I are ninety-nine percent sure this is the victim’s dog. Whoever killed Kara Flood last night had locked the animal in a cargo van less than a block from the scene. Damn cabin got to over a hundred degrees by the time we found him. If it weren’t for Striker’s superhero hearing, we might never have found him in time.” Admiration tinted the former tech expert’s voice. “The dog was dehydrated and a bit disoriented, but Animal Services is taking care of that right now. I’ve got Forensics collecting particulates from his fur, but it sounds like he’s going to be fine.”
Nicholas raised his gaze to Aubrey’s in time to see pure relief slacken her expression. “Thanks, West. I’ll get in touch with Forensics when they’re finished. You did good.”
“That’s not all we recovered from the van,” West said. “After we were able to calm the dog down, we realized he’d been standing on a photo. A Polaroid.”
Confusion quickly replaced the excitement buzzing in his veins. Nicholas
switched the phone off speaker and raised it to his ear. He’d wanted Aubrey to know her sister’s dog had been located safely from the source who’d recovered the animal, but the last thing she needed to hear were the gory details of Kara’s case. “A Polaroid of what?”
“A body. A woman.” Silence settled between them as dread pooled at the base of Nicholas’s spine. Another victim. “We don’t have an ID yet, but I’m running facial recognition as we speak. Nicholas, the woman... There’s no doubting the photo was taken after she’d been killed. Whoever murdered Kara Flood last night used the X Marks the Spot Killer’s MO. Strangulation, mutilation to the victim’s face with a thin blade. He locked up the victim’s dog in a cargo van reported stolen in the last three days and left a photo of his next victim for us to find.”
A trail of bread crumbs for law enforcement to follow. Nausea churned in his gut as the next piece of the puzzle fit into place. A photo left with a victim’s body, leading police to the next. Just as the Gingerbread Woman had done. He turned away from Aubrey and lowered his voice. “Are the woman’s lips blue in the photo?”
“Yes, with her jacket positioned beside her,” West said. “I’ve already sent a copy to Dr. Caldwell at the King County Medical Examiner’s Office since he’s taken lead on Kara Flood’s autopsy. He’s positive the woman in the photo died of asphyxiation within two hours of the picture being taken.”
Damn it. Running his hand through his hair, he processed the details of the Gingerbread Woman case. There hadn’t been anything linking Irene Lawrence—the woman who’d suffocated five rival colleagues for a shot at partner within her law firm—to the X Marks the Spot Killer. The cases weren’t connected, but whoever killed Kara Flood last night wanted him to believe they were, that there was more than one killer they were hunting. He shook his head. No. His instincts said one killer, two MOs. “The killer is testing previously used MOs, trying to find the one that’s right for him. He wanted us to find Kara Flood first. He used the X Marks the Spot Killer’s MO because that’s whom he looks up to the most, probably because of how long it took law enforcement to identify Cole Presley. He sees a thirty-year reign as a sign of success. Now he’s moving on to another MO.”
“The Gingerbread Woman.” West swore under his breath. “Is there any way to tell whose MO he’ll use next or something that will help us narrow down the identity of this victim?”
“This killer locked the dog up because he needed Koko to ensure we recovered that photo. He’s not fueled by anger. He’s not out to make these women pay. He wants an audience like the good narcissist he is.” Nicholas set his forehead against the nearest wall and let himself slip into the mind of the killer, pushing two separate cases together in an attempt to find common ground. It wasn’t his soundproof office he’d turned into a dark room back at BAU headquarters, but he’d done this exercise enough times over the years to drop into the meditation-like frequency to separate himself from the world. There was a risk to doing it here. If he pulled out too quickly, he’d spend the rest of the day paying the price. Why had the killer chosen those two MOs to kill his victims? If he could solve that variable, he might be able to predict which MO the killer would use next and narrow down a possible victim.
The chaotic organization of the forensics team burrowed into his head, and he mentally pulled out before he had a chance to dive deep enough. Damn it. He needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could control the setting. His heart thundered hard behind his ears. Different MOs meant there was no pattern for them to follow. The killer didn’t have a preference in regard to the victim or a motive to want them dead. Whoever had killed Kara Flood and this possible second victim simply believed he could do his heroes’ work better. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
Nicholas ended the call, all too aware of Aubrey standing behind him.
“Are you all right?” Her voice, more sincere than he wanted it to be, slid through him and battled to soothe the haunted memories he carried from his previous cases. She maneuvered into his peripheral vision, concern and compassion clear in the way she tentatively reached toward him but never made contact. “I’ll get you some water.” She retraced her steps toward her apartment door, her luggage still in hand.
He curled one hand under her arm to stop her from leaving, and the buzz in his head died in an instant. His heart rate dropped. His breathing evened out. “I’m fine. It’s...” Nicholas pried his hand from her arm, and the buzz in his head returned. Her hypnotic honey-colored gaze settled on him, encouraging him to explain. “I have a unique way of profiling killers. It’s kind of like dropping into a meditation. Nothing exists for me outside what I see in my head, and I get disoriented if I pull out too quickly.”
“Like when divers surface from deep water too quickly, they get the bends.” Not a question, and a completely accurate comparison. Aubrey stepped toward him, raising her hands to his face. “You’re able to disassociate yourself from everyone and everything around you. I’ve read psychological journals detailing the theory. Deep meditation has many benefits for the brain and physical body. May I?”
He nodded, not really sure what she was asking his permission for until she set her fingers around his neck. She tested his pulse at the base of his throat, and the warmth of her skin anchored him to the moment.
“Headaches, dizziness, disorientation, ringing in your ears, that kind of thing?” Aubrey raised her index finger a few inches from his nose, and he followed it back and forth. “Are you experiencing any of them now?”
Amazement spread through him as he ran a mental check through his entire body. He was beginning to see why the killer had come here, to take something of hers in an effort to get close. “Not in the least.”
* * *
THERE WAS ANOTHER victim out there.
She’d overheard Nicholas’s call with Agent West. A photo of a woman had been recovered after the BAU had located Koko in the back of a cargo van mere feet from the perimeter of the scene where she’d found Kara.
“We’ll be at the safe house in a few minutes,” Nicholas said. “You’ll be able to rest, get something to eat, clean up.”
“I don’t need to rest. I need to find who killed my sister.” Questioning the doorman of her building hadn’t resulted in any new leads. Coulter Loxley specifically remembered an ambulance pulling up to the doors in response to a 9-1-1 call on the floor below hers around the time Nicholas had narrowed down the killer’s entry into her building. He’d let the emergency responders inside without hesitation, leaving whoever’d taped the map to her door to use the distraction to his advantage. Only afterward had the EMTs informed him the call had been a hoax. No one on the floor below had needed emergency attention. At least, not that they’d been able to confirm. And the footage from the cameras positioned around the lobby between 10:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m. last night had been compromised despite security’s insistence that was impossible.
Aubrey curled her fingers into her palms, traces of his body heat still absorbed into her hands as they drove away from her loft through the blurred streets of the city. She hadn’t been a practicing physician for three years, but helping those in need had been the reason she’d gone to medical school to study pathology in the first place. Nicholas had needed her help. Disorientation, slightly slurred speech. She stared down at her fingers and forced herself to release her grip. Crescent-moon indents lingered near the base of her palms.
A few seconds. That was all it’d taken to exterminate the cold deep that’d settled behind her sternum when she’d measured his pulse under her bare fingers. It’d been erratic and thready, as though he’d woken from a nightmare, his skin slightly filmed with sweat, yet he’d been conscious. Highly insightful, perceptive, even cerebral, Nicholas James wasn’t like any other FBI agent she’d worked with in her tenure as Seattle’s chief medical examiner. The muscles along her throat constricted, and she blinked back the involuntarily emotion burning in her eyes. If it
weren’t for Kara, she never would’ve made the career change from research into clinical practice. Ironic now that Aubrey would use that hands-on knowledge to find her sister’s killer. “I used to make my sister pretend to be a corpse when we were little.”
The weight of Nicholas’s full attention landed on her, and her heart rate ticked up a few notches. “Is that one of those weird sayings you spout when you’re in a stressful situation, or did you actually make your sister pretend to be a corpse?”
“Kara would stage her death all over the house, and it was my job to figure out how she’d died. It was a game we played. We called it Murder-Suicide. I was very good at discovering cause of death. It’s one of the reasons why I became a medical examiner.” A humorless smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as the memories washed over her. “One morning, I woke up and found her asleep with her head in the oven in an apparent suicide, but I proved it was murder.”
Nicholas cringed, sinking lower in his seat with one hand still on the wheel. “What the hell kind of house did you grow up in?”
“My parents encouraged us to explore all kinds of knowledge. My father was a science teacher at the local high school, and my mother was an anthropologist.” Her pride echoed in her own ears. “They ensured we followed a career path that would make us happy.”
“And cutting up dead people makes you happy?” he asked.
The convulsion in her gut hit as though he’d physically attacked her. “Being a pathologist isn’t solely about cutting up dead people, Agent James. It’s about learning how disease works inside the human body so vaccinations can be made. It’s about giving loved ones answers as to why their family member passed away in his sleep. It’s about helping bring a murderer to justice by studying how he attacked his victim, how much force he used and whether or not it was a crime of passion or premeditated.”
Her sister’s words. Not many people understood her career choice—friends, extended family, the men she’d dated over the years—but Kara had. Up until the past few years, when they’d gotten into a habit of talking of nothing but their parents. No matter how hard Aubrey had tried, she and Kara couldn’t seem to connect as they had when they were children. Of all the people who should see the connection they had in common, she thought it would’ve been Nicholas. She took the bite out of her voice and stared out the window as loss charged up her throat. The roller coaster of grief would be a never-ending ride of pain—for years—and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “Kara was the one who convinced me to leave research and publishing to pursue more clinical work. She said if anyone could give the dead a voice, it would be me.”
Profiling a Killer Page 5