killing them expeditiously . . . Feels to me like our killer’s primary goal isn’t venting displaced rage or satisfying twisted sexual cravings but to carefully and judiciously harvest strips of flesh. Which, theoretically speaking, means we’re looking for a socially awkward homicidal maniac with a fetish for collecting human skin. Sound good?”
Everyone nodded.
D.D. continued: “Except here’s the problem: Two problems, actually. One, my shoulder. Meet Melvin,” she introduced her injured left arm to her squad. “And two, the scene upstairs. Returning to problem number one and assuming for a moment our perpetrator is a male, since when does an antisocial skin collector have the balls to personally revisit his first crime scene? Crawling under the police tape, an act that would certainly call attention to himself, if not lead automatically to his arrest. Let alone, confront the female lead investigator of the case, and in some way I can’t yet remember but someday will, shove said investigator down the stairs? Those are some pretty bold moves for a killer who only attacks sleeping women.”
Alex pursed his lips. Slowly, Phil and Neil nodded.
“Same goes with the little scene staged upstairs. Suddenly, Mr. Antisocial is breaking into a cop’s house? In broad daylight? Staging his wardrobe and vehicle to appear as if with a security company, waltzing right through the front door, then leaving his personal calling cards next to my bed? I mean, the level of social engineering, let alone pure gamesmanship . . .” D.D. scowled, twitched her icing shoulder uncomfortably in the hard-backed chair. “Seems to me the same predator who’s interested in this level of direct confrontation and just plain nah, nah, na, nah, nah, na is not the same guy who’d be content to ambush women in their sleep. So I’m wondering, especially given the lack of sexual assault and detailed physical description, maybe our killer is a woman, a female collector obsessed with human skin.” She couldn’t help herself; she thought immediately of Shana Day.
“For a woman, attacking other women would be more of an equal playing field,” Phil spoke up. “So not a socially awkward, low-self-esteem predator, but a female prepared to do whatever she has to do to pursue her compulsion. For someone like that, targeting the lead investigator, engaging in gamesmanship, wouldn’t even be so much of a stretch—especially if she perceives you as threatening to come between her and what she wants most, which is additions to her collection.”
“Except the card upstairs read, Get well soon,” Alex muttered. “If D.D.’s presence is a threat to our killer, why encourage her speedy recovery?”
“And the killer could be male,” Neil spoke up. “Just saying, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves on this one.”
“The house was dark,” Phil said abruptly. Then he flushed, and that’s when D.D. understood what he meant. That house, the first crime scene, where she had plunged down the stairs. Phil had been one of the first detectives to find her. “When we got there,” he continued awkwardly now, “lights were out. Scene was quiet. We didn’t think anyone was there. Including you.”
He glanced at D.D. “Maybe the killer didn’t know you were there, either. He or she thought the scene was safe to revisit. Except, of course, it wasn’t.”
“I surprised the killer,” she whispered.
“Who retaliated by pushing you down the stairs,” Alex continued. “Who maybe even assumed you had plunged to your doom. Except no articles appeared in the paper about a dead detective found at the scene of a crime.”
D.D. frowned at him. “No articles appeared about an injured detective, either, right? The fact I’m incapacitated, indeed, must get well soon . . .”
They all paused, the implication sinking in.
D.D. said it first. “The killer found me. Has been watching. Only way he or she could know about my injuries.”
“No,” Alex said, voice suddenly firm.
“What do you mean—”
“It’s been six, seven weeks since your injury. Six, seven weeks where you’ve heard nothing. Till today. You tell me, what changed in the past twenty-four hours? Where have you been?”
And then she got it. “The second murder. A new crime scene—”
“Which you visited,” he goaded.
“Which I visited,” she agreed.
“The killer was there,” Phil supplied. “Still watching the scene, still checking things out. Another note for the file.” He turned to Neil. “Our guy, or gal, is a watcher. That could help us, definitely help us.”
Neil nodded, made a note. “But if the killer is a collector, why revisit the scenes? Isn’t that something normally done by sexual sadist predators to