that word means.”
John smirked. Then he lifted his hand from where he’d flicked her and gestured at the computer. “At your leisure, American Princess.”
Adele rolled her eyes and scanned through the rest of the report. Sometimes it was hard for her to tell if John was flirting or just trying to annoy her. The tall, handsome agent had always looked like a James Bond villain. He had a burn mark that stretched down from the edge of his chin along his neck toward his muscled chest. His hair was often combed, and slicked with gel, with a few loose strands over his forehead.
“Victims don’t seem the same at all,” John said, some of the amusement fading from his tone. He tapped a finger to the screen. “Died the same way though.”
Adele read the indicated portion of the report and nodded. “I don’t see the connection,” she said. “The first one is a German farmer. He’s what, in his fifties? And then here, the French sommelier, mid-twenties. Different educational backgrounds, different languages, different countries. Different ethnicity. I don’t get it.”
John pointed a bit further down the screen. “Same MO, though. It’s the same killer. Too much of a coincidence otherwise.”
“I suppose.” Adele trailed off, reading the details for the third time in the same quick flight. The airplane around them trembled a bit with turbulence, and Adele heard rattling trays and the quiet gasp that always accompanied first class in mild weather. She ignored it. She’d flown enough in her life to not get alarmed by a little bit of wind. “Needle marks. Both of them, on their left arms.”
John nodded. “Throat slit, bled out. Seems obvious. He sedates them with injections, and then kills them.”
Adele wrinkled her nose, scanning to the bottom of the document and flipping through the pictures from the victims—the least pleasant part of the job. But as she scanned, she slowly shook her head. “The needle was small. But why sedate them, if you’re just going to cut their throats? There’s no torture.”
John winced. “Sexual assault?”
She shook her head. “None visible. Doesn’t seem like that either.”
“Would be strange if so. Such different victims. If the killer was using them for sadistic pleasure, he certainly doesn’t have a type.”
“That’s a morbid thought. But… he’s almost humane towards his victims.” Adele shook her head, scanning the last few items of the report. Then, once finished, she slowly lowered her laptop lid and stared at the backrest in front of her. Again, John tried to flick her knuckles, but this time she was too quick, and she slammed the laptop on his fingers.
He yelped and jerked his hand back. “Serves you right,” she muttered. “Especially after throwing me under the bus with Foucault.”
John shrugged petulantly. “Not my fault you’re off yelling at factory workers.”
“It was nothing,” she said, curtly.
She could now feel his gaze burrowing into the side of her cheek. But she refused to look at him. Not even John knew about her side investigation—she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t shared. Somehow, it simply felt too personal.
Adele exhaled slowly, reaching up to fiddle with the small air conditioning nozzle above her. She thought about the case again, mulling over the details. Why would the killer inject his victims, sedate them, just to slit their throats later? Why not just cut their throats to begin with? It didn’t make much sense. If he wanted to play with his victims, then the sedation made sense. Adele had seen a similar MO on her first case back in France, but then the killer had tortured his victims. He had gotten off on it. This time, though, there was something almost clinical about the cuts. The least amount of pain possible. Almost, and the word barely applied, but it almost felt humane. As if the killer had wanted to sedate them so they didn’t know they were going to be killed. This didn’t fit with anything she knew about psychopaths.
“What are you thinking?” John asked.
She leaned back in the airplane chair, pressing her head against the cushioned headrest. She tried to close her eyes, to focus, and inhaled slowly. “Seems procedural,” she said, softly. “Clinical. I don’t think he’s a sadist. I don’t think he’s getting off on it.”
“Then why kill them?”
“A German farmer, a French sommelier,” Adele said. “Why kill them indeed. I guess that’s the question.”
She listened to the buzz and hum of the airplane, another quiet rattle as they made their way out of turbulence, and the subsequent sigh