Two for Joy - Louise Collins Page 0,45
style. From strangling, to throat slitting. From a quick death, to a tortured one.
“He’s enjoying it.” Romeo said.
The DI, Zac, and Gareth slowly took their seats.
“Serial killers all enjoy it.” Gareth said, “You enjoy it.”
Romeo snorted. “Yes. Its pleasurable, powerful, euphoric, doing what my brain tells me it wants me to do, giving in to the monster’s demands. It’s a release for me. It feels good. It feels right.”
Gareth shook his head. “Jesus.”
“Listen to him,” Zac said.
“But this killer makes them helpless. He makes sure they feel what he does to them. He cuts, and slices, they’re small, he wants to do many, like he’s making art. The killing is the quick bit at the end, but the cutting, that’s what he enjoys, that’s what he makes last.”
The DI shoved Gareth’s arm. “Take this down.”
Romeo stopped, waited for Gareth to scribble some notes, then continued.
“He’s using a scalpel now, but at first it was his fists … blunt objects to make bruises. He didn’t like that, he couldn’t control what the bruises were gonna look like. Some dark green, others reddish. The scalpel shows he wanted to be in control, to make the bodies look how he wants them to.”
Romeo slid the photographs of five, four, and three back to the DI. He kept hold of two, the most recent and tapped his finger on the image.
“This is how he wants people to see the body.”
Zac grimaced, then looked away. “But it’s messy.”
“The cuts are exact, deeper in some places. He favors the sides, likes the blood to run down in lines. Perfect curves, and straight lines, he’s practicing drawing with the blade. The killer likes blood, and he likes an open, gory wound. He wants it to be horrific.”
“It is horrific.” Gareth said.
“It’s someone inspired by me. Someone who likes to be in control, perhaps even feels like they’ve lost it, and this—this is somehow giving it back. Someone who likes the sight, the smell,” Romeo tapped the photo. “He could probably even taste it if he was close enough.”
“What?”
“Blood.” Romeo said. “Gore, the gruesome. He celebrates it.”
“Since when were you a criminal profiler?” Gareth said.
Romeo leaned back in his chair. “I had an interest in serial killers when I was growing up.”
They all stared at him.
“An interest in serial killers?” Zac whispered.
“I know what you think of me, that I’m sick, twisted, evil, and I think the same. I always felt it, I felt wrong, so very wrong, but I knew there must’ve been others that felt like me, too. A family of my own.”
“Family? What do you mean?”
“My mother used to be so proud when I went to the library. Her son, going above and beyond for his education. Most teenagers would’ve been in the park, smoking weed, drinking, but not me. I went to the library to study … but she didn’t know what I was studying. Didn’t know I spent all my time in the real crime section. Reading up on killers. The only people I could relate to.”
“Is that why…”
“No. It’s not why. My brain isn’t wired right, that’s why. I went to the library to read about killers because I always knew one day I was gonna be one. It was in my biology, but reading about them didn’t make me one. I just found my team … my side. My family.”
“Your family?”
“The bad vs the good. It was a relief there were others like me. Not killing because of jealousy, or money, or hatred, but killing because they were born with a need to do it.”
“But this guy,” the DI said, “whoever he is. Reading about you could’ve made him do this, pushed him firmly onto the bad side, made him take action, and he’s got Chad.”
Romeo looked down at number two. “I know, and I’m rooting for you over him. I need you to find this killer to save Chad.”
The DI narrowed his eyes. “But why?”
“I need Chad to live.”
Chapter Fourteen
The killer had Chad.
That was all he could think.
The only thought in his head days after the DI had visited.
Romeo was trapped behind bars, doors, locks, endless obstacles separating him from finding Chad. Boredom and despair festered in his mind. He couldn’t eat, or sleep, or do anything but think the same tormenting thought.
The killer had Chad.
He’d had him for a week. Seven days. 168 hours.
The DI hadn’t contacted him. He’d been locked away, forced to watch the case unfold on the TV. Most of the time he avoided watching the