those traits couldn't possibly prompt a serial killer to change his behavior and make himself more difficult to catch. They were overlooking one crucial fact. Their assumptions were based on the assholes who got caught.
He turned the chain in his hand, let it twist slowly. Spinning round and round, it reminded him of those afternoons in his garage as a curious teenager. His own body suspended by the neck, hanging for as long as it took to lose consciousness, then falling to the ground with the release of the rope. For added effect he had taken to twisting the cord like a kid on a tire swing. He could spin as fast or as slow as he wanted, depending on how tightly he wound it. Just an added rush for the average fifteen-year-old boy hanging by the neck with an erection to be proud of.
Carefully, almost lovingly, he lowered the gold chain back into the box. It coiled into a felt-lined compartment, next to a pair of earrings. A pearl necklace. A wristwatch. A ring. Each piece brought back its own memory. The ring, however, was a sea of mixed emotions.
It had belonged to someone special.
He closed the lid on the jewelry box and stepped toward the bed. On bended knee he pulled a late manila envelope from between the mattress and the box spring. He emptied it on the bedspread, spilling a collection of Polaroid snapshots. Mostly young women, a. few men. Some naked, some clothed. Frightened faces mixed in with peaceful expressions. It all depended on whether it was before or after.
He stared down at them and a heat rose from within him. It was cool in the room, but he was beginning to perspire. Such were his powers of concentration. He was focused on the details of each deadly pose. The position of the hands. The tilt of the head. The display of the victim. This wasn't simple reminiscing. He regarded these photos not as windows to the past but as blueprints--for the future. It all had to be perfect.
He left the photos neatly arranged on the bed beside him and crawled beneath the covers. Naked and somewhat aroused, he checked the clock on the nightstand. Not quite four P . M . Just enough time to revel in his fantasy. Then to work.
He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
Chapter Thirteen.
Andie didn't normally fret over what people thought about her, but Victoria was different. Competition for a spot with the elite ISU was almost prohibitive. A good word from Victoria could go a long way. A bad word would slam the door.
In truth, Andie wanted more than just one woman's approval. Certain colleagues in the office refused to let her wedding disaster die quietly. Just today some jerk had left a doctored photocopy of the FBI shield in her in-box with the FBI motto--Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity--changed to Infidelity, etc. Though it was the groom who had slept with the maid of honor, the joke was on the bride who had announced it at the ceremony. A bang-up job as profile coordinator might silence the morons at the watercooler.
Victoria had seemed mildly impressed by Andie's torture analysis at the task force meeting, which was borne out by the photographs from Minneapolis. But without so much as a word to Andie, she had spent the rest of the day studying the files alone in a small, windowless office that was the perfect home-away-from-home for a special agent from the ISU. The Investigative Support Unit was quite literally buried beneath the earth back at the FBI Academy in Quantico, two stories below the gun vault.
By four o'clock Andie figured it was time to get a rea d o n Victoria's thinking. That was a dangerous prospect, considering the amount of time Victoria spent thinking like a serial killer. Undaunted, Andie walked down the hall and knocked on the door.
It opened. Victoria was blurry-eyed behind her reading glasses. "Yes?"
"Sorry to interrupt," said Andie. "But have you got a minute?"
Victoria seemed distracted but stepped aside and let her in. Crime-scene photographs were spread across the table, like
He turned the chain in his hand, let it twist slowly. Spinning round and round, it reminded him of those afternoons in his garage as a curious teenager. His own body suspended by the neck, hanging for as long as it took to lose consciousness, then falling to the ground with the release of the rope. For added effect he had taken to twisting the cord like a kid on a tire swing. He could spin as fast or as slow as he wanted, depending on how tightly he wound it. Just an added rush for the average fifteen-year-old boy hanging by the neck with an erection to be proud of.
Carefully, almost lovingly, he lowered the gold chain back into the box. It coiled into a felt-lined compartment, next to a pair of earrings. A pearl necklace. A wristwatch. A ring. Each piece brought back its own memory. The ring, however, was a sea of mixed emotions.
It had belonged to someone special.
He closed the lid on the jewelry box and stepped toward the bed. On bended knee he pulled a late manila envelope from between the mattress and the box spring. He emptied it on the bedspread, spilling a collection of Polaroid snapshots. Mostly young women, a. few men. Some naked, some clothed. Frightened faces mixed in with peaceful expressions. It all depended on whether it was before or after.
He stared down at them and a heat rose from within him. It was cool in the room, but he was beginning to perspire. Such were his powers of concentration. He was focused on the details of each deadly pose. The position of the hands. The tilt of the head. The display of the victim. This wasn't simple reminiscing. He regarded these photos not as windows to the past but as blueprints--for the future. It all had to be perfect.
He left the photos neatly arranged on the bed beside him and crawled beneath the covers. Naked and somewhat aroused, he checked the clock on the nightstand. Not quite four P . M . Just enough time to revel in his fantasy. Then to work.
He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
Chapter Thirteen.
Andie didn't normally fret over what people thought about her, but Victoria was different. Competition for a spot with the elite ISU was almost prohibitive. A good word from Victoria could go a long way. A bad word would slam the door.
In truth, Andie wanted more than just one woman's approval. Certain colleagues in the office refused to let her wedding disaster die quietly. Just today some jerk had left a doctored photocopy of the FBI shield in her in-box with the FBI motto--Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity--changed to Infidelity, etc. Though it was the groom who had slept with the maid of honor, the joke was on the bride who had announced it at the ceremony. A bang-up job as profile coordinator might silence the morons at the watercooler.
Victoria had seemed mildly impressed by Andie's torture analysis at the task force meeting, which was borne out by the photographs from Minneapolis. But without so much as a word to Andie, she had spent the rest of the day studying the files alone in a small, windowless office that was the perfect home-away-from-home for a special agent from the ISU. The Investigative Support Unit was quite literally buried beneath the earth back at the FBI Academy in Quantico, two stories below the gun vault.
By four o'clock Andie figured it was time to get a rea d o n Victoria's thinking. That was a dangerous prospect, considering the amount of time Victoria spent thinking like a serial killer. Undaunted, Andie walked down the hall and knocked on the door.
It opened. Victoria was blurry-eyed behind her reading glasses. "Yes?"
"Sorry to interrupt," said Andie. "But have you got a minute?"
Victoria seemed distracted but stepped aside and let her in. Crime-scene photographs were spread across the table, like
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