Casanova – Chapter Fifteen


Chapter Fifteen


“Hey, Chris,” Bo greeted, holding out his right hand.

Chris smiled, shaking the blonde’s hand. “Bo. Good to see you again. Which one’s this?” he questioned, holding up his hand as Castor reached for him.

“This would be Castor.”

“Hey, Cas,” Chris whispered. “He’s adorable, Bo,” he said as Castor wrapped his hand around Chris’s pinky.

“Thank you,” Bo said softly.

“Of course.” Chris turned, extending his hand. “Jensen.”

Jensen swallowed before grasping the man’s hand. “Agent Cross.”

“You can call me Chris.” Jensen only nodded. Chris shook Jacob’s hand before his gaze shifted to Ryan’s face. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Detective Ryan Jass,” Ryan said, shaking Chris’s hand. “I am very new to CPD.”

“Welcome aboard, then,” Chris said. “Shall we get on with the case?”

Bo nodded. “Yes, of course. You can all have a seat and we’ll get started.” He set a folder down in front of each of the five men seated at the table. At the other end of the room, he sat down in front of his laptop, setting Castor on his lap. “Hanna Davidson is our first victim. On Saturday, February thirteenth, she spent her evening at Ivory Hill. She bought her first drink around six, her second around seven, and her third around seven-thirty. After this, there are no more purchases made from her debit card.

“Sometime between seven-forty and eight o’clock, a man came up to her and introduced himself as Joel. It’s assumed that he probably bought her a drink and chatted her up afterward. The bartender at Ivory Hill that night, William, was kind enough to search through the records that evening, but no ‘Joel’ has appeared on any of the bills or receipts. Since we aren’t certain whether or not the man did buy her a drink, nor do we do what time he would’ve bought one at, it would be entirely illogical to search through for men who could possibly be our killer. Eventually, maybe, but not now.

“On Sunday evening, Miss Davidson’s body was found between six forty-five and six-fifty. It’s suspected that she was killed sometime between three and five that evening. Estimates are incredibly rough, thanks to the snow and the cold. Miss Davidson did, however, have a point-one-zero blood alcohol content.”

“How’s that compare to victim one back in Jersey?” Thomas asked.

“Point-three-one,” Bo said.

“Way past the legal limit,” Jacob said quietly. “What’s that do to a person?”

Bo cleared his throat, gently swinging his chair side to side. “It runs risks of loss of consciousness, life-threatening alcohol poisoning, and death from the body’s suppression of vital life functions.”

“She didn’t get a chance to fight back,” Chris said.

“Right. He didn’t want her to fight back. It was his first kill, and all of the cuts to her body were hesitant, unsure. He was nervous back in 2000 when he killed in Jersey,” Bo explained. “In New Jersey, the victim had long, painted nails. With Miss Davidson, they’ve been cut short, left jagged, and the nail polish is chipped. She scratched him. She fought back.” He glanced down at Castor, who was asleep and nursing a pacifier. Bo reached out and tapped the spacebar on his laptop.

“Jesus Christ,” Chris whispered as an image of Hanna appeared on the screen behind Bo.

“Hanna Davidson. Like I said, she fought back. She has defensive wounds on her hands, arm, legs, and feet. She tried to do everything she could to knock the knife out of his hands, to protect herself. Not counting defensive wounds, she was cut seventy-six times before he sliced her femoral artery,” Bo said, tapping his index finger against the spacebar, switching the picture to a photocopy of Ellen Briggs’s driver’s license.

“Victim two. Detective Ellen Briggs of the Chesterwick Police Department,” Bo said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Monday, February fifteenth, Miss Briggs was at The Hourglass, a bar in Chesterwick. She bought her first drink around six-thirty, and she bought two more a little after seven. This is presumably when our casanova approached her at the bar. After this point, she didn’t buy anything else.

“We haven’t been to the bar yet, so I’m unaware of whether or not the bartender managed to overhear how the man introduced himself. On Tuesday, around five in the evening, Ellen Briggs’s body was discovered. She had been cut eighty-two times. She bled out after the wound to her abdomen,” Bo said, tapping the spacebar to switch to an image of the cut in question. “Again, defensive wounds on the arms and hands. BAC of point-one-one. Both women had been handcuffed at some point in the night or the next day, but I don’t believe it was something done while he was working on his, uh, his knifework. The wounds themselves are done with a six-inch clip blade. Currently, that’s all I have.”

“What age range are we looking at?” Chris asked. “In your opinion, anyway.”

“A white male in his mid to late forties,” Bo said, closing the lid of his laptop. “I’ve run through every single victim in New Jersey. They were all white females. The two women in Clinstone have been white. It wouldn’t make sense for anyone to kill that many people outside of their race, especially since his first victim was also a white woman.”

“Anything else?” Thomas asked.

“On the killer? No. I’ve been focused on the victims,” Bo said. “But now you’re here, and you’re still the FBI’s secret weapon when it comes to profiling.” He smiled faintly, carefully picking up Castor as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sure you can figure out a better profile than I could, Tom. He is, however, incredibly careful. He cuts their nails, scrubs their hands clean. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he won’t even entertain the idea of getting because of a little mistake. Meticulous, I suppose is a better word.” A shrug. “Conscientious. He pays attention to the details, and he’ll continue to do so until we catch him.”

“The right guy, this time,” Thomas muttered as he stood up. “New Jersey. We’re leaving at ten-thirty. If you two are coming, get your things around and ready,” he said before he and Chris walked out of the conference room.

“Do you want me to stay here?” Jensen asked.

“It’s up to you,” Bo said.

“That’s not an answer, Bo,” Jensen said. He stood up, pushing his chair in. “Do you want me to stay here?”

“Honest opinion?” Bo asked. The younger man nodded. “You should go with. Being around for all the detective work is a good experience.”

Jensen smiled faintly. “Okay.” He leaned down and kissed the blonde softly. “I’m gonna go pack up a few things at my desk. I’ll check back in before we leave, okay?”

“Sounds good, love.”

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