Chapter Four

9 February 2005

Wednesday

New York

“I’m still running her prints through the system and hoping for a match, but I have a few things figured out besides that,” Brian Brown said. He flipped through a notebook in search of the right page as he started talking, “Umm, let’s see… She was killed on Monday sometime around six in the evening. No drugs in her system, but she was definitely chloroformed sometime before she died. I imagine she wasn’t killed in her own home, so, uh, this CGK chloroformed her so that he could easily transport her somewhere else, somewhere much more private, I would assume.”

“Like a kill room,” Holden Cruz said.

Brian offered a nod. “That’s the idea, yeah. For obvious reasons, nowhere but a designated kill room would be prepared for what this CGK planned to do to her.”

“Do you have anything on the… mutilations?” Holden asked.

Brian sighed. “Not much. Not yet, anyway. I’m getting there. I know that, more than likely, the cut up the torso and the one beneath her rib cage were done with the same knife. The one from her eye socket to her jaw was probably done with a smaller knife. He would’ve needed something easier to twist, easier to drag over the curve of the face without losing the control he had over the blade.

“I honestly believe a pair of scissors was used for the tongue. It looks more… blunt than it does sharp,” he said. He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. His gunmetal blue eyes looked dull; he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. He had seen a lot of bad in his line of work, but what this CGK had done was on an entirely new level. “The hip carving… That’s, like, one of those loop tools that’s used in a pottery class, and I’m pretty sure her eyes were taken out with a grapefruit spoon, based on the scraping pattern on the top of the orbital cavity,” he said.

Brian scrubbed a hand over his face. “But I’m still running tests on her, and I’m working through some trial runs to see if I can find out what kind of tool was used for every mark on her body.”

Kathleen Engvall looked at the victim’s corpse for only a moment before Brian reached out and pulled the sheet over the young woman’s face. “She wasn’t his first kill… was she?”

Brian shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said quietly. “The only difference between Jane Doe here and the other victims is that we haven’t found the others.”

“Or we found them back before he started signing his work,” Holden suggested.

Brian seemed to consider the idea for a moment before he simply nodded. “Holden, you may be onto something.” He smiled faintly, and it almost felt like relief to the analyst. “I think that could be a lead. I guess I would start going through old case photos if I were you.”

Holden nodded. “We will. Good a place to start as any. Thanks, Brian.”

***

The man leaned back against the counter, listening to the coffee drip into the glass pot of the coffee maker. He reached out and turned up the volume dial on the small television sandwiched into the corner of the kitchen counter. He didn’t much care about the news when it revolved around him. He loved his work, but not enough to be one of those killers that cut out newspaper articles and made a scrapbook of their evil.

Still, it was interesting to see the media continuing to obsess over his kill. They had a source in the police station, as far as he could tell, one that was feeding them information regarding the woman’s autopsy and time of death and state of undress.

Poor Christine hadn’t been identified yet.

He shook his head, reaching out to turn down the volume again. The last time he had watched the news in New York, footage of the planes and the Twin Towers had been on every single channel, practically stuck on continuous loop. It had been impossible to get away from.

Now he was the thing impossible to get away from. Now he was on every channel.

He smiled. He wasn’t obsessed with himself by any means, but seeing his work on New York’s televised front pages was… thrilling.

***

“We’ve already been over this a million times with you guys.”

“Yes, I know. I know it can be irritating,” Holden said. “But we need you to tell us how you found her one more time.”

The boy sighed. “Me and my friend were gonna jump into the water, see who could stand the cold the longest.”

“Even though it was still partially frozen?” Kathleen asked.

“Look, when you’re gonna do something dumb, you do something dumb, frozen lake or not,” the boy said.

“And what made you change your mind?”

“Saw that woman in the water. I pulled him back and ran to the payphone ‘round back to call the cops.”

“And you didn’t touch her?” Kathleen asked.

“God, no.”

“What about your friend? Did he touch her?” Holden questioned.

“No, he stayed on the damn bridge.”

“So neither of you checked to see if she was alive?” Kathleen asked.

“We could see her damn face and body from the bridge. We didn’t…” The boy trailed off, shivering. “You guys saw what someone did to her. I didn’t have to go down there to know she didn’t survive that.”

Holden nodded. “Thank you. That’s all we need.” The boy nodded and headed back inside, closing the door behind him. Holden let out a breath, tucking his notepad and pen back into his suit jacket. “We should question his friend again.”

“He’s gonna say the same damn thing.”

“I know. Gives us something better to do than sit on our asses until she’s ID’d,” Holden said.

Kathleen nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

Chapter Three

Washington D.C.

Chris Cross clapped a hand down on Thomas Smalls’s shoulder, a wide grin on his face. “I scored a date at Trinity with my lady friend tonight,” Chris said. “Thanks.”

Thomas rolled his eyes as he powered down his computer. Still, despite his general annoyance at his partner and best friend, he offered a simple, “You’re welcome, Applesauce.” Chris’s jade green eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree. Thomas tilted his head back to get a better look at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“What? Oh, no reason.”

Thomas pushed himself out of his chair. He was only two inches shorter than Chris, so it wasn’t that hard to look the other man in the eye. “Who the hell are you taking out tonight?” he asked.

“None of your business, Tommy-boy.”

“It’s my sister, isn’t it?”

Chris scoffed, “No.”

“God, you’re an idiot. She’s not going to sleep with you.”

“Come on! Can’t you put in a good word for me?” Chris asked.

It was Thomas’s turn to scoff. “What in God’s name would I tell her? That I think you’re great in bed? Because that’s sending an entirely different message out than the one you want her to pick up on,” he said.

“Okay, okay. First of all, if I was going to sleep with a man, it wouldn’t be you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Second of all, just tell her I’m a great guy!” Chris exclaimed. “Women love that shit! Good vibes or whatever.”

“I’m an agent, not a liar,” Thomas said. “You know, no offense.”

“You… you’re hilarious, Smalls.”

“I do my best.” Thomas grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “I’m not going to help you sleep with my little sister,” he said.

“It’s not like I want to date her.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m not helping you, Christopher.” Thomas lifted his gaze to Chris’s face. “My sister isn’t one of your toys, Chris. I’ve held my tongue with all of your other rendezvous because that isn’t any of my business, but my little sister’s a completely different story. She’s my family, and that officially makes it my damn business.”

“So… you’d prefer that I be dating her?” Chris asked.

“No, Chris, I’d prefer you dump her and break her heart,” Thomas said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Take someone else out. Let her down now instead of after you sleep with her. You destroy too many women that way, and I’m taking her side if you hurt her, no questions asked.”

“I’ll date her.”

Thomas scoffed. “You can’t date anyone, Chris. I’ve met you.”

“I could try. I just haven’t found a girl that holds my interests enough for it. But I could try.”

“Yes, let my sister be your guinea pig.” Thomas shoved Chris back a step. “You do whatever you want, but if she comes crying to me, I’ll kick your ass.”

Chris straightened himself out and saluted Thomas. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Despite himself, Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Chris.”

Chris smiled. “Night, Tom.”

***

“Hi, Daddy,” Olivia Smalls greeted as she walked into the living room.

Thomas looked up and smiled at his eldest daughter. “Hey, Pumpkin,” he greeted.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” she asked. The girl was eleven years old and just below the average height for her fellow peers, with sky-blue eyes and long blonde hair. The stunning eyes came from Thomas, but the soft, beautiful hair was all Mom.

“Just something for work, Pumpkin.” He closed the case file, knowing that his daughter would be more than willing to come peek at crime scene photos if he gave her the chance. “What’re you up to?”

“Can we get pizza?” she asked.

Thomas raised a brow at her obvious dodge of the question. “Maybe.”

“Please?”

Oliver Smalls, Olivia’s twin, ran into the room, skidding to a stop beside his sister. He folded an arm on top of her head, causing her to frown. “Hey, Dad.”

“Son, get your arm off her head. It’s rude,” Thomas said as he pushed himself to his feet. Oliver dropped his arm back to his side. Thomas frowned. The house was incredibly quiet, something that was never exactly a good thing in the Smalls household. “Where’s Triple Threat?”

Oliver threw his hands behind his back. “I dunno.”

Thomas turned to Olivia. “Hey, Pumpkin.”

“Daddy,” Olivia whined. “I’m not a tattletale.”

Thomas chuckled. “Okay, Pumpkin. Fair enough. Children!” he called.

Laura Smalls was the first one in the living room, quickly followed by Lucas and Liam. They were six years old, triplets, and the boys had done a terrific job of getting themselves into trouble at every turn. Lucas and Liam shared the same brown hair, while Laura had incredibly blonde hair. While Lucas had sapphire blue eyes, Liam and Laura shared the same ice blue color. Although the two boys stood strong and tall, Laura looked nervous.

Thomas squatted down in front of her. “Hey, Kitten.” She lowered her eyes to the floor. “Laura, where’s your sister?” he asked.

“I dunno,” she whispered.

“Kitten,” Thomas repeated. He tucked her blonde hair back behind her ear. “Come on, Laura. Where is she?”

“Lucas locked her in the bedroom closet!” Laura exclaimed.

“I did not!”

“Did, too!”

“Pumpkin, you’re in charge,” Thomas said as he rose to his feet. “Stay in this room, got it? And don’t let them out of your sight.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Olivia said with a nod.

Thomas headed upstairs and opened the door to the bedroom Lucas and Liam shared. He pulled open the closet door. Rose Smalls, a three-year-old with chocolate brown eyes and brown hair, grinned up at him. “Hey, Sunshine,” Thomas greeted.

“Daddy!” Rose exclaimed, holding out her hands.

Thomas picked her up and carried her back downstairs. He walked into the living room, Rose on his hip. “You’re all going to regret what you did to your sister when your mother gets home.”

“Please don’t tell Mom!” Lucas exclaimed. “She was messing with my stuff!”

“You don’t shut a toddler in a closet, Lucas. It’s not nice, and it’s just plain wrong.”

“Daddy! Just ground him,” Olivia said.

“I, uh… That’s for your mother to decide,” Thomas said. He bounced Rose up on his hip. “I’m ordering pizza. You guys… You behave.”

***

“Hey, lover.”

Thomas’s shoulders relaxed as his wife, Jeanette, wrapped her arms around him. “Hi,” he greeted, tilting his head back briefly to meet her eyes.

“Heard you had pizza.”

He rolled his eyes. “The kids had pizza. I watched.”

She laughed. “Kinda creepy, T.”

“I know.” He tilted his head back to actually, truly look at her this time. He smiled for only a moment before it fell from his face. “You’re late, Netty. What happened?” he asked.

“Car crash on two-ninety-five. Fifteen cars. Police said it was the ice,” she said.

“Christ. How many injured?”

“Well, when I left, there were eighteen. They were expecting two of them not to make it through the night,” she said. “We were swamped. Just… constantly in and out of the ER to meet the ambulances with another round of patients.” She sighed. “It’s just been a long night.”

“I’m sorry, Netty.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Her arms tightened around his shoulders. “What about you? How was your day?” she asked.

“Quintus case,” he said. “And Lucas shut Rose in the closet again.”

Jeanette let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll ground him. Again.” She kissed Thomas’s temple. “Is he up?”

“Yeah. He’s in his room.”

“Okay.” Lightly, she drummed her hands against Thomas’s shoulders. “You feeling okay, T? You’re pretty damn tense.”

Thomas sighed. “I’m good. Just…” He shrugged. “It’s February, Netty. Five more women will be kidnapped this month unless I can figure out more than the fact that the criminal is a white male,” he said. “I’ve been chasing this guy for a real long time, Netty, and I…” He let out a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it, T. This is gonna be your year,” she promised. She kissed him. “I’ll talk to Lucas, and then I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t stay up too late tonight,” she said softly.

Thomas reached back and squeezed her hand. “Okay, Netty. I love you.”

She smiled. “Love you, too, Tom.” Thomas listened to her footsteps until they faded into nothingness. Slowly, his gaze drifted back to the open case file on the table. There was something he was missing, something he couldn’t quite identify about the kidnapper. He didn’t know what it was. The complete modus operandi, maybe. It was entirely possible that he could’ve guessed the skin color wrong, but most serial killers—kidnappers—stayed within the confines of their own race, especially those lacking in confidence.

Lacking.

What in God’s name was he lacking?

Tom raked a hand through his brown hair before dropping both elbows to the dining room table. He lifted his right hand, his index finger resting against the side of his nose, his thumb touching the bottom of his chin.

Confidence. Why was he lacking confidence? Why was he kidnapping women? Why were their bodies never found?

A lack of confidence. That much, Thomas was sure of. Confidence was much more than an external expression of openness and extroversion. It was internal, too. A lack of it came through for a reason. A physical or emotional flaw could cause a lack of confidence, something almost paralyzing that took place inside a person to make them feel like they didn’t deserve to walk among the rest of the living.

A flaw. He was flawed. The kidnapper had a flaw, one that Thomas had missed somewhere along the way.

No bodies. Kidnappings. Five women every February. He was aging alongside them. It was why the age went up every single February. It wasn’t about fame or glory. It wasn’t about being feared or recognized. It wasn’t about being well-known. It was about something entirely different, something Thomas had never even considered, something Thomas had simply overlooked time and time again because of something as dangerous as his own personal bias.

Loneliness. February was a lonely month for a person that was all alone, a person like the serial kidnapper, a person that kidnapped women throughout the month of February and killed them when they no longer gave him the company he craved.

Women. A distant mother, most likely. Or dead, abusive, something along those lines. Once upon a time, Thomas had assumed the kidnapper was a scorned lover of some kind, but from the beginning, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe a child could feel scorned enough to murder five girls every year for twelve years.

An abusive mother, he had been able to believe. He still did. But February… February was definitely important.

Thomas felt like the pieces were fitting themselves together.

The picture had fixed itself, and Thomas knew what the missing color had been.

Gray, the color of sadness, depression, and loneliness.

It may not have been much, but Thomas had corrected the mistake, his paintbrush had finally been dipped in the right color, and the picture was coming together better now than it ever had been before.

Tomorrow, he’d go about searching the records for a whole new kind of person, a person that just screamed loneliness. Maybe Jeanette had been right. This was the year. This was his year, and the picture had finally been fixed.

Chapter Two

New York

            “What do we got?” NYPD Detective Holden Cruz asked as he ducked under the yellow police tape. On the other side, he held the tape up long enough for his partner, Detective Kathleen Engvall, to duck under as well.

Brian Brown, a man only an inch shorter than Holden, shook his head. “It’s not pretty, Detectives,” he said, shouting above the wind. He pulled off a glove, ran his hand through his black hair, and pulled the glove back on. “Body hadn’t been in the water long when we arrived. It was still floating when we got here, so… I wouldn’t say it’s been here for any more than an hour or two. Lungs haven’t filled with water yet.”

“So the victim wasn’t drowned?” Kathleen asked.

“No.” Brian shook his head. “Christ, I wish she had drowned. It would’ve been… so much better for her,” he said. On the bank of the river, Holden could make out Hannah Lovejoy’s crouched figure as she snapped pictures of the body, which had already been pulled up to the bank.

“Well, who found her?” Holden asked.

“Two dipshits that were going to jump from the bridge to see who could last the longest in the cold water,” Brian said. He shook his head, shivering. “Idiots are lucky. Water’s not even all the way thawed out yet. We’ve been below freezing every damn night since the last snow. It’s been thawing out for about a day and a half, but it came damn near refreezing completely last night. We’re sitting pretty at forty degrees now, but only the top foot or so is thawed out. They saw the body before they jumped. Surprised that managed to stop the morons, actually,” he said. “Come on!” he shouted. He walked backward so they could hear him as they made their way toward the scene. “She’s cut up pretty bad. If her prints aren’t in the system, I probably won’t be able to identify her easily. If we get lucky, she’s reported missing and I can run dental records against her teeth. If not…”

Holden nodded. “That’s fine!” he said above the wind. He pulled his jacket tighter around his neck in an attempt to fight the snow whipping at his face and neck. When they made it to the bank, Holden’s eyes widened. He and his partner were still relatively new to the homicide department, and this was certainly not something they had seen before.

“Oh, my God,” Kathleen whispered.

The victim was naked, lying face up in the snow. Brian squatted down beside the body and gestured for them to do the same. With a sigh, Holden did, quickly followed by Kathleen. “Judging by the bruising around each cut, I’d say the long cut up the torso came first,” Brian said. Being lower to the ground had thankfully gotten them out of the direct wind, eliminating the need to shout. “This one here, beneath the rib cage, I’d say that was next.”

Holden’s hazel eyes scanned the woman’s corpse, looking for a reason of any kind as to why someone would do something like this to another human being. “Okay,” he said quietly, lifting his gaze to Brian’s face.

Brian reached out and touched the deep cut beneath the victim’s left eye. His index finger traced it all the way down her cheek. “I think this was next. And then this, in the hip bone,” he said, moving his fingers to the wound in question.

“The fuck?” Holden asked, disbelief clear in his voice. “Those are letters.”

Brian nodded. “Right. It’s a signature of some kind. CGK,” he said.

“Do… do you know what it means?” Kathleen asked.

“No, but we’ll figure it out eventually,” Brian said. “I think the eyes came out next, and then it was most likely the tongue. I don’t know when she died. I won’t be able to figure that out until she’s in the morgue. I’ll be able to figure out a lot more about her and the monster that did this to her after I do the autopsy.”

Holden nodded. He lifted his head, thankful to look away from the corpse, even if only for a moment. “You done with pictures, Hannah?”

Hannah nodded. Her black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, thrashed in the wind. “I’m good. Move all you want,” she said. She rose to her feet, patted Holden on the shoulder. “Good luck, Cruz, Engvall. You’re sure as hell gonna need it.”

***

Holden slid into the driver’s seat of his cruiser and stuck the key in the ignition. Letting out a breath he could see in the cold air, he turned the key and reached out to turn on the heat. Kathleen sat in the passenger seat, hands held out in front of the vents.

Holden pulled the door closed, clearing his throat. “There’s a pair of gloves in the glove box if you want ‘em.”

“You don’t need them?”

He shook his head. “I’m good.”

She let out a sigh, pulling open the glove box. “You’re a lifesaver, Hold.”

He chuckled. “I do my best.” He shifted in his seat, locking his seat belt into place. “Whoever did this to that poor woman…” He trailed off, finding himself far too short on words to finish the thought.

“Whoever did it is a damn monster,” Kathleen said.

“Yeah,” Holden agreed. He figured ‘monster’ worked better than anything his scattered mind could have managed to come up with. He rubbed his hands together before clasping them between his thighs. “You know, when we first got promoted to homicide, I convinced myself that it wouldn’t ever get any worse than, you know, the muggings gone wrong or the drive-by shootings in the bad part of town. I never once allowed myself to think we’d see something like this, especially in our rookie years.”

“I know, Hold,” Kathleen said after a moment. “It’s terrifying what people are capable of when left to their own devices, isn’t it? Seeing that shit on TV is one thing. Seeing it in person and knowing that the case file for it’s gonna end up on your desk before the end of the day? Terrifying.”

Holden only nodded.

***

Back at the station, Holden sat at his desk, wrapping up his report on the scene by the river. He read through it one last time and pushed himself to his feet. He grabbed the paper, made his way back to the copier.

“Plans for the night, Hold?” Kathleen asked.

“Just me and Shelby. I think we have to watch a romance movie or something,” Holden said.

“Here,” she said, holding out a hand. Holden handed the paper over to her. “Romance, huh? Too much sappy shit for me.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mind it. Hell of a lot better than sitting around and thinking about what that monstrous bastard did to that poor woman.”

“Fair. That’s why I’m hitting the bar tonight,” she muttered. “You go on home, Hold. I’ll get your report to LT and get your copy back in your file. Is it on your desk?”

“Yeah. You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Kay.” Holden squeezed her arm. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you then, Hold.”

Chapter One

8 February 2005

Tuesday

Washington D.C.

            Special Agent Thomas Smalls sat down at his desk and powered on his computer. It always took a while to start up, but he didn’t mind all that much. All of his notes were on paper anyway, filed away safely in his filing cabinet and in his desk drawers.

The notes of that morning belonged to a long-running unsolved case within the FBI. A serial killer they had been tracking since 1994. Eleven years of kidnappings, soon to be twelve, and they still hadn’t been able to catch the guy.

Thomas hated that. After all, it was a big part of his job to find serial killers, and he was failing at it. Miserably.

He turned to his computer as the monitor switched from the spinning loading circle to the login screen. He swiveled in his desk chair and typed in his username and password. His pinky struck the enter key, and he turned back to his notes while he waited for the computer to catch up.

Since 1994, five victims had been taken every single year without fail. Every victim had been a white female, each one taken during the month of February. This was year twelve, and it wouldn’t be long before their killer came out of the works and started taking girls again.

If Thomas wanted to be technical about it, they weren’t looking for a by-the-books serial killer. Legally speaking, they were looking for a serial kidnapper, if that were such a thing. Fifty-five women had been kidnapped over the span of twelve years—sixty if he ran through the month untouched—and they hadn’t found a single body in that amount of time.

There were no leads. There were no suspects.

Thomas turned, opening up his saved documents on the computer. After the folder opened, he double-clicked the typed document of his case notes, which were only slightly more detailed than his handwritten notes.

Nearly thirty seconds later, he was staring at page after page of notes on a person that they may never catch. He knew the person was a serial killer; he could feel that in his bones, in his blood. There was no doubt in Thomas’s mind that this person was a cold-blooded killer. You didn’t kidnap fifty-five girls to make a family. You kidnapped fifty-five girls to kill them and make yourself famous because you were bullied in school, because no one paid enough attention to you when you thought you needed it most, and now you wanted them all to quake in fear whenever they heard your name.

Thomas shook his head. He hated this job.

That was a lie. He loved his job. He loved his coworkers and his boss. He even loved his partner, who was often too laid back to focus on the task at hand, or at least too laid back to care about the task at hand without instruction or direct orders.

Thomas scrolled to the page with his profile of the killer. Thomas had, based on the kidnappings, created a possible profile that the killer may fit, may being the operative word in this case.

Male.

Presumably white.

In his mid-to-late twenties, probably born in the late seventies.

He was most likely unsure of himself, and based on the small area where the abductions occurred, he had a small comfort zone because of that uncertainty of self.

He was organized, and he certainly didn’t like to be off schedule. The kidnappings occurred every February, no exceptions. The man had a pattern, one that wasn’t going to be broken until Thomas and the rest of the FBI caught the bastard.

He was ritualistic. The kidnappings always happened around the same time. The age pattern was the same.

There was no discernible pattern to be found within the victims, though. Besides their age, gender, and race, they had nothing in common with each other, no link to each other. Sure, they all lived in or around D.C., and they were all taken in or around D.C., but it didn’t mean it was a good enough link.

The only true, set pattern was the ages. In 1994, one victim had been fifteen, three of them had been sixteen, and one of them had been seventeen. In 1995, one victim had been sixteen, three had been seventeen, and one had been eighteen. It continued that way every year. This year, the first victim taken would be twenty-six years old.

Thomas hated that there was a large chance that he, once again, would be unable to catch the man this February. It was a fact that taunted him every year when February rolled around. It made him feel like he was failing the people, and in a way, he was. It wasn’t just five women every year.

It was the families and the friends of five women every damn year. They were all someone’s daughter or sister, someone’s wife or mother, someone’s niece or cousin or aunt or best friend.

Not catching this man wasn’t just destroying the lives of five women every year. It was destroying the lives of those five women and everyone that had been close to them.

God, Thomas hated it.

“I’ve got a real stumper for you, Blue Eyes,” Thomas’s partner, Special Agent Chris Cross, said as he dropped into his desk chair.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Hit me with your best shot, Applesauce.”

“It’s your first date with a woman—”

“I haven’t been on a first date since high school, and that was with Netty,” Thomas interrupted.

Chris waved a hand. “All hypothetical, Smalls. It’s your first date with a woman. She’s real damn pretty and she likes expensive things. Where do you take her?” he asked.

Thomas swiveled from one side to the other in his chair, hands folded over his chest. “That depends on what mood you’re in tonight. What base are you planning on taking her to, precisely?”

Chris smirked. “I was hoping home.”

“Oh, Christopher, this is why women don’t talk to you, you sleazebag.”

“Like you wouldn’t try to score something here and there if you didn’t have Jen.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Your ‘here and there’ is every other night, Chris.”

Chris scoffed. “Just because you’re not allowed to have fun doesn’t mean that I can’t.”

Thomas let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Trinity. I would take her to Trinity. Beautiful restaurant, expensive, hanging string lights on the ceiling, candle in the middle of each table. As long as you treat her like a lady, you can’t go wrong with Trinity,” he said.

Chris slapped both hands on his thighs. “Thank you! You’re a lifesaver, Smalls.”

Thomas smiled faintly. ‘Lifesaver’ was certainly a bit of an overstatement. Many lives had been lost on his watch. “Sure, Chris.”

Chris kicked both feet up on his desk. “So, Blue Eyes, what do you got on Quintus?” he asked. Quintus had been Thomas’s name for their serial kidnapper. It was the original Latin for ‘fifth’, and Thomas thought it made the most sense when it came to the kidnapping bastard. The name had stuck, and everyone they worked with referred to the man as Quintus, as well.

“Not much more than I had last time.” Thomas leaned forward, tossing his notepad onto Chris’s lap. “I don’t know what else to put down about him.”

Chris flipped through the pages. “I have a good feeling about it this year, Blue Eyes. We’ll catch him,” he said.

“Maybe, but we might not. He’s good at what he does. He plans it,” Thomas said. “He plans ahead to guarantee that he doesn’t get caught.”

“Then we’ll just have to plan even further than him,” Chris said. He tossed the notepad back onto Thomas’s desk. “Besides, stop making it sound like it’s our fault.”

“But isn’t it?” Thomas asked. “It’s our job to stop serial killers, and yet… here we are, doing no stopping at all.”

Chris shook his head. “Tommy, people were kidnapping and killing other people long before we were here, long before we were even born. Besides, not everyone can do their job one hundred percent of the time without flaw. No one can, not even the FBI,” he said. “And it’s definitely our killer’s fault, or… kidnapper’s fault. You get the picture, right?”

Thomas nodded. “I get the picture,” he repeated quietly. He saw the picture, sure, but it didn’t speak to him in any of the right ways. It was their fault. They were allowing a killer to keep doing what he was doing without any hindrances to his behavior or pattern.

Somebody had painted this picture all wrong, and Thomas was pretty sure that it was him that had dipped the wrong brush in the wrong paint.

He was missing something, and it became clear that not every picture painted in the Federal Bureau of Intelligence could be done in black and white. Sometimes, they needed a bit of gray, a bit of red or blue.

Thomas wondered what other color this picture needed in order for it—after twelve years—to finally make sense.

Prologue

7 February 2005

Monday

New York

She was tied to a table, the metal unbearably cold against her back. The gag in her mouth muffled her cries and screams for help.

The skin on her wrists had been rubbed raw from her failed attempts at pulling the knot out of the ropes that had her trapped in the damned basement. It smelled like cologne and musty mold, an oddly unappealing combination, a smell that was an assault on the woman’s olfactory nerve. There was a twinge of something iron, but the scent thankfully wasn’t quite as obvious or strong as the former, much more offensive pair of scents.

She heard a door open. She turned her head to look at the man as he walked through the open doorway. Her wide, panic-filled brown eyes met his much less panicked forest green ones. He smiled softly, reaching back to shut the door. “Good morning, Christine,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth. His face was clean-shaven, his jawline harsh in the bright lighting of the room. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, how I know your name.” He crossed the room to stand beside the table.

Christine’s dark eyes followed him. He stared at her for a moment, allowing his gaze to drag over her naked figure.

“I’ve been watching you, Christine, following you.” He smiled, something much warmer and kinder than the darkness of his words. “Kind of like your eyes are following me. Except… my following is much more advanced, more… on your tail. Before last night, I had been inside your house nineteen times. Let me tell you, Christine, you’ve done a lovely job of decorating the place. It feels very homey. I’ve seen you shower thrice. You have a lovely singing voice, by the way, not to mention how beautiful you are when water is cascading over your naked body,” he said, brushing a finger over her cheek.

“Mm!” The sound was loud, despite the gag. Even the man seemed almost surprised by the sheer volume and strength of the raw sound.

“I’m sorry, Christine. I guess you don’t know this, but I can’t really understand you. See, that’s what the gag is for. Now, I’d take the gag off, but we both know you’re not exactly trustworthy enough for that.” He tapped his index finger to the end of her nose. “Not to mention that I have discovered you are quite the screamer. Jesus, woman. What was his name last night?” he asked. He snapped his fingers before pointing at Christine, a disgustingly charming grin on his face. “John. I distinctly remember you screaming John over and over again last night. I mean… before I murdered him in your bed, of course. That was pretty fun, wasn’t it?”

“Mm,” she mumbled weakly. Tears leaked out of her eyes as she squeezed them shut.

He watched one drip onto the table. “I’ve followed you to the bar seven times.” Her eyes shot open. “You loosen up on the dance floor when you’re drunk…” He slowly traced his gloved fingers over the long blade of one of his knives, all laid out neatly on a small, metal tray beside the table.

Christine’s eyes widened. “Mm!” she screamed behind the gag. She struggled to free herself from her bindings, but it was still no use.

“See, right there. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Quite a screamer,” he said. He shook his head. “Where was I? The bar. Right.” He sighed softly, shaking his head. “Such a carefree beauty, Christine. So carefree, in fact, that you never noticed me lurking around, following you.” Again, he shook his head. Hands locked behind his back, he bent down, leveling himself with her. “It’s dangerous to be carefree in this world, Christine,” he murmured, his lips soft against the shell of her ear. She whimpered. He straightened himself back out and picked up a knife.

Christine let out a muffled scream, thrashing against the ropes.

“There are lunatics out there that will take advantage of someone as carefree as you, Christine.” He buried the blade in her lower abdomen; she screamed, writhing in pain. “It’s a shame that some… monster would want to hurt someone like you.”

He flicked his wrist, slowly dragging the sharp knife up Christine’s torso. Behind the gag, she gasped as he pulled the blade from her flesh, a deep squelching sound echoing through the room.

The long blade pierced her right side, just beneath her rib cage. Christine let out a pitifully muffled scream as white-hot pain ripped through her body, coursing through her veins.

“People are so crude in this world. You just can’t trust anyone. You never know who may be a killer, Christine. Everyone’s dangerous. There’s just no way around that, you see,” he said. He set the bloodied knife back in its place, switching it out for a much shorter, less intimidating blade. He wrapped his free hand around her chin, turning her head so she was no longer facing him.

The tip of the silver blade cut deep into the skin just beneath her left eye. She screamed, struggling against him. He held her head still as he carved his way down her cheek and into her lower jaw.

He set the knife back in its place on the metal tray and turned Christine’s head so she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “The beautiful ones are always the easiest targets, Christine. It’s a proven fact,” he said. “It’s all scientific. You really can’t even blame me. It’s you, sweetheart, not me.” He shrugged half-heartedly. “Should’ve asked for your momma’s poor genes instead of the blessed ones you got from your daddy.”

He picked up a tool that looked like a much sharper version of a loop tool meant for clay. He examined it for a moment, the metal glinting threateningly in the light. “This’ll only hurt a bit, Christine.” A hand pressed firmly against her bloody stomach, he dug the tool so deep into her hip that she swore it touched bone. She arched her back off the table as much as the ropes and the hand on her stomach would allow, but it did nothing to combat the fiery pain that ripped through her body.

When the pain finally became too much for Christine’s fragile body to handle, she welcomed the darkness with open arms.

By the time he was done with Christine, she was barely recognizable. He pushed the knife cart over to the sink. He washed his hands of her blood first, humming a soft, gentle tune he didn’t recognize. He had it memorized, but he didn’t know why, didn’t know where he had heard it before.

He went about cleaning the knives and other tools that had been used, including the grapefruit spoon he had used to take out her eyes, all the while humming the happy tune he didn’t actually know.

With the knives washed and set neatly on a towel so they could dry, he cleaned out the sink, wiping away watered down blood and chunks of dug out flesh. Still humming, he shut off the water. He could hear the soft buzzing of the overhead lights, the dripping of Christine’s blood as it fell from the table and onto the concrete floor.

He looked back at Christine, smiling softly. Not because she was dead. He didn’t care about that. No, he had finally figured out why he knew the song.

Christine had been singing it in the shower two nights before he took her and cut into her soft, pale, unmarred skin.