Creation In Death

The chief of police was a tall man and-Eve always thought-a contained one. Not an easy man to read, but she doubted he’d have climbed the ranks as he had if he’d been otherwise. He played politics-a necessary evil-but to her mind he found a way so that the department came out on top.

Dark skin, dark eyes, dark suit-part of his presence, she decided. Along with a strong voice, and a strong will.

“Chief Tibble.”

“Lieutenant. I apologize if I delayed the briefing.”

“No, sir, we’re on schedule. If you’re ready now.”

He only nodded, then moved to the back of the room. He didn’t sit, but stood. An observer.

Eve gave Peabody a nod, then walked to the front of the room. Behind her, the wall screen flashed on.

“Sarifina York,” Eve began. “Age twenty-eight at TOD.”

She was putting the victim first, Roarke realized. Putting that image, that name into the mind of every cop in the room. So that every cop in the room would think of her, remember her as they were buried in routine, in data, in the long hours and the frustrations.

Just as they would remember what had been done to her as those next images came up.

She went through them all, every victim. The names, the faces, the ages, the images of their suffering and death. It took a long time, but there were no interruptions, no signs of restlessness.

“We believe all of these women, twenty-three women, were abducted, tortured, and murdered by one individual. We believe there are likely more than these twenty-three who have not been co

She paused, just a moment, to insure, Roarke understood, that all eyes, all attention focused on the image of that first victim.

“The method deviates very little from vic to vic, as you’ll see in your copy of the case file from nine years ago. Copies of case files, in full, from murders attributed to the unsub will be forthcoming.”

Her eyes sca

“His methodology is, initially, typical of a serial. We believe he stalks and selects his victims-all within a certain age group, race, gender, and coloring-learning their routines, habits. He knows where they live, where they work, where they shop, who they sleep with.”

She paused again, shifting. Roarke saw the light slanting through the privacy screens on the window glint on her sidearm.

“Twenty-three women, known. They were specific targets. No co

“He must have private transportation of some kind, and using it takes the victim to a prepla

She outlined the investigator’s on-scene reports, the ME’s reports, taking them through the process of the torture, the method of death.

Roarke heard the e-cop, Callendar, breathe out a soft “Jesus,” as Eve outlined the specifics.

“Here, he may deviate slightly,” Eve continued, “adjusting his method to suit the specific victim. According to Dr. Mira’s profile, this is tailored to the victim’s stamina, tolerance for pain, will to live. He’s careful, he’s methodical, patient. Most likely a mature male of high intelligence. He lives alone, and has some steady method of income. Probably upper bracket. Though he selects females, there is no evidence he abuses them sexually.”

“Small blessing,” Callendar murmured, and if Eve heard she gave no sign.

“Sex, the control and power gained from them doesn’t interest him. They aren’t sexual beings. By carving the time spent on them into their torsos-postmortem-he labels them. The ring he puts on them is another kind of branding.

“It’s ownership.” She glanced at Mira for confirmation.

“Yes,” Mira agreed, and the lovely woman with the soft waves of sable hair spoke in her calm voice. “The killings are a ritual, though not specifically ritualistic in the standard sense. They are his ritual, from the selection and the stalking, through the abduction and the torture, the attention to detail, which includes the time elapsed, to the way he tends to them after death. The use of the rings indicates an intimacy and a proprietary interest. They belong to him. Most likely they represent a female who was important to him.”

“He washes them, body, hair,” Eve continued. “While this removes most trace evidence, we were able to determine the brand of soap and shampoo on previous vics. It’s high end, indicating their presentation matters to him.”

“Yes,” Mira agreed when Eve glanced at her again. “Very much.”

“It matters, as does the dumping method. He lays them on a white sheet, habitually leaving them in a park or green area. Legs together, as you see-again, not a sexual pose-but arms spread.”

“A kind of opening,” Mira commented. “Or embrace. Even acceptance of what was done.”

“While he follows the traditional path of the signature serial killer to this point, he then deviates. Full timeline up, Peabody,” Eve ordered, then turned when it flashed on screen. “He does not escalate in violence, the time between killings doesn’t appreciatively narrow. He spends two to three weeks at his work, then he stops. In a year, or two, he cycles again, in another location. His signature has been identified in New York, in Wales, in Florida, in Romania, in Bolivia, and now again in New York.

“Twenty-three women, nine years, four countries. The arrogant son of a bitch is back here, and here’s where it stops.”

And here, Roarke noted, was the fierceness she’d held back during the relaying of data, of names and methods and evidence. Here was the hint of the anger, of the avenger.

“Right now, there’s a woman between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-three. She has brown hair, light skin, a medium to slender build, and she’s already been taken. We find him. We get her back.

“I’m going to give you your individual assignments. If you have any questions, any problems, wait until I’m done. But I’m going to tell you one more thing. We’re going to nail him. We’re going to nail him here, in New York, with a case so tight he’ll feel it choking him every hour of every day of every year he spends in a cage.”

Not just anger, Roarke noted, but pride. And she was pushing that anger and pride into them so they’d work until they dropped.

She was magnificent.

“He doesn’t walk, run, fly, or crawl out of this city,” Eve told them. “He doesn’t slither out in court because one of us gave his lawyer an opening the size of a flea’s ass.

“He pays, we’re going to make goddamn sure he pays for every one of these twenty-three women.”