Agent Lockes expression was serious, but nowhere near as detached as Deans. Shed been doing this job for a while, but it still got to herthe way it would probably always get to me. Collectively, we refer to these extra actionsand what they tell us about the UNSUBas a signature . An UNSUBs signature tells us something about his or her underlying psychology: fantasies, deep-seated needs, emotions.
Dean looked down at his hands. Those needs, those fantasies, those emotions, he said, they dont change. A killer can switch weapons, they can start killing on a quicker schedule, they can change venues, they can start targeting a different class of victimsbut their signature stays the same.
I turned my attention back to the pictures. Three of the women had been stabbed: two in back alleys, one in her own kitchen. The woman in the kitchen had fought; from the looks of the pictures, the other two had never had a chance.
These two, I said, pulling out the first two stabbing pictures. The killer surprised them. You said the UNSUB stabbed this one from behind. I indicated the girl on the left. After she was deador close enough to it that she couldnt put up much of a fighthe turned her over. So she could see him.
This was what Agent Locke was talking about when she used the phrase deep-seated need . The killer had attacked this girl from behind, but it was important to himfor whatever reasonthat she see his face and that he see hers.
Dont say he , Dean said. He shifted, and suddenly, I could feel the heat from his body. Say you , Cassie. Or say I.
Fine, I said. I stopped talking about the killerand started talking to him. You want them to see you. You want to stand over them. And as they lie there dying, or maybe even after theyre dead, you cant help but touch them. You straighten their clothes. You lay their arms out to the side. I stared at the picture of the girl hed attacked from behind, and something else struck me about it. You think theyre beautiful, but girls like that, women like that, they never even see you. I paused. So you make them see you.
I looked at the next picture: another woman, stabbed and found dead on the pavement. Like the first, shed been chosen for convenience. But according to the notes on the picture, she hadnt been stabbed from behind.
It wasnt enough, I said. Turning her over after
she died, it wasnt enough. So you took the next one from the front.
Like the first victim, this one had been laid carefully on her back, her hair fanned around her face in an unnatural halo. Without even thinking about it, I took the third picture on the top rowa gunshot victim whod died runningand set it aside. That wasnt the work of the same UNSUB. It was quick and clean, and there wasnt a whiff of desire about it.
Turning my attention to the bottom row of pictures, I scanned them, trying to keep my emotions in check the way Dean did. One of these four women had been killed by the same UNSUB as the first two. The easy answerand the wrong onewould have been the third stabbing victim, but shed been stabbed in the kitchen, with a knife from her own drawer. Shed fought, shed died bloody, and the killer had left her there, her skirt on sideways, her body contorted.
You need to see them , I told the killer silently, picturing his silhouette in my mind. You need them to see you. They need to be beautiful .
This third victim had been killed after the first two. The UNSUBs MO had changed: different weapon, different location. But deep down, the killer hadnt changed. He was still the same person with the same sick underlying needs.
Every time you kill, you need more. You need to be better . She needs to be better. Killing women on the street wasnt enough anymore. You didnt want a quickie in a back alley. You wanted a relationship. A woman. A home .
I zeroed in on the two women whod been killed in their bedrooms. Both had been found lying on their beds. One had been shot. The other had been strangled.
You catch her at night. In her house. In her bedroom. She doesnt look through you now, does she? Shes not too good for you now .
I tried to imagine the UNSUB shooting a woman, but the math on that one just did not compute.
You want her to see you. You want to touch her. You want to feel the life going out of her, little by little .
This was the last one, I said, pointing to the woman whod been strangled in her own bed. Different MO. Same signature.
This woman had died watching him, and hed posed her, propped her head up on a pillow, fanning her brown hair out around her death-still face.
Suddenly, I was nauseous. It wasnt just what had been done to these women. It was that for a moment, Id connected with the person whod done it. Id understood .
I felt a hand, warm and steady, on the back of my neck. Dean.
Youre fine, he said. Itll pass.
This from the boy whod never wanted me to go to the place Id just gone.
Just breathe, he told me, dark eyes making a careful study of mine. I returned the favor, concentrating on his facehere, now, this moment, nothing else.