Ripley inspected them.‘No.These are Peerless.Tri-state police only use Smith and Wesson.You can buy these things anywhere.’
Ella adjusted her angle, trying to get a better look at the wounds without taking a header into the parking lot four stories down.The hole in the back of the vic's head winked at her.Ella reached out, probed the back of Martina's lolling head with a gloved finger.
The flesh was tacky, cold to the touch, but she forced herself to push.Part the matted honey-wheat curls until she found what she was looking for in the shape of a jagged wound.
‘Blunt trauma to the skull,’ she said.
‘Just like Sophie.Blitzed her with a bat, then went ahead with the theatrics when she was out cold.’
Ella inspected further down the body, and there, like a crimson grin across her throat – the result of a blade to the neck.
‘Mia, check it.Our perp opened up her jugular this time too.’
‘Slit the throat?’
‘Yeah.Knife or razor.’
‘Why?He didn’t do that last time.’
Ella's mind was already three steps ahead.A deviation in the pattern.
‘Sophie Draper died from a brutal shot to the temples, but he caught the back of her skull this time.And there’s no flaying here, no eye-gouging.So he had to make sure she stayed dead with a throat slashing.’She squinted at the wound, the clean edges already crusting a dull brown.‘If the blow to the head didn't kill her, he had to find another way.’
‘Okay.What do you think it mean?’
‘Means he's adapting.Changing up his method to fit the circumstances.The throat's quick and doesn’t leave much room for error.’
‘So you're thinking he had to get in and out fast?Couldn't risk getting caught mid-mutilation?’
‘Maybe.Or maybe he just didn't have the same emotional attachment to Martina here.’Ella's gut was talking now.‘Sophie was special.The opening salvo in his masturbatory little saga.He took his time with her, really made her suffer.But this is just checking a box.’
Ripley grunted, clearly unconvinced but willing to roll with her.‘Alright, I'll buy that he's rushed.In a hurry to get his rocks off before the heat comes down.But why string her up like this?Why make a spectacle out of it when he could've just left her here?’
The million dollar question.And she had a sick feeling she knew the answer.Ella composed herself on the balcony and said, ‘Two reasons.Number one, he’s following a script.Whatever happens inHalo of Bloodneeds to happen in real life.’
‘Right.And number two?’
‘Because he wants us to know it’s him.He's putting himself out there, trying to get noticed.Except instead of passing around pamphlets or spamming Twitter, this chucklehead's out here making what he considers art.’
Ripley ran her flashlight over the balcony railings.‘Artists and their fragile egos.’
‘Wannabe artists,’ Ella said.‘Let’s not lump this guy alongside actual artists just yet.’
‘Right.David Bowie he ain’t.’Ripley clicked his flashlight off.‘No dirt marks, no boot prints, nothing that I can see.’
Ella braced her hands on the railing and leaned into the breeze that whispered up from the street.It was cool, clean; a small mercy cutting through the funk of blood and ruptured bowels.She breathed deep, willing her guts to unclench, her trigger finger to stop twitching.
‘So, we’ve got a failed author getting his revenge on people who rejected him.’Ella was thinking out loud.
Ripley bent over the railing and gently pried Martina Payne’s mouth open.‘The manuscript.You think there’s more pages stuffed down her throat?’
‘One way to find out.’
Her partner gave her a look.‘Come on then.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.You.’
