Terri Reed - Joint Investigation

“There was a little stamp on the back corner of the business card,” she continued, apparently unaware of the turmoil going on inside him. “I didn’t think much of it at first. But then I noticed the bird on other pieces of evidence and realized he was leaving his signature.”

Keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the other passengers, he said, “And all the women were strangled, and then their bodies were mutilated.”

“Yes.” She lowered her voice, as well. “He used his hands to crush their larynxes and then desecrated them. He never uses the same knife. Different styles of cutting instruments. No discernible pattern. But there’s one thing all the deaths do have in common. The women met their attacker at a hotel or airport bar and restaurant.”

“Sexual assault?”

“No. There’s no apparent motive for the deaths that I can tell. Only the killer knows what drives him.”

“And you’re sure it’s a male perpetrator?”

“Yes.”

“He was caught on camera?”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Not in any discernible way. He’s too savvy for that. Knows where surveillance cameras are located or, like at my hotel, knocks out the system. He never looks the same in what footage I do have. And witness statements run the gamut of short and round to tall and muscular. Blond, dark, ginger. Large nose, crooked nose. Eye color is all over the board.”

“So it could be a woman in disguise.”

Her keen eyes lit up with a hint of success. “The one thing he didn’t think to hide was his hands. Big knuckles, strong hands.” She lifted their joined hands between them. “A man’s hands.”

The guy who’d been in her hotel room had had on black gloves. “But if he didn’t hide his hands then, why were there no prints?”

Her lip curled. “That’s the million-dollar question.” She shrugged. “I have a few theories. He could have worn thin flesh-colored gloves. He could have dipped his hand in sealant or glue, for that matter.” The frustration in her voice was unmistakable.

She extracted her hand from his and turned to stare at the passing clouds outside the window. She was something special, this FBI special agent. He’d never met anyone like her. Courageous and assertive, yet he’d caught glimpses of vulnerability.

Funny how life turned out sometimes. God’s sense of humor at work?

Drew had been content with his life after the turmoil of his divorce. He’d made inspector by thirty. He’d been asked to join and then lead an IBETs team. He shared a bachelor pad with his dad and had no plans to change that anytime soon.

He hadn’t been looking for a cause or a partner, yet here he was flying south over the United States with a woman on a mission—to stop a serial killer before he struck again.

And Drew couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

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