so he ate. You won’t find the can. He wouldn’t leave any DNA evidence in here.”
“She was alive when he brought her here?”
“Yes. And he killed her like the others, by draining her blood from her heels. No struggle. A tarp under the table caught most of the trace evidence—bodily fluids, skin cells, hair. He was careful not to use too much force, keeping her on the edge of control and submission. She was lying prone, sedated, conscious and fully aware when he numbed her heels and drilled up into them. He was forced to clean up the blood on the table and floor where it ran off the tarp. Then he sealed the wounds, lifted her into position, held her long enough for the glue on her shoulder blades to cure on the wall, reopened the wounds on each heel, and watched her blood drain into a three-gallon bucket.”
All of this, Brad had guessed from the markings on the table and floor, the ring from the bucket beneath the woman’s heels, and the lack of bruising. The physical evidence had painted a picture in his mind as clearly as if he were staring at a Rembrandt.
“He did it out of respect, not rage,” Brad said.
“Love,” Nikki said.
He nodded, even willing to go that far. “Love.”
“Both heel wounds are plugged with the same fleshy putty we found on the other three,” Kim said, standing. “And what kind of love is this?”
“The groom’s love,” Brad said, savoring his response.
Special Agent Frank Closkey spoke from the door. “Sir?”
Brad held up his hand without looking back. “Give us a few more minutes, Frank.”
The agent retreated.
Kim continued her initial examination, gently prodding the woman’s flesh, checking her eyes, lifting her hair, inspecting the backs of her shoulders. But Brad already knew what she would find.
The question was, Why? What motivated the Bride Collector? How did he make his selections? What good or evil did he think he was doing? What had been done to him to motivate his taking of life in such a manner? Who had he decided to kill next? When would he take her?
Where was he now?
The questions spun through Brad’s mind as one, yet distinguishable. Some were clearer than others, but all whispered from beyond, tempting him to listen because each question already contained an answer. He simply had to find it and unpack it.
Nikki paced with one arm pressed against her belly, the other propping up her chin. It struck him that like her, two of the victims had been brunettes. Like her, all four had beautiful complexions.
What would enter the killer’s mind if he were staring at Nikki through a hole in the wall at this moment? Brad pushed back a fleeting impulse to check the wall behind them to see if there might indeed be a hole, filled with a single eye peering in at them.
Instead, he let his eyes wander over Nikki—her calves well defined beneath the hem of the black skirt. Her wavy long hair cascading on her shoulders, her eyes bright with question. Her forefinger absently brushing full lips. A perfectly symmetrical face.
Would the killer feel any desire?
No. No it wasn’t desire, was it? She was beautiful, but beautiful women filled the world. Something else drew the Bride Collector, in the same way that something else was drawing Brad now, though he had a difficult time putting a finger on it.
Of the numerous women he’d dated over the past ten years, only four relationships had lasted two months or more, each ending sooner than the previous one. Nikki had once accused him of playing the role of bad boy. He thought picky was a better label. He had taste, after all.
After what he’d been through, he needed to be picky.
Nikki was thirty-one, married once at age nineteen, divorced six months later. She held her doctorate in psychology from CSU. Highly intelligent, witty, reduced to deep introspection by scenes that left most people heaving.
This would excite the killer, wouldn’t it? And if Nikki came on to the killer, would that excite him?
No, Brad thought.
“He would like you,” Brad said.
Nikki glanced back at him, arm still around her waist. “Excuse me?”
He caught himself. This was one of those frequent times when honesty might not be so wise.
“I was just thinking that he liked her. You. That is, speaking to the victim. He. He would like you, meaning he would like her.”
Kim saved him. “Speaking to cadavers now, Brad? Don’t worry, I do it all the time.”