“Do you? Know what you’re talking about?”
Her gaze dropped to the island. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
Her ragged tone put him on alert, had him studying her body language. The best indicator of honesty and genuine emotion as opposed to lies and bravado was how a person moved, how they spoke, not the words they used. Her body language told him thatsomething else was at play here, something she wasn’t yet ready to say out loud, something that had dread curling in his chest. “You were talking about modus operandi.”
She cleared her throat. “What I was saying is that serial killers don’t always maintain the same MO, their method,howthey kill. Modus operandi is a conscious choice. They can change it if necessary. Like if a killer starts out tying his victims with shoelaces. If one of them manages to break a shoelace and escapes, the next time he abducts someone he’ll use handcuffs. Different MO, same killer.”
“That’s a good way to explain it,” he allowed. “But I’d add that MO is more about what’s necessary, or what the killerfeelsis necessary, in order to carry out his crime. Outside of forensics, with no fingerprints or even DNA, what would convince you that some murders were done by the same killer if the MO had changed?” Again, he watched her closely, trying to decipher the subtext, the meaning beneath her words.
“Signature. A serial killer, a true psychopath, is driven to kill. He can change parts of what he does, but the signature is an intrinsic part of his killing ritual. It’s the part of his crimes that hecan’tchange. Signature is a subconscious action, something he doesn’t choose to do or not to do. It’s something he’s compelled to do.” She clasped her hands on top of the island. “Like the Ripper carving anXacross the abdomen of each of his victims after he abducts them. That’s his way of branding them, of letting them know that he...heownsthem.”
She wasn’t meeting his gaze anymore. Instead, she slowly traced the veining in the marble top of the island. Her stark words had his throat tightening as he carefully watched her, weighing every move, even the tone of her voice.
“Signature is often a reliable means for linking crimes,” she continued. “But the police often confuse MO with signature, or assume something is the signature when it’s just another thingthe killer does each time, but isn’tcompelledto do. And even though it’s been documented many times that serial killers can and sometimes do change their victimology, go outside their comfort zone and choose a victim that doesn’t fit with their history, the police automatically think that means it’s a different killer. It’s not their fault. Most will never come across a serial killer case their entire career. They’re not equipped to evaluate the complexities, dive deeper, weigh a killer’s thirst to kill versus his desire not to get caught. They don’t understand his willingness or ability to adapt.”
“You’ve circled back to the Kentucky Ripper again.” He kept his voice gentle, encouraging her to finish what she came here to say, what she so obviouslyneededto say. And all the while he cursed Mason for sending her, forusingher to get to him. “His original victimology included Caucasian women in their mid-to late thirties, married, with children. They all lived within the same fifty-square-mile geographical region in Eastern Kentucky. None of them worked outside the home.”
She nodded. “Yes, but I’m saying he could have changed all of that. He could have moved to another state, gone after someone who was younger, single, without children. Someone who worked outside the home, even if only to take temporary odd jobs to make ends meet. Even if the signature was the same, most people in law enforcement would think it was another copycat, a one-off, since the alleged real guy is in prison. They wouldn’t realize what they’re dealing with, or even that they have a serial killer operating in their midst.”
What he’d started to suspect just moments ago had solidified into a cold hard knot of dread that had him clenching his teeth so hard they ached.
Holding on to the edge of the countertop to maintain his balance, he limped around the island until he was standing beside her. Then, keeping his voice as gentle as possible, heasked, “How old are you? Don’t give me a flippant answer either. I’m serious.”
His question didn’t seem to surprise her. “Just turned twenty-six. My birthday was last month.”
Younger than he’d thought. Her guesstimate of their age difference was off by several years. “You’re not Caucasian.”
Her perfectly shaped brows rose. “Gee, what gave that away?” Her sarcasm did little to hide the underlying pain in her tone.
“Mason didn’t mention where you’re from. I’m guessing it’s not Kentucky.”
“Never even been to Kentucky. My home is in northeast Florida, Jacksonville.” Her bottom lip trembled.
He tightened his grip on the island. “Single?”
She nodded, her eyes over-bright, as if she was fighting back tears.
“No kids?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head. “No kids.”
“You take odd jobs to make ends meet while doing your investigation?”
She slowly nodded.
“Show me,” he whispered, still praying that he was wrong, but just as certain that he wasn’t.
Without hesitation, she gripped the hem of her blouse, then pulled it up to her chin.
Angry puckered welts marred her skin, forming a five-by-five-inch X on her abdomen. His hands shook as he gently pulled her blouse back down. “When?”
“Two years ago.” Pain leached from every word. “I was halfway through my master’s degree program. But I had to put it on hold until...until I recovered. But after that, I couldn’t focus, couldn’t even think about going back. The police had no leads, no suspects. They still don’t.” She shook her head. “That’s when I put my education to the test, began my own investigation. Thatfolder I gave you is a year and a half of my life. My conclusion is that the man in prison known as the Kentucky Ripper killedoneperson, even though he claimed responsibility for many more. The real Ripper changed locales and victimology.”
She finally looked up, her tortured gaze meeting his. “I believe that I’m a victim from his second spree. There are probably others as well, cases no one has connected, including me. And more women will suffer and die if I don’t stop him. I’m also worried that I’m a loose end for him, that he’ll come back to finish what he started.” Her gaze searched his, as if looking for answers. “Please, Bryson. Help me find him and send him to prison. I don’t want to die.” The tears she’d been holding back spilled over and streamed down her cheeks.
He swore and lifted her into his arms. Daring his hip to interfere, he cradled her against his chest and strode from the kitchen.
Chapter Five
