He’s searching for something. And I fear once he finds it and his ritual is complete, the trail to him will go completely cold.
“Least his dump sites are always scenic,” Darby comments, glancing around the darkened dunes.
“We’ll make sure to send him a thank-you note for his consideration.” My sarcasm earns a scowl from the agent.
“Fucking smartass.” He shakes his head. “I just meant, we’ve never had to literally sift through a dumpster or landfill. Done that more times than I want to recount.”
A slight smile breaks free despite the grisliness around us, because he’s not wrong. There’s a sort of elegance to the offender’s scenes, a sophistication. It speaks to his confidence, why he leaves his victims on display, unafraid of being caught.
He’s fearless, not reckless.
Sifting through the filth and vileness of a case can make you appreciate a well-thought-out crime, even the artistry in it.
And while art isn’t always beautiful, it is interesting.
The mutilated body lying below in the depression of sand is a prime example. This isn’t just the perpetrator’s dump site.
It’s his kill site.
He works quick, methodical. Each time, faster and more efficient than the last. He’s gotten his ritual down to a meticulous science.
Since the inception of this case, I’ve alleged that location is key, confident his victim selection is tied to the sites as much as the victims themselves. The first one was discovered buried in the Arizona desert. The remains so badly charred, fingertips severed, it took the local agency weeks to identify.
Once the media broke the story of the murder victim, he stopped bothering to cover his kills. It wasn’t long before more bodies started turning up across the country, and it took two years to link the cases across states and jurisdictions.
The fact is, he’s not tied to any one area, making it near impossible to predict where he’ll turn up next.
The most recent vic—male, mid-fifties, Caucasian, local resident—was discovered four hours ago by a wildlife conservationist scouting the coastal interdunal swale. I only know this terminology because she repeated it incessantly while berating the Feds for tromping through the habitat.
The body hadn’t even reached full rigor mortis before our plane was touching down in Salisbury. From there, it was a forty-five-minute ride into the coastal town of Bethany Beach, and then another ten-minute hike toward the Delaware Seashore State Park, where a stretch of barrier island is bounded on one side by the Atlantic and the other by Rehoboth Bay. Apparently, one of the few places left where one can glimpse a rare Bethany Beach Firefly.
Which brings my thoughts full circle as I drop my hands into my coat pockets and turn toward Darby. “Let’s use the conservationist,” I say.
His thick brows draw together over tapered dark eyes, then he chuckles as he catches on to my scheme. “God, you’re a menace, Hol. Don’t start that dark psychology shit here.”
“I’ve told you, that’s a pseudoscience,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Not what I do.”
Technically, there are verified studies into the art of dark psychology and its tactics. Manipulation, deception, persuasion, or any application of psychological techniques used for unethical purposes—strategies to exploit and control.
One must know how to recognize such tactics in order to counter them.
“Right, and yet, I don’t hear any denial there,” Darby mocks, but humor softens his eyes. “I wonder how often you’ve used your witchery on me.” His tone deepens to take on a serious note. “You’re going to piss off McCallister if you’re not careful.”
I arch an eyebrow in challenge. “Only if you tell him it was my idea.”
He shakes his head, but the devious grin remains on his tan face. Since we paired up on this case a little less than two years ago, the field agent has been the closest thing to a partner I’ve ever had.
“Her name is Dr. Lancer,” I say to him. “She’s been advocating to get this special firefly put on the endangered species’ list. I’m sure giant spotlights would disturb their natural habitat even more.”
On cue, the wind carries the shrill voice of Dr. Lancer our way as she schools Agent Valdes on the mating habits of the female firefly, or what she calls thefemme fatalelightning bug. Interest piqued, I cock my head to absorb a few facts.
With a defeated sound of acceptance, Darby situates the braided leather band around his wrist, then nods. “I’ll handle it. Just don’t do shit else until I get back,” he warns.
I use my index finger to cross my chest.
He frowns. “That’s not even where your heart is located.”
As he sets off, I breathe in the salt air, considering the irony of his words. The truth is, despite claims that I’m somewhat heartless, the location of the hollow organ inside my chest is never far from my thoughts.
