She and Hash had discovered that those exact words formed part of the Catholic church’s baptism rite. The girls had both come around to discover a red crucifix had been drawn on their brows with a permanent marker. And a lock of hair had been snipped from each of their heads.
Those words, the crucifix on their brows, the missing hair—it had all been holdback evidence, so the similarities between those sexual assaults and this new one was unlikely to be the work of a copycat.
He was back—it was her guy. The guy she and Hash had been after. She felt it in her bones.
Angie raised two fingers and touched them to her brow. “In the name of the Father”—she lowered her fingers, touched her sternum—“and the Son”—she touched her left shoulder, then right—“and the Holy Ghost,” she said quietly, then turned to Holgersen. “He immersed her in water, and he marked her with the sign of a cross. He assaulted her, then he defeminized, desexualized her, and posed her here to die under the watch of the Virgin Mary. This is not rape. It’s ritual—he baptized her.”
The others stared at Angie.
The wind howled suddenly, switching direction. Ice pellets began to spit from the sky.
“Fucking freak,” whispered Holgersen. “We gots us a Baptist. And this ... this sure as hell ain’t this guy’s first rodeo. He’s done it before, and he’s going to do it again.”
CHAPTER 6
“Still no change in our Janie Doe’s condition,” Holgersen said, killing his second call to the hospital. “And still no ID.”
Angie’s fists tightened on the wheel as she took a corner on Fairmont. She was driving them to the station, and adrenaline hummed through her blood. She itched to get her hands back onto the case binders for Fernyhough and Ritter. Their Jane Doe just had to hang on long enough for her to get her teeth fully into this, and the sooner they obtained an ID, the better, because without knowing who she was, they were hamstrung in their investigative approaches.
One of the most significant factors in this kind of attack was victimology—what was Jane Doe’s personality, where did she go to school, did she have a job, hobbies, where did she live? The bottom line was: What had she been doing at the time of her attack? What had brought her into the orbit of her assailant?
“So, wanna wager how long it takes for this to go to homicide?” Holgersen said. “Sexually motivated, yeah, but our perp leaving our vic there like that—heintendedto kill her. That’s attempted homicide. Perhaps he even thought she was dead already. And she got lucky.”
“Lucky my ass.” She shot him a hot glare. “I want this case. Don’t fuck it up for me.”
“Crap, Pallorino. We both want it, okay? I’ms just saying—”
“I want this for Hash, okay? It always bugged him to hell that we never solved those serial rapes. If this guy is the same suspect as in those other cases—”
“Ooooh, I get it—it’s personal.” He turned to look out the window. “Dangerous, Pallorino,” he said quietly. “Verrrry dangerous. When things get personal, you lose objectivity.”
Her jaw tightened. She pressed down on the accelerator.
“Pull over,” he said suddenly. “Right over there, that mall.”
“What?Why?”
“I need a coffee. A decent one.”
“Are youserious?”
“I’ve been up, since, like the whole night, so yeah, I need caffeine.”
“You always like this?”
“And you?”
Angie cursed and swerved into the parking lot of a small strip mall that boasted a Starbucks on the far corner. “Make it fast,” she said. “Vedder’s waiting.”
As Holgersen loped his gangly way over to the coffee shop, Angie fisted the wheel. With shock she realized she was trembling slightly, her whole body. She put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes a moment, trying to steady her breathing. Instead, a pulsing red image pounded into her brain—her rocking naked on Mr.Big D. The rhythmic boom of the bass from the club. The pulse of red light behind the drapes ... then suddenly a little girl in pink running through mist as her car careered down onto her. Angie’s eyes snapped open, her breaths coming short and fast.
Not good, not good. Stay focused ...She stared at the coffee shop door, impatient for Holgersen to exit. Wind gusted. Sleet started ticking again on the windshield. Suddenly she saw him inside, through the misted window, moving back and forth. He appeared to be talking on his cell phone. And that’s when she noticed his cell phone lying on the passenger seat beside her.
She frowned. Had he wanted her to stop so he could make some kind of urgent call? On a private phone?
Holgersen exited the Starbucks, returning to the vehicle with two cups and a brown bag. He got in, placed the cups in the holders, then fished into his bag. The scent of food and coffee filled the vehicle. “Here,” he said, holding something out to her.
“What’s that?” she said.
