Chapter 3
Three
Lane
With gloved hands, I push the hair back from the woman’s face, noting how cleanly her eyes have been removed.
It takes a careful hand to do that. That, or someone who works in the medical field is responsible.
As if reading my mind, Brock says, “I’d wager it was a surgeon who did this.” He bends as well, careful to avoid disturbing any evidence. “The Poser strikes again.”
The fucking Poser.
They’re a fucking ghost, snatching people off the streets and doing obscene things to them before they pose them and leave a sketched picture behind.
That’s the one detail we haven’t released to the public, as there have been copycats trying to pin their murders on The Poser but are missing the key component that makes them who they are.
Brock scoffs, standing to his full height. “Does this fucking psycho have a job? Seems like they spend most of their time doing this sick shit.”
I nod as I rise, peeling off my gloves and stepping away from the victim so the medical examiners can gather evidence before cutting her down for transport. “Probably stays in their mother’s basement. A fucking antisocial freak, if I have to guess.”
I unfold the sketch that was found in the front of our victim’s dress, scanning over the drawing with a practiced eye. I’ve seen enough of them to know what to look for.
The Poser usually has thick, precise lines with no hesitation in their strokes. There are no accidents, no stray charcoal lines were abandoned. I hate to say it, but they’re a fucking artist.
“Think they’re devolving?” Brock asks, peeking over my shoulder at the sketch.
I pass it to him and shake my head. “Nah. They’re still as organized as they were before. I think the removing of the eyes is because of how they drew the victim, not anything to do with them losing control.”
I glance over at the couple who found the victim, both of them holding each other as they tell another agent the details of their discovery.
They were just out for a morning jog when they came across our victim. They made the mistake of walking closer to see if she was still alive and saw her eyes resting on the ground in front of her. They’ll never get that image out of their minds.
“No ID?” Brock asks.
“Nope. We have no idea who she is.” I return my gaze to the victim, and a pang of sympathy flows through me. Right now, her family and friends are going about their lives, not knowing that their loved one was murdered by a psychopath that doesn’t value human life.
A crowd has gathered, though they’re held back by crime scene tape. I look at those assembled, focusing on each for a second or two to read their expressions. Killers often visit the scene of their crimes, wanting to see their handiwork.
No one sticks out to me as enjoying the scene or getting off on being so close to their crime. All I see are fearful eyes, pleading with us to get a sick criminal off the streets.
Two hours later, the victim’s body is moved, and all the evidence is collected. About thirty minutes ago, the press arrived, sticking microphones in witnesses’ faces and giving their—mostly incorrect—theories on the crime.
As Brock and I duck under the crime-scene tape, a ballsy reporter runs over, pushing through the barricade of officers to get a sound bite.
He shoves his microphone toward me and asks, “Agent, what can you tell us about the murder? Is it true that she might be a victim of The Poser?”
Any other time, I wouldn’t engage with the press. Anything we say is misconstrued and garbled up until what we said is the opposite of what’s reported. But I’m tired of this creep having one up on us. This sick fuck thinks they can get away with killing people under my protection.
I hold my hand up when an officer tries to remove the reporter. I don’t miss the look of triumph that crosses the reporter’s face, but that’s not what I’m focused on. I want to speak directly to the killer, so they know I won’t give up searching for them.
“Yes,” I say, “she was a victim of The Poser. We don’t have her name yet, but we’ll figure it out by the day’s end. Right now, we’re solely focused on catching this son of a bitch.” I’m sure they’ll bleep out my language, but I don’t give a fuck.
“Do you have a message for The Poser if they’re watching?” the reporter asks, pushing the mic so close to my face I have to throw up a hand so it doesn’t strike me in the mouth.
Staring directly into the camera, I say, “There is a message. If you’re watching, know that you’re not invincible.
I will find you. I will get you. And I’ll lock you away for your natural life.
” With that, I push through the rest of the reporters and slide into the passenger seat of our government vehicle.
Brock chuckles dryly as he pulls away from the scene. “What was that about?”
“I want to see if taunting them will draw them out. Maybe they’ll make a mistake.” I lean back in my seat and release a long breath. “I don’t know, man. I had to try something.”
He nods. “This is the worst they’ve posed. They’ve never desecrated their bodies like that. We have to stop them and fast.”
I agree, but I don’t know what else we can do besides continue to investigate the bodies The Poser leaves for us. That thought pisses me off more than anything else. We have to wait for more people to die and then hope our killer slips up so we can apprehend them.
When we get back to our field office, we debrief with our Special Agent in Charge before we head to our shared office and go over theories.
What sticks out the most is how the eyes were removed. It took surgical precision to get such a delicate part of the body out in one piece. I’m not sure it could have been done so effortlessly by an ordinary person. They’d have to have some surgical know-how.
Leaning back in my chair, I tell Brock, “We need to focus on medical personnel. Maybe a failed medical student. Someone that doesn’t have much to lose if they’re caught. No way a professional with an established career could be The Poser.”
“Okay,” he says. “What do you propose we do?”
“Find anyone in a one-hundred-mile radius that either failed or dropped out of medical school. Lean on them hard, find out—”
“Lane,” Brock interrupts in a gentle tone.
“Do you think that’s the best course of action?
” When I don’t say anything, he shakes his head and sighs.
“You can’t go off on one of your harebrained ideas that have no basis in fact.
You remember what happened the last time we had a case like this with no evidence. ”
I sit back and bite my cheek until I taste blood. Yeah, I remember all right.
On one of our high-stakes cases, I thought the neighbor of one of our victims, Alexi Wilson, was the killer. Never mind the fact he had an alibi for at least two of the murders. The guy was weird and gave off a vibe I didn’t like.
Turns out, he was just obsessed with his neighbor and would watch her constantly—though that’s a crime in itself—and was distraught when she was murdered. To cover his obsessive tendencies, he tried to pull on a mask of indifference when questioned, like he didn’t know or interact with her.
I put pressure on him, and word got out he was suspected of being a serial killer. He was shunned by his community, fired from his job, and his wife left him, taking their three children with her.
He tried to commit suicide because of it.
Two weeks later, we found the real killer after he was pulled over for running a red light.
That was a dark time in my career. I was almost canned for that stunt and was only kept on because of my impeccable track record.
I went directly to Alexi and apologized for my transgressions.
I also cleared his name publicly in a press conference.
He’s gotten his life back, but I almost cost him the chance to see his children grow up.
Running my hand through my hair, I agree with him. “Fuck, you’re right. I just need a fucking win with this case.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get them. You’re too fucking stubborn not to.”
We go back to discussing the evidence and theories for another few hours, then head to the morgue to see if Dr. Miller, the medical examiner, has anything.
Dr. Miller agrees with my assessment that whoever removed my victim’s eyes had medical training. “There are no hesitation marks,” he says, pulling up the eyelids carefully. I have to swallow thickly so I don’t vomit.
I’ve never seen anything like this. So diabolical, so heartless.
When I have control of my lunch, I ask, “Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing so far. I’ll have an autopsy report in the coming days.”
After speaking to the medical examiner, I’m even more convinced the person we’re after has medical training. Despite Brock’s warning, I know I’m on the right track.
When we get back to our office, I start flagging individuals that live in the area that went to medical school and either failed out or withdrew on their own. One of them has to know something.
One of them has to be The Poser.