Chapter 4
Charm
My eyes glaze over as I reread my findings for the umpteenth time.
All victims were male and found outdoors, naked except for their underwear.
The lack of clothing could suggest that the unsub wished to strip the victims of their dignity and/ or exterior image.
Perhaps to demonstrate to the public and law enforcement that these men had something to hide.
The fact that all victims were staged suggests the unsub has a desire for public recognition.
A need to communicate a message to a wider audience.
This could point to an element of grandiosity or a compulsion for attention.
The cause of death for all victims was cardiac arrest from an injection of a high dose of fentanyl.
Typically, I’d posit that unsubs who utilize Schedule II controlled substances have some sort of connection to the medical industry, but opioids are easy to find.
We’re in an epidemic. And in New York City, every other street corner is a hub for illegal dealings.
You just need to know which corner to stand on.
Each victim had eighteen lash marks made by a whip, as well as an arrow pointing north carved into their chests.
The medical examiner’s office noted that the whip was most likely made of leather.
However, they reported there were no particulates found in any of the wounds, and traces of an antiseptic were present, suggesting the unsub sanitized the victims prior to staging their bodies for the public to find.
Given the timeline the task force assembled, the unsub most likely subdued the victims and transported them to a secondary location to conduct the lashings and mutilation.
The time of death for all three victims is between 1 a.m. to 3 a.m., all bodies discovered shortly after.
According to family and colleagues, the last known whereabouts of the victims was roughly 11 p.m. the night prior to their deaths.
The unsub only had the victims for two to three hours.
It would be reasonable to posit that the secondary location is within a few miles’ radius of all crime scenes.
The unsub—unknown subject—is meticulous, methodical, and motivated. Everything means something.
Everything.
“Hmm…” I scroll through the coroner’s report on the Bureau administered tablet. I zoom into a pre-biopsy photograph of the arrow carved into Tyler Saunders chest.
“Insights?”
I gasp, jerking up to find Agent Kane hovering behind me, slight bags under his eyes.
“I thought you left.”
He cocks his head, glancing up at the clock hanging in the front of the Command Center. 2 a.m.
“I did. Several hours ago. Couldn’t sleep though. Security cameras told me you were still here. Figured I’d stop by and see where you’re at.”
I raise a dubious brow. “You have access to the Bureau’s internal security camera feed?”
“Only in the Command Center.” He shrugs casually. “Perks of the job.” He pauses, leaning over my shoulder. “WeIl? What’ve you got?”
I roll my neck, sighing. “I have a tentative profile ready to present but this…” I point to the arrow. “This might mean more than we think it does.”
He pulls out a chair beside me. “Go on.”
I crack my mental knuckles, my brain sleep deprived, mouth dry and dehydrated.
“Well, as you know, traditionally an arrow symbolizes direction and guidance. Like street signs and whatnot. I know your team theorized that, in this context, it most likely means that the unsub is saying, ‘Look at me. Look at what I’ve done,’ but in some cultures, arrows are attributed to protection and strength, and in others, arrows can denote conflict and aggression, given their historical use as weapons. ”
Kane drapes his arm over the back of my chair, his fingertips dangling mere millimeters away from my shoulder. If I were to shift even slightly, he’d be touching me. Kane wets his lips, gaze flitting around my face with unsettling amusement.
“If it looks like a horse and sounds like a horse…”
I scowl at him, shifting in my seat, careful not to close the distance between our skin. Boundaries are important. If they’re crossed, it’s often hard to retreat. It’s often hard to resist.
“If you’re going to undermine my—”
“I’m not. I value your expertise.”
He gives me a disarming smile, and I find myself almost leaning into his vortex like a helpless planet orbiting the deadly sun. He pretends not to see my struggle. Pretends because he’s observant. Around him, I know I need to be on guard.
Kane glances at my empty coffee cup, casually stating, “Looks like you need a refill, and I’m hungry. Why don’t we grab a quick bite? Brain food, you know. I think we both need a refuel.”
My stomach quietly growls at his suggestion, begging me to accept his invitation for a late-night rendezvous. But my stomach doesn’t get to call the shots. Let alone my heart.
“It’s 2 a.m. Kind of late for food, don’t you think?”
“Think of it as an early breakfast.” He stands up, smirking. “Silver Spoon Diner is right around the corner. Let’s go before you pass out.”
I can’t. I shouldn’t. In here, in the command center, we’re equals. Outside in the real world, he has power I don’t wish to harbor. He has power that a part of me, a small part, is itching to unleash.
“I don’t eat at diners.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like something your brother would say.”
Bastard. It shouldn’t bother me—the comparison. But I find myself standing up. Simply because one is aware of manipulative tactics doesn’t mean they’re immune to their power.
“Fine. But they better have almond milk.”
“Don’t forget your purse,” Kane calls out, strutting to the exit. “I only pay for dates.”
My jaw tightens as I snatch my handbag off the desk and aggressively sling it over my shoulder. “Trust me, Agent Kane, you’re the last person I’d ever consider dining with for romantic purposes.”
He cranes his neck over his shoulder, chuckling under his breath as he holds the door open for me. “After you, Safia.”
I glare at him. “You don’t know me well enough to call me that.”
“Perhaps after this meal, I’ll earn the right.” He gestures to the elevators. “Quickly now, I’m starving. Do you like pie? They have great pie. Sweet, thick…” His golden eyes briefly flit down to my tightened lips. “Irresistible, really.”
I clear my throat, ducking around him as I march toward the elevator, refusing to comment.
I’m a smart woman. Intuitive. I’ve studied the human condition for years.
I’ve dedicated my life to the pursuit of behavioral understanding.
I thought it would help. I thought it would give me the tools to interpret my own interactions.
But I find myself baffled, stumped by his intentions, his words.
On paper, in books, I accomplish the impossible.
But here, in the wild, I’m just another animal fighting for survival.
The street lights flicker as we make our way across the street to the diner, cold air nipping at our skin, but the wind doesn’t seem to faze him.
He takes it like a warrior, like a soldier, unaffected by the slap of nature.
He carries himself like a lion, an apex predator, unafraid.
I feel it, though—the cold. It rattles me down to the bone.
In the hierarchy of the animal kingdom, I’m well aware we’re on different planes.
The door chimes as we enter Silver Spoon Diner. A middle aged waitress behind the bar casts Kane a familiar smile. “Another late night, hun?”
“It’s always a late night,” Kane says, walking to a tattered booth in the corner of the run-down establishment. “We’ll need a menu,” he adds, playfully nodding at me. “Rookie.”
The server brings over a menu and two glasses of water as we sit down. I keep my gaze on the menu as Delta, the waitress, places a cup of coffee and one packet of sugar to Kane’s right. He shakes the packet before dumping it in.
“I assume you’re a frequent patron?” I ask.
“We all are,” he says, stirring in the sugar. “It’s close to HQ and open 24/7.”
“I see.” During my last stint with the Bureau, I was never invited to join them for a meal. Or a drink. I was kept at arm’s length. I was simply a consultant. I wasn’t part of the team. “What…” He’s going to love this. “What do you suggest I try first?”
“You’ve never been here?” He raises a curious brow. “Oh, how exciting. I get to pop your cherry.” He arches over, the edge of the table jabbing into his torso as he runs a slow finger over the menu items. I hold my breath. He double taps on the waffles. “This. You’ll like this.”
I perk a brow. “Not the pie?”
He grins. “Gotta ease you in, doc. You’re not ready for pie just yet.”
It takes great strength not to frown at his double meaning, whatever the hell it is.
“Fine,” I say, subtly shifting farther back into the booth. Away from him. “I’ll try it.”
He glances up at me, head tilting. “I’m surprised.”
I close the menu, and he retreats to his side of the trenches. “You’re surprised?”
He grins, taking a sip of coffee. “Yes. I figured I’d get more pushback.”
“Pushback? On breakfast?” I blink. “I’m not as difficult as you think I am.”
“Perhaps,” he notes, leaning back, “but you don’t like me very much. It’s not unreasonable to assume you’d dislike my suggestions as well.”
My pulse quickens at this observation. “I don’t dislike you.”
He clicks his tongue, eyes darkening a faint degree. “Don’t lie to me, Safia. I don’t appreciate dishonesty.”
I swallow. “I’m not…”
“What did I just say?” In a split second, his demeanor shifts from terrifying to harmless as Delta appears at the head of the table and takes our order.
When she leaves, he adds, “It’s fine if you don’t like me.
You don’t know me. It’s perfectly normal.
I also tend to be wary of new people. Not everyone has honorable intentions. ”
I narrow my eyes on him. Perplexing. “And you do? Have honorable intentions?”
The tendons in his neck twitch. “Always. I live by a very particular code.”
“To serve and protect?”