Page 35 of Girl, Unmasked
‘Then he removes her eyes.With a scalpel.He used the same scalpel to flay the skin off her back, and then he jammed barbed wire into her head.’
It was one thing to see the aftermath, to piece together what had happened from blood spatter and body positioning, but it was another thing entirely to read it laid out like a recipe for murder.‘Anything else?Any details about the location, the timing, anything like that?’
Ripley shook her head.‘Not really.It's all focused on the act itself.The guy's got a real hard-on for describing every cut.It's like he gets off on it, even though we profiled him as not being a sadist.’
'His literary counterpart might be different.Fantasy is always different than reality,' Ella said.
‘True.Either way, he came prepared,’ Ripley continued.‘Brought all the tools with him.It wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing.He planned this out, down to the last detail.’
‘Of course.You don’t break into a woman’s house and decide to angelify her on a whim.’
The fact this killer was a planner made him ten times more dangerous – and ten times harder to catch.Impulse killers were at the mercy of their compulsions, which meant they made mistakes and left evidence behind.But killers who mapped out every move and followed the plan to the letter were a different breed.They were the Dennis Raders, the Joseph DeAngelos, the Harold Shipmans.The ones that went undetected for decades and only got caught because of miracles.
Ella's headache amped up to migraine levels.She pushed away from her desk, eager to pace away the frustration.Whoever this Drago LaChance person was, it seems he was determined to make Ella work for every scrap of insight into his rancid gray matter.As Ella pounded feet against the floor, Ripley scooped the manuscript pages back in front of her and lost herself in the pages again.Meanwhile, Ella continued pacing as her mind worked overtime to find something she could cling onto for dear life.There had to be an angle she hadn't considered, maybe a piece of the jigsaw she'd overlooked.What did she have to go on?A mutilated body, a human-turned-angel, a victim who was one good deed away from sainthood, a murder manual that mapped out the entire thing from start to finish.
All that and she was still staring at a brick wall.
And time was ticking.Sophie Draper had been just the beginning.How many more lambs were already queued up for the slaughter?
‘Wait,’ Ripley said.‘Wait right there.’
Ella spun to her and saw her dissecting one line of the manuscript.Ripley grabbed a pen and circled a few words.Thank Christ they were only photocopies.
‘What is it?’
‘Hold on to your ass.I might have something.’
Hope suddenly flared to life.Ella’s pulse ramped up to levels that one day might kill her.
‘You do?’
Ripley grinned, and Ella recognized that expression all too well.It had a fire that said, ‘I've got you now, you son of a bitch.’
‘I think,’ Ripley said, ‘I think our guy made a mistake.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Martina Payne’s day had gone down the sewer faster than dollar-store toilet paper.Eight hours of parent-teacher conferences had left her with a throat like sandpaper and the burning desire to punch the next helicopter mom who insisted little Timmy was ‘just misunderstood.’
Now, trudging up four flights of stairs because the elevator was perpetually out of order – or more likely, the owners were too damn cheap to fix it – Martina fantasized about her couch, pizza, and losing herself in a trashy docuseries about a woman who’d been missing or murdered or kidnapped or something.Anything that made her feel like she wasn’t the unluckiest woman on earth.
She paused at her door and groped for her keys while the other pried at her honey-blonde ponytail.Christ, what a day.Maybe it was time to give up the teaching job and try her hand at literally anything else.It wasn't like she was paid well for her twelve-hour days.And if she had to read one more half-assed attempt at blank verse or one more mangled metaphor, she might just follow in Sylvia Plath's footsteps and stick her head in the nearest oven.
Assuming, of course, she even had the energy to light the pilot.
The lock finally surrendered to her assault and Martina stumbled inside.She kicked off her flats and flicked on the lights.Her mind was already on frozen pizzas and bottles of red, but she suddenly felt something crunching under her feet.
Martina frowned.Looked down.And froze, one foot hovering comically while her exhaustion-addled brain struggled to process what her eyes were telling her.
Feathers.
Freaking feathers everywhere.Like someone had massacred a pillow factory and decided her hallway was the ideal dumping ground for the carnage.
Martina blinked, wondering if she’d finally cracked and this was some sort of psychotic break.But no, her willpower wasn’t enough to vanish this strange display that had somehow taken up residence in her apartment.The feathery disaster remained stubbornly real.
‘What the hell is this?’
She picked her way through the mess, snatching up a particularly large plume.It was soft between her fingers, almost obscenely so.This wasn't some dollar store craft project gone wrong.These were the real deal.
