FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series by Leslie A. Kelly Page A
Authors: Leslie A. Kelly
Ads: Link
briefcase, Dean drew out a few stills Brandon had isolated from the digital recording. The images weren’t the best, taken at night with an average-quality video camera. But that night had been a clear one, and the killer had been using some type of artificial lighting. He’d also zoomed in on his victim’s face, nice and tight, as well as pulling back to present the whole scene.
The killer had wasted no effort in making his show more enjoyable for his audience. And he’d turned his camera away from absolutely nothing.
Starting with the ones from the earliest part of the torture session, Dean spread three photos on the desk, turning them to face the sheriff. The victim’s eyes were closed in the first, her head slumped, her chin touching her chest. She’d been unconscious for the first few minutes of the film. Judging by the trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, she’d been made that way by one or more sharp blows to the face and head.
The next shot was more disturbing. The victim’s eyes were open, confusion and pain warring with terror in her expression. Seeing what she’d been seeing—the hooded figure, the moonlight glittering on the knife—anyone would have been the same.
Anyone.
He positioned the third picture, hoping this would be the last he’d have to show the woman sitting so stiffly, her posture revealing nothing, though every ounce of color had fallen from her cheeks. This was a full-length shot, showing the naked victim, conscious and aware, her face bleeding but her body still unblemished by the blade that was about to be visited upon her with such excruciating ferocity.
Watching the sheriff’s reaction, he knew when her eyelids fluttered down and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth that they’d identified their victim. The sheen of moisture in her eyes when she reopened them confirmed it, but also made him feel like crap for having to put her through this.
Bad enough for anyone in law enforcement looking at the final, agonizing moments of a stranger. But to see someone she’d known since childhood? Hell . “Sheriff Rhodes?” he asked, his tone gentle. “Can you identify the woman in the photographs?”
She swallowed visibly, then nodded once. “It’s Lisa Zimmerman.”
“You’re sure?”
“Even if I didn’t recognize her face immediately, I’d know her by that bumblebee tattoo on her shoulder. She was a finalist in a statewide spelling bee in elementary school. She had that put on a couple of years ago, I guess to remind herself that she’d once accomplished something.” She pushed the pictures away, the tips of her nails touching the very edges, as if she couldn’t bear any more contact with them. “So she’s dead?”
“We haven’t found her body,” Wyatt explained. The man sounded coolly professional, as always, but also quietly subdued in respect for the sheriff’s obvious dismay. “But yes, there seems to be no doubt the woman in these pictures is dead.”
Silence descended in the office for a long moment, broken only by the hiss of the air-conditioning unit in the window. The stream of cold air ruffled some papers on the sheriff’s desk, and lifted a finger-size strawberry-blond curl that had escaped the bun at her nape. The skin it rested against looked slick, damp with the kind of sweat that could never be chased away on a day this hot.
That soft, fragile strand of hair was the only part of her that moved during the full minute it took her to process the situation. The rest of her remained frozen in place, unmoving, unblinking, almost not even breathing.
She was the picture of a professional—dealing with an awful crime that touched her personally. Yet already detaching herself from it in order to do her job.
He’d have expected nothing less. Dean watched closely, wondering why he understood her so well after such a brief acquaintance. But he didn’t have to wonder for long before the truth washed over him with sudden clarity.
She
The killer had wasted no effort in making his show more enjoyable for his audience. And he’d turned his camera away from absolutely nothing.
Starting with the ones from the earliest part of the torture session, Dean spread three photos on the desk, turning them to face the sheriff. The victim’s eyes were closed in the first, her head slumped, her chin touching her chest. She’d been unconscious for the first few minutes of the film. Judging by the trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, she’d been made that way by one or more sharp blows to the face and head.
The next shot was more disturbing. The victim’s eyes were open, confusion and pain warring with terror in her expression. Seeing what she’d been seeing—the hooded figure, the moonlight glittering on the knife—anyone would have been the same.
Anyone.
He positioned the third picture, hoping this would be the last he’d have to show the woman sitting so stiffly, her posture revealing nothing, though every ounce of color had fallen from her cheeks. This was a full-length shot, showing the naked victim, conscious and aware, her face bleeding but her body still unblemished by the blade that was about to be visited upon her with such excruciating ferocity.
Watching the sheriff’s reaction, he knew when her eyelids fluttered down and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth that they’d identified their victim. The sheen of moisture in her eyes when she reopened them confirmed it, but also made him feel like crap for having to put her through this.
Bad enough for anyone in law enforcement looking at the final, agonizing moments of a stranger. But to see someone she’d known since childhood? Hell . “Sheriff Rhodes?” he asked, his tone gentle. “Can you identify the woman in the photographs?”
She swallowed visibly, then nodded once. “It’s Lisa Zimmerman.”
“You’re sure?”
“Even if I didn’t recognize her face immediately, I’d know her by that bumblebee tattoo on her shoulder. She was a finalist in a statewide spelling bee in elementary school. She had that put on a couple of years ago, I guess to remind herself that she’d once accomplished something.” She pushed the pictures away, the tips of her nails touching the very edges, as if she couldn’t bear any more contact with them. “So she’s dead?”
“We haven’t found her body,” Wyatt explained. The man sounded coolly professional, as always, but also quietly subdued in respect for the sheriff’s obvious dismay. “But yes, there seems to be no doubt the woman in these pictures is dead.”
Silence descended in the office for a long moment, broken only by the hiss of the air-conditioning unit in the window. The stream of cold air ruffled some papers on the sheriff’s desk, and lifted a finger-size strawberry-blond curl that had escaped the bun at her nape. The skin it rested against looked slick, damp with the kind of sweat that could never be chased away on a day this hot.
That soft, fragile strand of hair was the only part of her that moved during the full minute it took her to process the situation. The rest of her remained frozen in place, unmoving, unblinking, almost not even breathing.
She was the picture of a professional—dealing with an awful crime that touched her personally. Yet already detaching herself from it in order to do her job.
He’d have expected nothing less. Dean watched closely, wondering why he understood her so well after such a brief acquaintance. But he didn’t have to wonder for long before the truth washed over him with sudden clarity.
She
Similar Books
