Terrorbyte by Cat Connor

whir. Do people live that long? In real life, did they actually live that long? Imagine that! How awesome to live almost a century. She surely had some stories to tell.
    â€œYes, ninety-four.”
    â€œFaculties?”
    â€œHearing aids; very strong prescription glasses; she was wearing them when she saw the male.” He managed to say this with a straight face.
    â€œShe’s sure about the male?”
    â€œShe said it was either a male or a butt-ugly woman.”
    â€œI like our witness already.”
    Without warning, my mind skidded over the appearance of the same writing on the walls, while trying not to take it personally. What if it was some kind of voodoo, hoodoo or black magic? What if using my poem could take something from me, part of my soul or something?
    Sam gave me a knowing look. “Give!” He kicked my booted foot.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    Skirting the steaming verbal pile, I asked, “Who’s the victim, do we have a name?”
    â€œLaura Amos, a thirty-year-old teacher’s aide.”
    â€œWas there a note for me anywhere?” I hadn’t seen a note. Maybe he hadn’t written one this time.
    Sam nodded.
    Damn!
    I felt Mac’s eyes boring into me. Maybe I should have said something about the last Post-it; I had pretended it didn’t exist. So far it had worked for me.
    I moved on and hoped he would too. “Has anyone done a statewide on the signature?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œI got a bad feeling.”
    â€œYou want go national?”
    â€œYes. Load this into the ViCAP database; who do we know over there?” I stared at Sam, hoping to jog my memory and it worked. The A-Team theme song roared into life, bringing screen shots of B.A. Baracus, Faceman, Hannibal and ‘Howling Mad’ Murdoch. “Special Agent Murdoch.”
    Sam shook his head. For a split second I thought he’d heard the music too.
    â€œMurdoch went, he’s training recruits now.”
    â€œWe know anyone else who can keep an eye on things for us?”
    â€œJamison went over from our division.”
    I’d wondered where she’d gone. “Cool, get hold of her and explain the situation.”
    â€œI’ll get on it, boss. Anything else?”
    â€œYeah, hit the backwater towns with faxes or emails or whatever they can cope with, circulate the signature as widely as you can within Virginia. I want to know if there are any unsolved cases involving gold ribbon, alcohol, rape or sexual assault, knife wounds and, most especially, any cases with poetry written around the crime scene. And chlorine … what’s with the chlorine?”
    This killer had pulled together many elements to create something unique. These crime scenes didn’t just happen. It felt like he’d been at this for a while, tweaking, perfecting his skills, deciding what worked best for him. The ribbon and the poem were not necessary to commit the murder. They were an important part of his signature. I didn’t know if he needed the alcohol to commit the crime, if he drank any, forced his victims to drink any, or just liked to pour it around for effect. The chlorine was odd, could be signature, could be necessary – but I couldn’t think how – or could be coincidence.
    â€œYou smell more chlorine?” Sam asked.
    â€œYes. Stronger than on the previous victim. It was like a thin fog around her head.”
    Mac spoke. “You are incredible; how you could smell anything over the bourbon and blood is beyond me.”
    â€œIt was under it. It was an underlying aroma. Think of the smells at the scene as layers. The chlorine was first.”
    â€œStill amazes me that you can do that,” Mac replied.
    It amazes me that no one else seems to notice the smells I do. “Do we know if our victim had kids?”
    Sam spun to face a desk and grabbed his notebook. He turned back while flicking through several pages. He looked