stun gun, the duct tape. He managed to subdue this couple so quickly, it makes you wonder . . .” He glanced at her. “No chance there’s a second perp? A partner?”
“Only one set of footprints.”
“Then your boy is very efficient. And meticulous.”
“But he left his semen on the rug. He’s handed us the key to his identity. That’s one hell of a mistake.”
“Yes, it is. And he certainly knows it.”
“So why assault her right there, in the house? Why not do it later, in a safe place? If he’s organized enough to pull off a home invasion and control the husband—”
“Maybe that’s the real payoff.”
“What?”
“Think about it. Dr. Yeager sits there, bound and helpless. Forced to watch while another man takes possession of his property.”
“Property,” she repeated.
“In this unsub’s mind, that’s what the woman is. Another man’s property. Most sexual predators wouldn’t risk attacking a couple. They’d choose the lone woman, the easy target. Having a man in the picture makes it dangerous. Yet this unsub had to know there was a husband in the picture. And he came prepared to deal with him. Could it be that was part of the pleasure, part of the excitement? That he had an audience?”
An audience of one.
She looked down at the photo of Richard Yeager, slumped against the wall. Yes, that had been her immediate impression when she’d walked into the family room.
Zucker’s gaze shifted to the window. A moment passed. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sleepy, as though the words were drifting up in a dream state.
“It’s all about power. And control. About dominance over another human being. Not just the woman, but over the man as well. Maybe it’s really the man who excites him, who’s a vital part of this fantasy. Our unsub knows the risks, yet he’s compelled to carry out his impulses. His fantasies control him, and he, in turn, controls his victims. He’s all-powerful. The dominator. His enemy sits immobilized and helpless, and our unsub does what victorious armies have always done. He’s captured his prize. He rapes the woman. His pleasure is heightened by Dr. Yeager’s utter defeat. This attack is more than sexual aggression; it’s a display of masculine power. One man’s victory over another. The conqueror claiming his spoils.”
Outside, the students on the lawn were gathering up their backpacks, brushing grass from their clothes. The afternoon sun washed everything in hazy gold. And what would the day hold next for those students? Rizzoli wondered. Perhaps an evening of leisure and conversation, pizza and beer. And a sound sleep, without nightmares. The sleep of the innocent.
Something I’ll never again know.
Her cell phone chirped. “Excuse me,” she said, and flipped open the phone.
The call was from Erin Volchko, in the hair, fiber, and trace evidence lab. “I’ve examined those strips of duct tape taken off Dr. Yeager’s body,” said Erin. “I’ve already faxed the report to Detective Korsak. But I knew you’d want to know as well.”
“What have we got?”
“A number of short brown hairs caught in the adhesive. Limb hairs, pulled from the victim when the tape was peeled off.”
“Fibers?”
“Those as well. But here’s the really interesting thing. On the strip pulled from the victim’s ankles, there was a single dark-brown hair strand, twenty-one centimeters long.”
“His wife is a blonde.”
“I know. That’s what makes this particular strand interesting.”
The unsub, thought Rizzoli. It’s from our killer. She asked, “Are there epithelial cells?”
“Yes.”
“So we might be able to get DNA off that hair strand. If it matches the semen—”
“It won’t match the semen.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there’s no way this strand came from the killer.” Erin paused. “Unless he’s a zombie.”
four
F or detectives in Boston P.D.’s homicide unit, a visit to the crime lab required only a
“Only one set of footprints.”
“Then your boy is very efficient. And meticulous.”
“But he left his semen on the rug. He’s handed us the key to his identity. That’s one hell of a mistake.”
“Yes, it is. And he certainly knows it.”
“So why assault her right there, in the house? Why not do it later, in a safe place? If he’s organized enough to pull off a home invasion and control the husband—”
“Maybe that’s the real payoff.”
“What?”
“Think about it. Dr. Yeager sits there, bound and helpless. Forced to watch while another man takes possession of his property.”
“Property,” she repeated.
“In this unsub’s mind, that’s what the woman is. Another man’s property. Most sexual predators wouldn’t risk attacking a couple. They’d choose the lone woman, the easy target. Having a man in the picture makes it dangerous. Yet this unsub had to know there was a husband in the picture. And he came prepared to deal with him. Could it be that was part of the pleasure, part of the excitement? That he had an audience?”
An audience of one.
She looked down at the photo of Richard Yeager, slumped against the wall. Yes, that had been her immediate impression when she’d walked into the family room.
Zucker’s gaze shifted to the window. A moment passed. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sleepy, as though the words were drifting up in a dream state.
“It’s all about power. And control. About dominance over another human being. Not just the woman, but over the man as well. Maybe it’s really the man who excites him, who’s a vital part of this fantasy. Our unsub knows the risks, yet he’s compelled to carry out his impulses. His fantasies control him, and he, in turn, controls his victims. He’s all-powerful. The dominator. His enemy sits immobilized and helpless, and our unsub does what victorious armies have always done. He’s captured his prize. He rapes the woman. His pleasure is heightened by Dr. Yeager’s utter defeat. This attack is more than sexual aggression; it’s a display of masculine power. One man’s victory over another. The conqueror claiming his spoils.”
Outside, the students on the lawn were gathering up their backpacks, brushing grass from their clothes. The afternoon sun washed everything in hazy gold. And what would the day hold next for those students? Rizzoli wondered. Perhaps an evening of leisure and conversation, pizza and beer. And a sound sleep, without nightmares. The sleep of the innocent.
Something I’ll never again know.
Her cell phone chirped. “Excuse me,” she said, and flipped open the phone.
The call was from Erin Volchko, in the hair, fiber, and trace evidence lab. “I’ve examined those strips of duct tape taken off Dr. Yeager’s body,” said Erin. “I’ve already faxed the report to Detective Korsak. But I knew you’d want to know as well.”
“What have we got?”
“A number of short brown hairs caught in the adhesive. Limb hairs, pulled from the victim when the tape was peeled off.”
“Fibers?”
“Those as well. But here’s the really interesting thing. On the strip pulled from the victim’s ankles, there was a single dark-brown hair strand, twenty-one centimeters long.”
“His wife is a blonde.”
“I know. That’s what makes this particular strand interesting.”
The unsub, thought Rizzoli. It’s from our killer. She asked, “Are there epithelial cells?”
“Yes.”
“So we might be able to get DNA off that hair strand. If it matches the semen—”
“It won’t match the semen.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there’s no way this strand came from the killer.” Erin paused. “Unless he’s a zombie.”
four
F or detectives in Boston P.D.’s homicide unit, a visit to the crime lab required only a
Similar Books
