The Bride Collector by Ted Dekker

and are reacting to that abuse through some ritualistic act,
     which relieves their compulsion for gratification or revenge. Environment, not psychosis, forms most serial killers. This
     is not the profile of the mentally ill.”
    He knew all of this, naturally, but investigative work was an exercise in rehearsing details, coaxing new truth from them.
    “And yet the note indicates delusions of grandeur, which is a form of psychosis.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    He looked at the drill, pacing. “His killing doesn’t appear to be sexually motivated. It’s ritualistic. He’s courting delusions
     of grandeur. He’s intelligent. He’s killing so that he can kill again, because in his mind, unless he carries out his role,
     he can no longer play that role and live.”
    “Right,” she said. “And whatever that role is, it’s not the role of executioner or punisher. He thinks he’s serving his victims
     well. He’s loving them.”
    They stood in silence for a full minute.
    “So. We take an exhaustive look at the mental health facilities in the Four Corners state hospitals,” Nikki said. “Residential
     care facilities, nursing homes, state prisons, convictions involving the mentally ill… That’s a ton of data.”
    “Frank’s got six agents buried in the data already. We’ve put in a request for additional assistance from the field offices
     in Cheyenne, Colorado Springs, and Albuquerque. I’ve asked him to cross-reference the confession with all related databases.
     He left the note because he wants us to find something.”
    “Agreed.”
    He put his hands on his hips and studied the walls. “Meanwhile, we have the mysteries hidden here, in his place of work.”
    Nikki nodded. “You ever get tired of it?”
    “Fieldwork?”
    “Trying to see past what a person allows you to see.”
    An odd choice of words. “Can’t say that I do.”
    “I mean, think about it, we all have our mysteries, right? We live our lives letting people see only what we want them to
     see. It takes years, even in a marriage, to know someone. Not that you’d know that, Brad.”
    She’d said the last part with a good-natured smirk.
    “Even then,” she continued, “how many spouses are eventually blindsided by some deep, dark revelation about the person they
     thought they knew?”
    “No argument here,” he said, hoping he’d avoided the whole morass. “Everyone hides something.”
    She nodded. “Classic existentialism. In the end the human being is alone. We are all confronted by our own complexity, which
     we try to unravel, but all the while we’re confronted by our own isolation. This is what we eventually learn. It’s why so
     many lean on faith, a relationship that isn’t dependent on another human being.” She crossed her arms and studied him. “So
     how about it, Brad? What mysteries are you hiding?”
    At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. They’d always been candid with each other, but never probing. He wasn’t quite
     sure how he felt about it.
    “I don’t mean to pry,” she said. “Not too deep, anyway.”
    A smile softened her face, and looking into her soft blue eyes, he suddenly wanted to tell her everything. About how he’d
     fallen in love with a young tennis player named Ruby while attending UT in Austin, the wild carefree days when the world was
     at both of their fingertips and everyone who saw them together knew it. About the way her eyes twinkled and her laugh echoed
     on the tennis court, about how completely he’d given himself to Ruby.
    About her suicide.
    The thought of it brought a familiar lump to his throat. It had taken Brad three years to uncover the secrets that had led
     to Ruby’s decision to take her life.
    “Think about it, Brad. The killer’s playing us. Probing us. Tempting us, egging us on, daring us to stop him. My job is to
     take his challenge and beat him at his own game. Uncover his true self. So how do you get someone to reveal their secrets?”
    She was