ever
being hurt again. Lightning can strike twice.
No one typed anything. No one responded.
No matter how careful we are, evil knows where we live,
she thought. It knows how to find us.
A drop of sweat slid down her back.
And I feel it now Closing in.
.
Nina Peyton goes nowhere, sees no one. She has not been
to her job in weeks. Today I called her office in Brookline,
where she works as a sales representative, and her
colleague told me he doesn't know when she will return to
them. She is like a wounded beast, holed up in her cave,
terrified of taking even one step out into the night. She
knows what the night holds for her, because she has been
touched by its evil, and even now she feels it seeping like
vapor through the walls of her home. The curtains are
closed tight, but the fabric is thin, and I see her moving
about inside. Her silhouette is balled up, arms squeezed to
her chest, as though her body has folded into itself. Her
movements are jerky and mechanical as she paces back
and forth.
She is checking the locks on the doors, the latches on the
windows. Trying to shut out the darkness.
It must be stifling inside that little house. The night is like
steam, and there are no air conditioners in any of her
windows. All evening she has stayed inside, the windows
closed despite the heat. I picture her gleaming with sweat,
suffering through the long hot day and into the night,
desperate to let in fresh air, but afraid of what else she might
let in.
She walks past the window again. Stops. Lingers there,
framed by the rectangle of light. Suddenly the curtains flick
apart, and she reaches through to unlock the latch. She
slides up the window Stands before it, taking in hungry gulps
.
of fresh air. She has finally surrendered to the heat.
There is nothing so exciting to a hunter as the scent of
wounded prey. I can almost smell it wafting out, the scent of
a bloodied beast, of defiled flesh. Just as she breathes in
the night air, so, too, am I breathing in her scent. Her fear.
My heart beats faster. I reach into my bag, to caress the
instruments. Even the steel is warm to my touch.
She closes the window with a bang. A few deep gulps of
fresh air was all she dared allow herself, and now she
retreats to the misery of her stuffy little house.
After a while, I accept disappointment and I walk away,
leaving her to sweat through the night in that oven of a
bedroom.
Tomorrow they say, it will be even hotter.
,
five
T his unsub is a classic picquerist," said Dr.
Lawrence Zucker. "Someone who uses a knife to achieve
secondary or indirect sexual release. Picquerism is the act of
stabbing or cutting, any repeated penetration of the skin with a
sharp object. The knife is a phallic symbol--a substitution for
the male sexual organ. Instead of performing normal sexual
intercourse, our unsub achieves his release by subjecting his
victim to pain and terror. It's the power that thrills him. Ultimate
power, over life and death."
Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr.
Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking
John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine.
As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He
was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern
University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department.
Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case,
and he'd given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his
appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself
into the perp's mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from
wandering in that satanic dimension. He enjoyed the journey.
She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his
voice.
She glanced around the conference room at the other four
detectives and wondered if anyone else was spooked by this
weirdo, but all she saw was tired expressions and varying
shades of five o'clock shadows.
They were all tired. She herself had slept scarcely four
hours last night. This
being hurt again. Lightning can strike twice.
No one typed anything. No one responded.
No matter how careful we are, evil knows where we live,
she thought. It knows how to find us.
A drop of sweat slid down her back.
And I feel it now Closing in.
.
Nina Peyton goes nowhere, sees no one. She has not been
to her job in weeks. Today I called her office in Brookline,
where she works as a sales representative, and her
colleague told me he doesn't know when she will return to
them. She is like a wounded beast, holed up in her cave,
terrified of taking even one step out into the night. She
knows what the night holds for her, because she has been
touched by its evil, and even now she feels it seeping like
vapor through the walls of her home. The curtains are
closed tight, but the fabric is thin, and I see her moving
about inside. Her silhouette is balled up, arms squeezed to
her chest, as though her body has folded into itself. Her
movements are jerky and mechanical as she paces back
and forth.
She is checking the locks on the doors, the latches on the
windows. Trying to shut out the darkness.
It must be stifling inside that little house. The night is like
steam, and there are no air conditioners in any of her
windows. All evening she has stayed inside, the windows
closed despite the heat. I picture her gleaming with sweat,
suffering through the long hot day and into the night,
desperate to let in fresh air, but afraid of what else she might
let in.
She walks past the window again. Stops. Lingers there,
framed by the rectangle of light. Suddenly the curtains flick
apart, and she reaches through to unlock the latch. She
slides up the window Stands before it, taking in hungry gulps
.
of fresh air. She has finally surrendered to the heat.
There is nothing so exciting to a hunter as the scent of
wounded prey. I can almost smell it wafting out, the scent of
a bloodied beast, of defiled flesh. Just as she breathes in
the night air, so, too, am I breathing in her scent. Her fear.
My heart beats faster. I reach into my bag, to caress the
instruments. Even the steel is warm to my touch.
She closes the window with a bang. A few deep gulps of
fresh air was all she dared allow herself, and now she
retreats to the misery of her stuffy little house.
After a while, I accept disappointment and I walk away,
leaving her to sweat through the night in that oven of a
bedroom.
Tomorrow they say, it will be even hotter.
,
five
T his unsub is a classic picquerist," said Dr.
Lawrence Zucker. "Someone who uses a knife to achieve
secondary or indirect sexual release. Picquerism is the act of
stabbing or cutting, any repeated penetration of the skin with a
sharp object. The knife is a phallic symbol--a substitution for
the male sexual organ. Instead of performing normal sexual
intercourse, our unsub achieves his release by subjecting his
victim to pain and terror. It's the power that thrills him. Ultimate
power, over life and death."
Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr.
Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking
John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine.
As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He
was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern
University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department.
Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case,
and he'd given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his
appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself
into the perp's mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from
wandering in that satanic dimension. He enjoyed the journey.
She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his
voice.
She glanced around the conference room at the other four
detectives and wondered if anyone else was spooked by this
weirdo, but all she saw was tired expressions and varying
shades of five o'clock shadows.
They were all tired. She herself had slept scarcely four
hours last night. This
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