Page 20

Twenty minutes ago, Ella had been debating the merits of sleep versus caffeine. Now, she stood in an alley behind Granville City Hall with the body of Rebecca Torres at her feet. The crime scene techs hadn't arrived yet. Just three cops securing the perimeter while Ella, Ripley and Westfall stood in a loose triangle around the victim.

Rebecca Torres lay in a straight line across the path like a human speedbump, and the sodium lights emphasized the blood pooling beneath her head. The poor woman’s possessions – laptop, handbag, car keys – lay beside her.

And equally present was the killer’s ritual.

This time, it was a G, branded dead center on Rebecca Torres’ forehead.

‘People look smaller when they're dead,’ Ripley said beside her. ‘Ever notice that?’

Ella had noticed. Bodies contracted somehow as if death itself took up less space than life. Rebecca Torres had likely been five-foot-seven when blood pumped through her veins. Now she looked five-four tops, and her designer suit suddenly seemed too large.

‘We’ve got G,’ Ella said. ‘L, P, G.’

‘Maybe he’s trying to spell plug.’

Ella shot her partner a look. Now wasn’t the time. She spoke beyond Ripley to Westfall instead. ‘Who was this woman?’

‘Council President Torres. I literally spoke to her this morning. Told her about the murders and how we wanted to keep the details under wraps. She understood.’

‘Naturally. What was the general opinion of her?’

'Eh. Up and down. Like any politician. It's election season, though. Could be a political rival?'

Ella knelt down and studied how death had arranged Rebecca Torres' final pose. No theatrical staging here - just gravity and knife wounds writing their own story. Torres lay flat on her back, arms splayed at forty-five-degree angles. The woman's Givenchy suit had rucked up around her thighs and transformed expensive tailoring into funeral wear. Her throat gaped in what Ella now recognized as the killer's signature style: a clean slice right to left, deep enough to sever the carotid in one efficient stroke.

The brand dominated Torres' forehead - a 'G' seared into flesh, identical size, width and depth as the other markings. It was almost like the killer had removable heads on their branding iron, like a toy with interchangeable parts. Next, she examined the body’s position relative to the scattered belongings.

‘Not posed. She fell where she was killed. He didn't arrange her afterward.’ She pointed to the scuff marks on Torres' right heel. ‘She tried to back away. One step. That's all she got.’

Westfall joined her. ‘And he left everything behind. Car keys, laptop, cell phone. You’d think any criminal would at least try and rob someone like her.’

‘Our unsub doesn’t care about money. He’d only take her possessions if he wanted to relive the high of killing her later, or if he thought taking her stuff would conceal her identity.’

‘No chance of that,’ Westfall said. ‘Everyone in town knows Rebecca’s face.’

Everyone, including their killer. That was the thing about small towns – they fostered intimate hatreds. In New York, you could loathe strangers in the abstract. In Granville, your enemies had names and faces and council seats.

Ella stood up. ‘That’s what worries me. I’m guessing this woman is the closest thing Granville has to a celebrity, and our unsub just killed her. In a public area. That takes balls.’

‘Balls he didn’t have a few days ago. This is a big jump from killing a local professor.’

Westfall paced in a circle. ‘This is going to be national news by morning. I can’t keep this under wraps. Someone will talk.’

‘So we’ve got hours, maybe a day at most, before this investigation becomes a circus.’

‘Yup.’

Ella put the looming media frenzy to one side and ran through the victimology. Professor, psychologist, council president. Each kill was an escalation. ‘Where’s he go from here? Who’s above the city president?’

‘Let’s hope the Pope’s not due in town this week. ’

‘Who found her?’ Ella asked, abruptly changing tack. The first person on scene should always be the subject of much scrutiny.

‘Mike Davidson, security guard. Does regular sweeps of the grounds every couple hours.’

‘Where’s he now?’

‘In my passenger seat, probably still vomiting.’

'Take him to the precinct,' Ella said. 'Get his statement, alibis, for the times of the other murders. Clear him if possible.'

‘Likelihood of him being a suspect?’

‘Low,’ Ella said. ‘But everyone’s a suspect ‘til they’re not’

‘Our unsub’s too smart to shit where he eats,’ Ripley said. ‘This place got cameras? Get copies of everything because if the killer was prowling the perimeter we might have him on tape.’

‘Already requested the footage,’ Westfall said, then his expression darkened. ‘But Torres' budget cuts last year meant they lost the exterior cameras on this side of the building. 'Cost-saving measure,' she called it.’

Life's little ironies. The woman who'd deemed security cameras too expensive died in the blind spot she'd created. Ella wondered if Torres had experienced a moment of clarity in her final second, when the decisions of a lifetime collapse into a single point of regret.

Ella's gaze drifted from the body. The brick walls rose on either side to create a narrow channel that funneled the December wind into a mournful keen. Thanks to the darkness, she almost missed it.

Near the dumpster, partially concealed by a discarded cardboard box, sat a small pile of ash and charcoal.

‘Mia,’ she called. ‘Check this out.’

Ripley crossed to her position and crouched beside the makeshift fire pit. ‘Well, well. Our friend got cozy before killing Torres. Didn’t have a fireplace to heat his branding iron so he brought his own.’

This wasn’t the improvised solution of someone who'd killed on impulse, but the prepared tools of someone who'd come with a plan and the means to execute it.

Ella stepped back from the body, letting the scene rearrange itself in her mind. Council president. Branded with a G. Killed in an alleyway. High-profile victim. Most of the pieces were there – all but one.

‘We’re missing a component. Again.’

‘Don’t tell us our Biblical friend’s gotten shy. Where’s his message? ’

There were brick and shadow and rust-spangled metal, but no crimson proselytizing. The walls were canvas, but the artist had declined to paint.

‘He must have done what he did with Summers. The walls are too dark. Or he was worried the message might wash away by the time we found her.’

‘So where'd he put it?’

That was the question. Where would a zealot with a taste for Old Testament justice leave his benediction? He wouldn't simply abandon a key component of his signature because of logistical difficulties. He would adapt.

Her gaze fell on Torres' possessions, scattered like fallen leaves around her body. White laptop. Purse. The accouterments of power, now just so much evidence to be cataloged and bagged.

Laptop.

White.

A bright canvas.

‘Ripley, gloves.’

Her partner passed her a pair. Ella slipped them on, bent down and inspected Rebecca Torres’ laptop. It had fallen with the lid against the floor, so only the underside was visible.

Ella gently picked it up by the corners, flipped it over.

And there, scrawled in the same red calligraphy as the other scenes, was another message.

NO ONE SERVES TWO MASTERS.