Page 24 of Girl, Unmasked (Ella Dark #28)

A broken elevator meant four flights of stairs. Four floors, four chances for Ella to convince herself this was all some sick joke. Some opportunities to wake up panting in her bed with all of this madness melted to mist.

Cheery plastic placards proclaiming ‘Home Sweet Home’ mocked her from the wood-panelled walls on every floor, and there was no way her subconscious would conjure up something so tacky.

Ripley had arrived of her own accord, and now they followed the uniforms that were scattered few and far between like a breadcrumb trail leading straight to the vic’s front door.

A long hallway yawned before them, as silent as a tomb save for the odd crackling radio and low murmur of voices coming from the door at the far end.

But it wasn’t blood or mutilated limbs that caught her attention first.

It was the feathers.

Ripley glanced down, even checked her soles, as though she might have ignorantly stepped on a live pigeon. ‘The hell is this? Feathers?’

The trail led from the hallway around to the living room. Ella followed it. The feathers grew larger and more pronounced with every step. In the living room, Ella crouched down and examined a particularly large plume.

‘Either our unsub is a chicken or he brought these with him.’

‘Or our vic has a thing for feathers,’ Ripley offered.

Ella’s stomach clenched like a fist. She tracked the grisly gambit and noted the delicate arc of plumage and the way it swept from hallway to living room in a graceful swoop.

‘I don't know, Mia. Sure, it's melodramatic as hell, but I think there's something more going on here.’ She looked up, met her partner's gaze over the bizarre confetti. ‘I think these feathers are his foreplay.’

‘Well, I’ve never seen foreplay like this.’

She pointed to a cluster of feathers near the hallway. ‘See how they're all pointing towards the living room? And look, they get bigger as we get closer to the balcony. It's like he's building up to something.’

‘That’s if he even planted these things. They could have been here regardless.’

‘No chance. It’s part of his angel-making ritual. He’s transforming these women. In his mind, he's creating angels.’

Before Mia could respond, Detective Blythe burst through the door. His face was flushed and a sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

‘It's a goddamn zoo out there. Journalists are piling in faster than we can keep them away. We're talking major news networks, even some sleaze who swears he's from the Paranormal Times. Whatever the hell that is.’

‘Sounds stupid,’ Ripley said.

Ella said, ‘Yes it does, but a media circus is a media circus. And that’s the last thing we need. This case is the media’s wet dream as it is.’

Ella could see tomorrow’s headlines already. NORWALK ANGEL-MAKER CLAIMS SECOND. Blunt. The kind of carnivorous copy that sold papers and whipped the populace into a mouth-foaming frenzy. And right now, the press's finest were jockeying for position.

Ella continued, ‘Get some more bodies out here.

It's too late to deny anything happened, but we can still do some damage control.

Set up a perimeter. And for the love of God, don't let anyone snap pictures of the cops or forensics team when they get here.

Last thing we need is our killer knowing who's on his tail.’

Blythe nodded. ‘You got it.’

‘And see if you can scrounge up some tarps, sheets, hell, somebody's used gym towel for all I care. Anything to cover up the scene, give our girl a little dignity.’

‘Anything else?’

Ella's gaze swept the room again and caught the little details.

A half-empty coffee mug on the counter with lipstick stain still visible on the rim.

A novel splayed open on the arm of the couch.

A pair of reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table, as if their owner had just set them down for a moment and would be back any second to reclaim them.

‘Yeah. Who’s our vic?’

‘Martina Payne. Forty-two years old, lives alone. Neighbor called it in when he came home from work and saw the…’ Blythe gestured to the balcony door. ‘That’s all we’ve got for now.’

‘Sure, now go and keep those vultures at bay. Crack some skulls if you have to.’

Blythe scuttled away and left Ella and Ripley alone in the apartment.

Ella turned her attention to the small kitchen tucked off the living room.

A dinette set, covered in scuff marks and coffee rings.

The dull gleam of old stainless steel. And there, tacked to the fridge with alphabet magnets, a corkboard collage of smiling faces. Ripley appeared beside her.

‘Sad, isn’t it,’ she said.

‘Isn’t it just?’

A dozen Polaroids, all featuring the same woman. Beaming at the camera with arms slung around friends and what looked like family. A barbecue, a beach vacation, a birthday with a gaudy ‘40’ crown perched on honey-blonde curls.

Martina Payne. Bubbly, beautiful, surrounded by people who seemed to adore her. So what had drawn the eye of their vengeful angel maker?

Then something caught her attention, buried at the bottom of the collage.

Another snapshot, creased and faded with age.

Martina again, but this time draped over a man, a tousle-haired Adonis with a rakish grin.

They were lip-locked, lost in each other, and someone had taken the time to draw a lopsided heart around the edges.

‘Hey, Mia. Get a load of this.’

‘What?’

‘This picture. Martina’s got a boyfriend. Nine times out of ten…’

‘It’s the partner.’

‘Yeah, but look closer,’ Ella said. ‘All these other photos are recent. Brand new, practically still wet from the darkroom. But this one’s old.’

‘So?’

‘On-again, off-again, I'd bet.’

Mia’s eyebrows shot up so fast they were in danger of escaping velocity. ‘You think?’

‘This picture's old. Look at the grain, the faded colors. All these other shots are recent. They’re crisp, clear, probably taken on a smartphone. So why's she only got one picture with Romeo here, and why's it ancient history?’

Mia said, ‘He’s on the bitch bench.’

‘She’s not committed. She keeps him around, sure, but he's not making the cut for the new photo album.’

‘Boomerang boytoy. We’ll need to talk to him. If this police thing doesn’t work out, you could be a relationship counsellor.’

Ella ignored the jab. She made a mental note to track down this mysterious stranger then turned away from the kitchen. She alighted on the sofa and coffee table in the adjacent living room. It was strewn with papers and what appeared to be the entire contents of Office Depot.

She moved closer. There were sheafs of loose-leaf, covered in the scrawl of teenage angst. A dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar and stacked haphazardly atop it all, a pile of workbooks – red canvas covers emblazoned with 'English Literature' in bold, no-nonsense font.

Ella’s frown deepened as she snagged the topmost book. She flipped it open to a random page. Tenth grade, from the looks of it.

‘Mia, look, our vic was an English teacher.’

‘First vic worked in publishing, second vic teaches English. Sounds like a pattern to me.’

‘Literature. Maybe Martina Payne rejected our unsub too, just like Sophie did.’

Ripley moved over to the door that led out onto the balcony. ‘We need to find out what school Martina worked at, check every student she’s ever taught. Looks like the cavalry’s here.’

‘That was fast.’ Ella joined Ripley at the balcony door. On the parking lot below, a sea of uniformed officers were ushering every stray body beyond the gates and round the corner. ‘Now the coast is clear, maybe we could pay our respects to the victim in person.’

Ripley opened the balcony door. ‘After you.’

Ella stepped out onto the balcony. She was ready to take whatever this twisted maniac could throw at her and keep on swinging, but she quickly discovered that all the grit in the world couldn't prepare her for the sight that greeted her out here.

Martina Payne. English teacher, friend, a lover to someone. Now just a slab of meat dangling from a balcony, displayed like a prize hog at the county fair.

Except no blue ribbon winner ever looked like this.

Martina’s arms stretched wide as if embracing the abyss that yawned beneath her feet. The barbed wire crown bit deep into her forehead and painted her face in streaks of red. Somewhere beyond the parking lot, streetlights sparked to life and bathed the scene in orange light.

‘Good Lord,’ Ripley said.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘What kind of lunatic does this?’ Ripley gently reached over the balcony railings to the victim dangling below. She touched one of her wrists. ‘He’s used handcuffs. Snapped them onto the railings then thrown her overboard.’

Ella's guts performed a gymnastic routine. She'd thought her shock receptors had short-circuited years ago, but this image threatened to kick-start them with a vengeance.

What made a monster like this? What combination of nature, nurture, bad wiring, and worse choices birthed an abomination that could string up a woman like a rag doll and leave her for the world to see?

She shook her head and shook off the revulsion. Then she leaned over, nose to nose with their crucified corpse. This close she could count every pore, every split end and smudged eyelash. The glassy stare, fixed on nothing and no one.

‘Think these cuffs are police issue?’ Ella asked.

Ripley inspected them. ‘No. These are Peerless. Tri-state police only use Smith and Wesson. You can buy these things anywhere.’

Ella adjusted her angle, trying to get a better look at the wounds without taking a header into the parking lot four stories down. The hole in the back of the vic's head winked at her. Ella reached out, probed the back of Martina's lolling head with a gloved finger.

The flesh was tacky, cold to the touch, but she forced herself to push. Part the matted honey-wheat curls until she found what she was looking for in the shape of a jagged wound.

‘Blunt trauma to the skull,’ she said.

‘Just like Sophie. Blitzed her with a bat, then went ahead with the theatrics when she was out cold.’

Ella inspected further down the body, and there, like a crimson grin across her throat – the result of a blade to the neck.

‘Mia, check it. Our perp opened up her jugular this time too.’

‘Slit the throat?’

‘Yeah. Knife or razor.’

‘Why? He didn’t do that last time.’

Ella's mind was already three steps ahead. A deviation in the pattern.

‘Sophie Draper died from a brutal shot to the temples, but he caught the back of her skull this time. And there’s no flaying here, no eye-gouging.

So he had to make sure she stayed dead with a throat slashing.

’ She squinted at the wound, the clean edges already crusting a dull brown.

‘If the blow to the head didn't kill her, he had to find another way.’

‘Okay. What do you think it mean?’

‘Means he's adapting. Changing up his method to fit the circumstances. The throat's quick and doesn’t leave much room for error.’

‘So you're thinking he had to get in and out fast? Couldn't risk getting caught mid-mutilation?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe he just didn't have the same emotional attachment to Martina here.’ Ella's gut was talking now. ‘Sophie was special. The opening salvo in his masturbatory little saga. He took his time with her, really made her suffer. But this is just checking a box.’

Ripley grunted, clearly unconvinced but willing to roll with her. ‘Alright, I'll buy that he's rushed. In a hurry to get his rocks off before the heat comes down. But why string her up like this? Why make a spectacle out of it when he could've just left her here?’

The million dollar question. And she had a sick feeling she knew the answer. Ella composed herself on the balcony and said, ‘Two reasons. Number one, he’s following a script. Whatever happens in Halo of Blood needs to happen in real life.’

‘Right. And number two?’

‘Because he wants us to know it’s him. He's putting himself out there, trying to get noticed. Except instead of passing around pamphlets or spamming Twitter, this chucklehead's out here making what he considers art.’

Ripley ran her flashlight over the balcony railings. ‘Artists and their fragile egos.’

‘Wannabe artists,’ Ella said. ‘Let’s not lump this guy alongside actual artists just yet.’

‘Right. David Bowie he ain’t.’ Ripley clicked his flashlight off. ‘No dirt marks, no boot prints, nothing that I can see.’

Ella braced her hands on the railing and leaned into the breeze that whispered up from the street. It was cool, clean; a small mercy cutting through the funk of blood and ruptured bowels. She breathed deep, willing her guts to unclench, her trigger finger to stop twitching.

‘So, we’ve got a failed author getting his revenge on people who rejected him.’ Ella was thinking out loud.

Ripley bent over the railing and gently pried Martina Payne’s mouth open. ‘The manuscript. You think there’s more pages stuffed down her throat?’

‘One way to find out.’

Her partner gave her a look. ‘Come on then.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve got nimble fingers,’ Ripley said.

There was no point arguing. Ripley had a point.

So, gingerly as a safecracker, she reached out.

The flesh was cool under her latex-sheathed fingers, rubbery in a way that sent a shudder down her spine.

It was harder than it looked in the textbooks; a human head had a surprising heft to it, even in the clutches of rigor.

But Ella was nothing if not persistent, and after a few seconds of creative yoga, she found herself staring directly down the mouth of a murdered English teacher.

She probed the wound as she searched for any hint of soggy paper.

But there was nothing. If their perp had left another breadcrumb, it wasn't hiding in Martina Payne's throat.

‘No pages. Not unless it’s really deep in there.’ She straightened up with a groan, feeling every one of her forty-two years in the creak of cartilage and the slow ache blooming at the base of her spine. ‘Nada. Our guy's not in a giving mood tonight.’

A meaty hand landed on her shoulder, steadying her as she swayed on protesting pins and needles. Ripley, always ready with the assist. Maybe the coroner will have better luck.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ But her mind was already running the numbers. There had to be some common denominator between the vics that would lead her straight to their perp's black heart.

‘We need to look into this woman’s life. See if anything overlaps with the first victim. And get somebody on that boyfriend.’

This was just the lull, Ella thought, because she didn’t need to be psychic to know that this killer planned to take at least two more lives before retiring.

Somewhere out there, their unsub was hiding, and Ella wasn’t quitting until she found him.