Psychopath's Prey Read online

  Only then does my hazy mind finally register the phone, vibrations and ringtone loud on the bedside table. Who the hell calls in the middle of the night?

  I quickly pick it up, and Kierian’s voice greets me on the other end of the line. “Ella?”

  “Yep, I’m here.” I clear my throat, shivering slightly under the AC blasting on my bare skin.

  “We have a new victim, and we are needed on location. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes. Be ready.” Before I can reply, he hangs up on me, and I glance at the clock.

  It’s three in the morning. I had no clue when they hired me that they could call me any time. But then again, serials killers don’t wait either, striking when people least expect them. I rush to the bathroom and curse when my reflection shows an exhausted woman with her hair all over the place, but I only have time to wash my face, brush my teeth, then put on my jeans and black sweater.

  Grabbing my keys, phone, badge, and gun from the cupboard, I head outside and downstairs in time to see Kierian’s car pulling up to the curb.

  “Thanks for such advanced notice,” I mutter, hopping into the car as he drives straight to the highway, moving slightly faster than his usual speed.

  “Hi, Ella.” A voice from behind me speaks, and I look back.

  Preston is resting his head on the window, a thick book on his lap.

  “Hey to you too. So I’m not the only one he picks up at night?” Kierian chuckles, and my cheeks heat up, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. “I mean… Shut up.” I nudge Kierian lightly in the side when he stops at the red light.

  Preston whispers, “Oh.” And I see his eyes zero their attention on my elbow as he cocks his head.

  Does he find me touching Kierian offending? Before I can ask though, he resumes his reading, so I guess my question isn’t important enough to answer.

  “That’s his way. Don’t pay attention to the kid,” Kierian murmurs, his voice low.

  “I figured as much. Same place?” Work, our interactions should all stay work related for the sake of my sanity.

  “Yeah, the fact that we discovered his special place doesn’t seem to deter him from there.” Focusing on the road ahead of me, I bite my lip, thinking about this information.

  Showing this much confidence with the cops and FBI investigating speaks of his arrogance, and that he doesn’t have much regard for our intelligence.

  “Psychopath,” I conclude, because nothing else fits him. Only they crave power, and in this case, he shows us his power by proclaiming himself immune from our investigation.

  Preston pitches in to the conversation. “I’ve searched through the system for any prisoners who got out lately, but nothing comes up. Either they have an alibi or they have tracking monitors for three miles only. Their parole officers would have known if they left their houses.” This is bad, because if he is not in our databases, it means we need to search the entire country to catch even a hint of who he is.

  Serial killers are consistent, but it’s hard to understand his consistency if we don’t know the profile.

  And to create the profile, we need to figure out what connects them all. Huffing in frustration, I flip through the file, hoping to find something.

  He can’t just randomly choose his victims if he shows this much restraint. Something must trigger his reflex or memory to act out. And if he hasn’t done it before, then a traumatic event must have caused him to snap, creating the desire to kill.

  At this point, we have only questions and not a single answer, and it pisses me off.

  “But another kill. He is evolving fast. It was almost a year between the previous two. Why another one?”

  “To show us his power,” Kierian answers. “That he is not afraid, even though we’ve found the bodies.”

  “And that he’s never going to stop,” Preston adds.

  “Until we catch him.”

  “If, Ella. It’s always if, remember that.” Steel laces Kierian’s voice. “Never promise the family, or anyone else for that matter, that you can catch every fucker out there. Sometimes we can’t, no matter how much we try. Do not get attached to the case,” he warns while I blink in surprise, but I don’t have the chance to reply as he stops the car abruptly.

  Getting out, I hope we’ll find something useful, because his words don’t sit well with me. We are supposed to be efficient and do good, not give up at the smallest of problems.

  The cops already have the place secured; dogs bark loudly searching for clues while Jacob talks with a witness and Noah is in discussion with a detective.

  Kierian gives me a pair of gloves as we slowly walk to the crime scene.

  Criminal experts nod at us while pointing at various body parts. “We’re done. All yours.”

  Ducking under the yellow tape, I kneel in front of the body, investigating the usual torture spots, and sure enough, there is a scalpel wound on the liver, chopped fingernails, and his other tells.

  But there’s more.

  “Do you see this?” I trail a finger over the red marks around his neck. “The unsub choked him.” Kierian leans closer. “And punched him in several places. The bruises are still fresh.” He traces the belt buckle wounds, while looking under the head. “He didn’t touch the head or face though.”

  “He probably wanted the victim to be conscious for the torture,” I conclude. When Preston joins us, he shoots a few pictures from different places and angles while I walk around investigating the soil, but it has no footprints.

  How the hell is this possible? Is he some kind of ghost who leaves no trace?

  Logically thinking, it’s quite odd he decided to commit another crime so soon and to drop it in the same place. And rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, so the body has been here only a couple hours, yet animals have still managed to damage it.

  “Do we know who the victim is?” I ask no one in particular, but it’s Noah who answers me from behind.

  “Coach Tanner Davidson. He was leading a winning high school football team. Perfect husband and father. No records. Preston?”

  “I ran a search on him. Nothing dirty or illegal comes up. He is not connected with the other victims.”

  “Perfect family,” I whisper, blink, and then address Noah. “Can that be our link? All of them were happily married men with kids.”

  “Thomas’s wife was pregnant.”

  “Well, on the way then. He didn’t let him enjoy being a father.” Kierian rubs his chin while picking up something on the grass. He flips it over, and reads out loud, “Davidson’s Christmas. The family picture is torn.” Indeed, it’s cut in two, right in the middle, separating the father from his kids and wife.

  “Maybe the father left the family and now the unsub has a vengeance toward those who have something he didn’t?” Andrea and Jacob join us as we dwell on that theory. While he clearly has a problem with family men, I’m not sure it was as easy as a divorce. Unless the mother made his life a living hell after that, but then shouldn’t his violence be directed at women?

  “Andrea, Jacob, you two go to the morgue, wait for the pathologist, and check the other victims again. Preston, dig for clues. I’ll speak with the detective. He needs to give me access to their archived records. Something must drive him to this place.” Noah then shifts his focus to us. “Kierian and Ella, work a little more on that theory, but also check all the records from the school on the coach. We can’t exclude anyone.” Once he is done issuing orders, he walks away as we separate to do our assignments.

  “You’re not convinced about the divorce?” Kierian asks, and I shake my head. “Me neither. This guy wants something, but that’s not it.”

  That’s true. I just wish we could find out what before he kills someone else.

  “Let’s think about his strategy,” Kierian says, stepping back from me and circling the place with a leaf in his hand. “He kills them, then brings them here in the middle of the night and dumps the bodies. No bags, no traces, nothing.”

  “And animals help
him out with the rest. It’s as if he knows their location, but aren’t those restricted areas? There shouldn’t be any wolves.” At least not the ones that will go unnoticed.

  “Unless it’s not a wolf.” Furrowing my brows, I shake my head, silently waiting for him to elaborate. “What breed of dog is similar to a wolf in nature?”

  Um, what? “I’m not a pet person.”

  He chuckles at that. “Right. Tamaskan dog. It’s created by crossing several breeds and reminds me of the wolves. Easy to train, loyal.”

  “You think he lets his own dog do that?” This twisted man corrupts pets?

  “Yes, I’m positive. He can’t predict wolves, but with his dog? He knows exactly when the crime is done.” He slides his phone open and quickly writes a message. “Preston will check it out later. I just e-mailed him the name.”

  “If the breed is rare, then we can check through the breeders for owners.” He nods and I sigh in relief, this information is at least something.

  “I’m starving. Let’s have breakfast.” He surprises me with his statement, and I open my mouth to protest while he chuckles. “A breakfast won’t kill you, Ella.” My stomach chooses this moment to growl loudly, humiliating me on the spot. “I think we have a deal.”

  He moves toward the car, while I shout, “It better be good!”

  He just waves without turning back, when Preston next to me murmurs, “Trust me. That place is the best.”

  Did we become the three musketeers without me knowing? “Why is Noah dragging you around? Wouldn’t it be better for you to sit in the office and provide us information?” At least based on my research, that’s what hackers usually do. What good does it do to have him with us in the field if we can’t call him to check important stuff for us?

  “I have a low tolerance for dead bodies and blood.” Blinking a few times at this, because it has nothing to do with my question, I wait for him to elaborate. “So Noah thinks it’s good for me to come to crime scenes and see it. This way I don’t have to puke all the time.”

  “Why, then, have they assigned you to BAU?” Surely the FBI could have found another use for his abilities.

  “I have a degree in psychology. Plus, it’s the only interesting department for me. Anyway, let’s go.” With that, he leaves me while I wonder about Noah.

  The man sure enjoyed giving tough love.

  Noah, Preston, Kierian.

  There is something about them that unsettles me, each in a different way.

  Psychopath

  My little prey is not as easily convinced as the others. I can practically see the thoughts swirling in her head as she searches desperately for any clues.

  I gave her a hint with the family photo; she just needs to move in the right direction.

  Ella Gadot is an interesting woman.

  Although interesting isn’t a word I’d use.

  She is a thing of beauty, even in blue jeans and boots along with that black sweater, which only emphasizes her femininity. I’ve never touched a female body as my true self.

  Is it different inflicting pain on them? Different when the woman knows exactly who touches her as sexual desire combines with fear?

  Not that I want to bring her agonizing pain like I do to most of my victims, no.

  With her, it’s about breaking the spirit in that seductive body.

  The only valuable thing Ella has left after life dealt her a shitty hand is her unbreakable spirit that can withstand anything.

  And I want to see what it takes to strip her bare of it.

  Maybe then, I’ll understand why it’s so easy to break other people.

  The game has officially begun.

  Ella

  Digging into the eggs with my fork, I munch on the toast and moan with pleasure as the taste spreads inside my mouth.

  Kierian chuckles next to me, winking. “No regrets about coming here, I assume.” Swallowing the delicious bite, I shake my head.

  The family establishment located on the outskirts of the city reminds me of the wooden houses from fairytales.

  Everything is made out of wood, from the chairs to the tables, except the old jukebox, which blasts rock and roll at its finest. Black-and-white pictures are scattered on the walls with an attractive couple in different stages of their lives with their restaurant in the background.

  It’s full and homey, and I can’t believe I’ve missed this place after living here for the last decade!

  “None at all!” Then I address Preston, who flips his book, concentration written all over his features. “Are you hungry?” He glances down at his pancakes and then shrugs, resuming his reading.

  Seriously, this guy has to be seen to be believed. An interesting person for sure, but I wonder how he keeps friends and relationships with this approach. Or does he just say bon voyage to whoever decides to leave his ass?

  “Pres, food.”

  Preston gives Kierian a confused look but then nods and puts his book away. He tentatively tries the pancake and then continues to eat it quickly, taking big bites as fast as he can.

  “Don’t choke on it,” I mutter, but I don’t have much time to dwell on it as Andrea and Jacob join us, sitting in the nearby seats. Kierian called them on our way here, and since no one had a proper breakfast, they agreed immediately. I’ve yet to discover the dynamics of the group, but they seem to share a tight need for friendship. Although, based on what Preston said on the way here in the car, they rarely hang out together outside work.

  I imagine they want to spend it with normal people who don’t remind them of their job that requires always delving into sick minds. Everyone needs to rest, even FBI agents.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, and Andrea grins at me while Jacob just grunts. How long does it take this guy to accept a new coworker exactly? I don’t need new friends, but his attitude annoys me.

  “You want the usual?” Jacob asks her, and when she nods, he gets up to order and she shifts her attention to us.

  “Okay, this is definitely our unsub.” As if there was a doubt. “Although he beat him up, everything else matches like Ella said.” She pauses, and then says, “Something must have gotten him angry with the man.” Taking the folder out of my purse, I open it to study the pictures of the previous murders and the new one.

  “Or he just felt like he needed to punish him more.”

  Andrea frowns. “But serial killers don’t change their signatures.” That’s true, but it’s not adding up to me. Why would he risk so much?

  “Unless something triggered him,” Jacob pitches in as he sits next to me and points at the last victim, who has belt bruises on his back. “This is provoked violence. These are not controlled.”

  “A memory.” Taking out a pen, I place a blank paper in front of us and then draw several circles. “Here is our unsub and all his victims—well, those we know of. He is consistent with these wounds.” I point to the lines on the liver, neck, stomach, and back. “But these are new.” Now I point at the knuckles, shoulders, and large bruises that weren’t present on the other victims. “What usually inspires this kind of rage in psychopaths who plan everything?”

  “The victim may have said something that triggered him,” Preston suggests.

  “Correct. Something in the coach’s life must have reminded him of his own childhood. People usually beg in those situations. What did he say that provoked the violence?” I think a moment, and then add, “We need to speak with his family. I think they can give us better insight on the situation at home.”

  Jacob nods. “Noah already called them in.”

  I just hope it will give us some results. Something attracts him to those perfect families, but what?

  Chapter Seven

  New York, New York

  March 2010

  Ella

  Rushing inside the building, I quickly pass by the secretary who gives me a stern look, and with a wink, I knock on the door.

  After a second, I hear a loud, “Come in.” I enter Dean Holt’s office,
who sips her morning coffee.

  “Ella, lateness certainly becomes you,” she says, and I wince, hating the fact that whenever she calls me to her office, I end up late.

  In my defense, she always wants to hold our meetings in the morning, and after a nightshift, it’s impossible to drag myself away from bed. I always manage to oversleep for five minutes, but those five minutes are crucial as my freaking roommate always hogs the bathroom. Last night, I had only enough strength to crash on the bed, and no way did I want the dean to smell alcohol on me, even though I didn't drink it.

  “My signature mark.”

  She shakes her head at my humor, but I notice how the fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes deepen, and she motions for me to take a seat.

  Dean Holt is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, but she rules the psychology faculty with an iron fist. She will forever help you if you need any help, but fuck with her or her program, and you are screwed.

  She usually has meetings with me once a month to discuss my progress on certain projects and evaluate my grades for the scholarship, because I’m also getting a minor in journalism. I love reading, writing, and researching, so I figured, why not? The scholarship doesn't cover minors though, but thanks to my dean, she has managed to snag a deal for me. As long as I tutor new kids in English, the university will grant me my minor.

  So, overall, Dean Holt is one of my favorite people.

  “What’s up, Dean? You never call me more than once a month.” We saw each other two weeks ago, so why am I here now?

  All humor leaves her as she opens her drawer and takes out a manila envelope. I recognize my transition papers, and my mood lightens. “You approved my specialty?” I finally have the chance to elect my specialty in criminal psychology, although I’ve already read all the books on the subject, having a friend in the fourth year. I had to apply for cognitive psychology, because they didn't have enough places in the program when I switched my majors.

  She locks her hands on the folder, playing with her thumbs, then shifts her attention to me. The excitement dies inside me. “I can’t do that, Ella.”