she arrived—she wasn’t paying attention. We included the CD in the evidence gathering. The lack of blood, the music, the position of the body—I can’t help but think this is a ritual. That’s why I wanted you to see it.”
He ignored her for a moment, moving back and forth between the wall and the column. He spoke absently. “The suspect could have been playing the music to cover any noise he might have been making. Taylor, step over here with me a second. Look at the wide view.”
She went as far back as the house allowed, to the bay window on the west side of the kitchen. He went with her, standing quietly while she looked. She had taken a picture earlier from this angle, a wide shot of the room face-on to the body.
“Okay. What am I missing?”
“Look at the painting on the wall by the door, in the left upper quadrant, line-of-sight to the column.”
That was it. The strange sense that something wasn’t right, the feeling that she was missing something. It was there in front of her the whole time.
“Son of a bitch. She’s posed just like the painting. Who is that, Picasso?”
“Yes. Demoiselles d’Avignon. The victim’s arms are up over her head, a perfect imitation of the center of the painting. And this was Picasso’s most famous piece from his African Period. Your victim is black. He’s accurately mirrored the painting. There’s no blood. But the race …”
He drifted off.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Taylor, you don’t want to hear what I have to say. I’m having a hard time believing it myself.”
“It’s too early to surmise that we might have a serial on our hands.”
“It’s not that. Actually, it’s much worse.”
“What then?”
“I think you may have my serial on your hands.”
Four
Baldwin waited for Taylor’s mind to register what he’d told her. Hell, he needed it to register in his mind.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
He spoke quietly. “How much do you remember about a killer named Il Macellaio?”
“I don’t. Not that much. Only what you’ve told me. He’s a serial killer in Florence, Italy, has been working for a number of years. Doesn’t the name translate to ‘the Butcher’?”
“Yes. Il Macellaio has been around since 2000 or so. He’s ruthless, and he’s very, very good at what he does. He poses his victims to emulate famous paintings, leaves a postcard of the painting behind so we know exactly who he’s imitating. Of course, that’s after he tortures them. He keeps them alive as playthings for a while before he kills them. His earliest victims’ cause of death was actually starvation, though his latest were starved and strangled, like he got tired of waiting. He has sex with the bodies, a final farewell, before he stages the scenes. Until now, we’ve not had a lot of physical evidence to go by. Did you get a cause of death on your victim?”
“Ugh. Necrophilia?”
“Worse, much, much worse. Necrosadism. Il Macellaio’s pathology developed to the point where his fantasies about having sex with corpses wasn’t enough. He was driven to actually capture and kill women to act out his fantasies with. Very, very rare. Starvation is a cruel way to die. It’s somewhat passive-aggressive, actually, which is fascinating, considering he’s being driven by his desires to kill. I’m not entirely sure why he does it, though I’ve got some ideas. And looking at this girl, she’s certainly gone without nourishment for a while.”
“Lovely. I’ll make sure Sam is aware of the background. The COD isn’t apparent but you’re right, she’s ridiculously skinny. Bones sticking out everywhere. Did you notice the knife went all the way through her chest and into the post?”
“I did. You’ll have to—”
“Cut it down. I know,” she interrupted, signaling to her crime-scene tech. The young man with solemn eyes Baldwin knew as Tim Davis nodded grimly and went to work with his hacksaw.
Taylor was pacing in short bursts. Baldwin led her a few feet away so they could talk privately.
“Baldwin, is it possible that Il Macellaio has come here from Italy? And why? Nashville isn’t exactly on the beaten path of most world travelers. New York, Los Angeles, I can see. But us?”
He scrubbed his hands through his hair to help him think, not caring that it would be standing on end. “Part of what I’ve been dealing with in Quantico is a report from London. The Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard have three murders that bear an eerie resemblance to the Florence cases. If I’m right, and Il Macellaio went to London, it’s within the realm of possibility that he could come here.”
“What would take a serial killer from Florence to London, and then to Nashville?”
“You ask an excellent question. We had a break in the Florence case last week. Finally got some DNA. We’re waiting for it to clear the Interpol databases, see if they have a match, and it’s running through CODIS. I expect we’ll have the results back sometime tomorrow. You know how things shake out. We might get a name, we might be off on another wild-goose chase. If we get a name, I’ll probably have to head back up there.”
CODIS. The wundertool. The combined DNA index system could match killings and killers. Baldwin sent a brief prayer of thanks out to Sir Alec Jeffreys for finding the DNA fingerprint that led them to this point. One day, there would be DNA on file for every criminal in every country, and there would be instantaneous matches.
Taylor was appropriately intrigued. “That’s awesome, babe. How’d you get DNA after all these years?”
“Long story or short?”
She waved at the scene in front of them, Tim sawing away at the post, cursing in G-rated, first-class Southern style—dagnabit, almost had you, dadgumit, get back here—and he had to fight back a smile. She met his eyes and he could see the mirth bubbling in their stormy depths. She liked that Tim kid.
“I’ve got time,” she said. “Tell me about your murders.”
“That’s got to be one of the most romantic things I’ve heard you say.”
“I knew there was a reason why you love me,” she whispered.
“I do love you. Desperately,” he whispered back.
He felt a hand on his arm. A short man, bristling with indignation, stared up at him.
“Who is this, Detective?” the man snipped.
Taylor made eyes at Baldwin for a second, then did the introductions.
“Lieutenant Elm, this is Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin, Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico.”
“And what, pray tell, is the FBI doing at my crime scene?” Elm’s face was turning red, a pot ready to boil over. Baldwin stuck out his hand to shake.
“I was in the neighborhood and Detective Jackson suggested I take a look. This isn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill murder.”
“I don’t remember inviting you, Mr. Baldwin.”
“It’s Doctor, actually, sir. My apologies for the intrusion. But I must tell you that this looks like the work of an organized killer, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him strike again. I would be more than willing to sit down with you and give a profile.”
“Profiling,” Elm spat. “Voodoo, mind-reading crap, if you ask me. I think we’ll be just fine without your help, Doctor. That is all.”
Elm marched away from them. Baldwin glanced at Taylor. Her face was suffused with