The room was fairly large considering that this was just a small motel, however, that was probably because it was a corner unit. Still, while touting inexpensive lodging, this place was definitely far more upscale than the place where Wentworth had seen his end.
We were barely through the doorway when an explosion of light burst forth from a camera flash unit, illuminating the space like a fleeting bolt of lightning. The brilliance fell in a wide swath across the king-size bed, which was positioned against the far back wall.
In that one hot second, the tableau before us adopted an unearthly contrast. Color blanched for an instant, and the harsh shadows demanded my full attention. In the end I was left with a stark image fading slowly from my retinas. Still, even as the color bled back into the artificially washed out picture, the horrific outline remained indelibly imprinted on my brain, and I knew for a fact that it would inhabit my nightmares for a long time to come.
“Awww, Jeez…” Ben exclaimed. “I thought I asked ya’ ta’ cover ‘im up.”
“We aren’t finished with the pictures yet,” the photographer replied without bothering to look away from the viewfinder.
“Well… Shit… Can ya’… Well just…” my friend stuttered.
The photographer finally pulled the camera away from his eye and regarded Ben with a flat expression. I’d seen him around other crime scenes and knew he was with the CSU, so apparently the need for freelancers had passed. I took a personal comfort in that assumption, especially considering Felicity’s current imbalance between the worlds.
It immediately occurred to me that it was pure luck that she wasn’t here. While in the past she had always been constant, staying unshakably grounded and centered at all times, that had obviously not been the case as of late. In fact, ever since the incident with her friend, she had suffered the same problem that continually plagued me since my first foray to the other side. That being the ability to fully maintain an earthly connection.
While I still fought with the issue myself, I was getting better at overcoming it. She, however, had yet to achieve that goal. Considering that I had already slipped once since we’d arrived, I couldn’t imagine her doing any better.
“You want me to come back later?” the photographer asked.
“Jeez… Marty… Awww, crap, just get finished, will ya’.”
“Okay. Give me about ten minutes, and I can probably have it wrapped up.”
I was hearing the words, but the meanings weren’t fully registering because the bulk of my attention was focused on the centerpiece of this scene. Their banter had simply become background noise as my brain shifted into high gear, trying desperately to wrap itself around the enormity of this unexpected sensory input.
I was already feeling like I had gone into overload as I tried to process the whole of what lay before me in a single pass. I blinked slowly then opened my eyes. Then, I did it again. But even after reopening my eyes the second time, nothing had changed. Out of respect for my sanity, I tried to force myself to focus on a single aspect at a time. I didn’t have much luck as my eyes continued to roam while I mentally ticked off the facts.
The victim was an African-American male, roughly in his mid to late forties as near as I could tell. They hadn’t yet told me his age, so this was merely a guess on my part. Considering the deeply contorted mix of pain and fear frozen on his face, I could have been way off.
It was impossible to ignore that he was all but completely nude, the only exception to that fact being what was probably a small fortune in leather gear. Of course, none of it really covered much since it primarily took the form of harnesses and restraints. It also couldn’t escape notice that all of these items had been well put to their intended uses.
The victim was bound securely to the bed, spread eagle and on his back. From my present angle, I could see what appeared to be a taut nylon rope looping through a metal D-ring on one of the ankle cuffs. I would later find out that this is exactly what it was and that it had been criss-crossed beneath and through the bed frame before being threaded into similar rings on the other ankle cuff and both wrist restraints. It had been pulled tight enough to place visible stress on the man’s muscles, almost to the point of overextension.
Whoever had done this was obviously well versed in extreme bondage techniques. Just as important, in my mind at least, was that the victim had either been unconscious or had allowed this to be done to him voluntarily. Given the nature of the restraints, I think we were all betting on the latter.
I forced my wandering gaze to return to his twisted face and tried desperately to ward myself against reliving his pain. I could feel it pressing against me, and I wanted no part of it.
Standing out amid his pained features was the apple. As Ben had emphasized earlier, it couldn’t be missed, primarily because it was protruding from the corpse’s mouth. Even at first glance, it was obvious that the fruit had been jammed well into his oral cavity, so far in fact that I doubted it could be removed in one piece without first dislocating his jaw.
I absently reached up and massaged that same joint on my own face. It was still throbbing with a dull ache from the earlier episode, and I suspected that I now knew why.
Below that, the man’s neck and chest were bathed in his own blood; some of it was still damp enough to glisten in the incandescent light of the overhead fixture. A spatter of arterial spray left a telltale pattern across the headboard and wall. The source of the rusting crimson was the puckered wound that sliced deeply into his throat, literally from ear to ear.
For some reason there was a pillow shoved beneath the back of his head. I doubted that it was intended for his comfort, but I couldn’t be sure for what purpose it had been tucked there. I had a feeling, however, that something deeper and far more selfish was behind its placement.
Had I not known better, I would have sworn I was standing on the set of a horror movie and that the dead body in front of me was an incredible endeavor in special effects makeup. I might have been able to convince myself of it if it weren’t for the intensity of the fear that still lingered within these walls and was desperately trying to reach its gelid tendrils through my defenses.
The sharp noise of a blaring horn out on Lindbergh Boulevard briefly snapped me from my trance, and I noticed that a stunned hush had fallen over us all. Be it the feeling of fear or simply the visual horror, we were each being deeply affected by the scene. I continued to stare, not knowing what else to do. I struggled to understand the full magnitude of what had happened here, and as each moment passed, yet another disturbing layer of the crime revealed itself to me.
The flash unit strobed again, and this time the photographer lowered the camera and shuddered as he nodded toward the corpse. “You know, I hurt just thinking about it, much less taking pictures of it.”
I followed his nod toward what was most likely the object of my friend’s frustrated embarrassment. It was something I knew I had noticed initially, but somehow my subconscious had kicked in, forcing me to avoid seeing again until now.
Among the restraints gracing the dead man’s body was a device that appeared to be constructed of metal rings held together by some type of adjustable straps. Had I seen it lying on a table instead of where it was currently attached, I probably wouldn’t have had any idea what it was. However, since it ensconced his penis, the purpose of the apparatus was painfully clear. In fact, the severe constriction of its design and the almost tourniquet-like firmness with which it was applied was in all likelihood why the organ had not fallen completely flaccid even after the victim had taken his final breath.
However, as disconcerting a sight as it was, a far more horrifying vision lay just below, near the base of the torture implement. In fact, it was so downright obscene that I had to blink once again just to make sure it wasn’t my imagination.
It wasn’t.
A ragged flap of bloody flesh hung loosely between his legs. Dried blood was smeared across his inner thighs, and a large crimson stain on the dingy linens was rusting into darker shades.
He had been castrated.
My mind flashed on something I had happened to notice upon first entering the room. While I had wondered about it briefly at the time, the imagery of the scene was so intense that I had mentally set it aside. Now, a sickening thought forced me to bring my gaze to bear on it once again.
There it was, just as I remembered, sitting on the side table near the headboard. A blood smeared drinking glass. And, even at this distance, it was quite obvious that this was where the victim’s testicles now resided.
It also didn’t escape my notice that the glass had been positioned well within his field of vision. The deliberate placement along with the amount of blood staining the sheets between his legs told me that he had most likely been alive when the castration had been performed. I suspected he had been conscious as well because it appeared to me that they were being displayed to him in order to increase his personal horror.
I closed my eyes and winced with sympathetic pain. “Damn” was all I could manage to say, and even that came out as a low mumble.
Apparently, it only took one of us to break the silence. I heard Constance gasp behind me as she finally allowed herself to breathe.
A split second later she whispered, “Oh my God…”
Agent Drew followed immediately with his own “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”
“Yeah,” Ben added. “Un-fucking-believable, ain’t it?”
What the three of them couldn’t know, however, was that there was something more than just the physical spectacle driving my own quiet exclamation. If what my eyes were seeing weren’t enough, I was also faced with the bane of being aware-the inescapable burden of feeling the emotions that were still running rampant throughout the room. And, what I was feeling now was frightening, in and of itself.
The charge in the atmosphere was the same as it had been in the room where Wentworth was murdered. In actuality, it was even stronger here than it had been there.
Sex.
Arousal.
Animal passion.
The carnal intensity that had recently filled the room was still so thick in the air that it was almost as cloying as the sweet watermelon aroma sharing its space. In fact, so fervid was the aura that it sought to overpower everything else to the point that it even managed to ignite more than just a tickle deep within my own body.
Moreover, the feeling was distinctly feminine.
But, this rapturous energy wasn’t all. Through it, beneath it, and around it ran a thread of abject fear. And that emotion, I knew without a doubt, had come directly from the victim.
What I also knew, simply by standing in this room and fending off this ethereal squall, was that the killer had fed on that fear. It was what enabled her, drove her, and ultimately gratified her.
Knowing that the tickle I was now feeling had been born of and fueled by the victim’s torture made my stomach continue to churn. But, even that wasn’t enough to stop it.
I let out a small sigh as I felt these conflicting forces begin to take root within me, and the deep tickle started to grow. A rush of indescribable pleasure ran through my body, and every nerve ending I possessed suddenly flared into a delightful itch. In that instant I understood why Felicity had given herself over to these energies so easily.
“What’s up, Row?” Ben’s voice filtered into my ears. “You goin’ la-la again?”
Ben’s voice pierced the rush that had begun in my ears, and I was nudged back across the line. My conscious brain instantly realized what was happening, and I reinforced my ground. Swallowing hard, I pushed back the arousal before the blissful narcotic haze could take me fully into its fold.
The churning stomach was another story entirely, but I still managed to keep it at bay. In a way I was comforted that it remained.
“Yo… Ground control to Rowan,” Ben called again.
I snapped to and realized I was still standing exactly where I had stopped, just a few steps inside the door. My body was rigid, and I was staring at the bizarre tableau with unearthly intensity.
At some point, Agent Drew had pushed past me and was now motionless himself, though I am sure for the more obvious reasons.
“No… Yes…” I murmured after a moment and then followed with, “Not anymore.”
“Sorry,” my friend apologized. “Guess I shouldn’t’ve disturbed ya’.”
“No,” I told him. “This time, you should have. Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he replied in a puzzled tone. “So ya’ gettin’ somethin’?”
“It’s the same,” I answered.
“The same what?” Mandalay asked.
“The same as Wentworth.”
Agent Drew now turned toward me and objected. “Wentworth was shot in the head. Execution style.” He swept his arm out toward the bed as he continued. “This is… Well this is just sick.”
I couldn’t argue with him there. What we were looking at was definitely within the scope of unfathomable deviance, even for a brutal crime scene. Words such as intriguing, obscene, and even ironic came instantly to mind. You could take your pick because it was any and all of them.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “But the feeling is still the same.”
“You aren’t talking about that WitchCraft BS again, are you?” he snapped.
I shook my head. “Actually, no. WitchCraft would imply the working of Magick, Agent Drew.”
“Okay, then what are you talking about?” he demanded.
I answered with a shrug. “This is just plain empathic sensitivity.”
“Empathic sensitivity? What’s that, some kind of psychic crap?”
“Yeah,” I gave him a nod, unwilling to argue. “It’s psychic crap.”
“Okay, Houdini,” he spat. “Then why don’t you look into your crystal ball and tell us who killed this guy.”
“Houdini was a fuckin’ escape artist,” Ben growled before I could open my mouth. “Even I know that, ya’ friggin’ idiot.”
Drew aimed himself at my friend. “Back off, Detective.”
“Or what, Skippy?”
Agent Drew tensed and started forward as if he were going to take a shot at him. Ben instantly braced himself, and I saw his fist begin to clench as his shoulder started to rotate back. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Both of you back off!” Mandalay barked as she quickly nudged me to the side and interposed herself between the two men.
They both stood their ground and exchanged hot stares over the top of Mandalay’s petite form but didn’t say another word.
“Storm,” she continued, looking up at Ben. “Put the testosterone on hold and stop insulting my agent at every turn.”
Agent Drew screwed his face into a smirk and let out a snort. Constance immediately wheeled around to face him then literally stabbed her index finger into his chest. “As for you, can it. Right now. You’ve had an attitude ever since you picked me up at the airport, and I’m not impressed. Like it or not, you are the junior agent here, and I’m calling the shots, not you.
“Now, believe me, you don’t want another letter of censure in your file.” She stared him down for a moment, and while he kept his mouth shut, it was obvious from his expression that she had hit a nerve. “Yes,” she added with a curt nod. “Simpson filled me in on you, and right now I haven’t had enough sleep to even consider being nice about it.”
A lone clapping sound echoed in the room, and I looked over Mandalay’s shoulder to see one of the crime scene technicians slapping his hands slowly together. The photographer and two others were simply staring at us.
“Are you all done now?” the applauder asked with more than a hint of bitter sarcasm.
Ben and Drew both looked away from them with somewhat chagrined expressions.
“By the way, Agent Drew,” I said calmly. “I’ll tell you the same thing I seem to have to tell everyone else. Psychic impressions don’t work like that. I don’t just see a killer and say there he is.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled.
“So, just what are ya’ feelin’, Row?” Ben asked, a purposeful sort of curiosity tainting his voice.
“Nothing helpful I’m afraid, although, I will say that the energy here seems to confirm the suspicion that the killer is a woman. It also leaves me with the distinct impression that she truly enjoys it. In fact, she does it because she becomes sexually aroused by inflicting the torture and then eventually taking the life.”
“Female sexual predators are almost unheard of when it comes to homicides, Rowan,” Mandalay offered. “Especially if you are implying that this is a serial crime.”
I nodded. “Oh yeah, something tells me this isn’t her first kill. At the very least there have been two because I’m betting she’s the same person who killed Judge Wentworth. But, there may have been more leading up to that.”
“You got all that from a feeling?” Agent Drew asked; each word was liberally coated in sarcasm.
“Yeah. A feeling.”
“You’ll forgive me if I feel like you’re full of crap.”
“Agent Drew,” Mandalay growled under her breath.
“Don’t worry about it, Constance,” I said, waving her off before she could ignite. “He’s right. I just might be full of it.”
“Like that’s ever happened,” she replied. “But let me ask you this. Are you certain about the female aspect? Could you be mixing it up? Could it be homosexual in nature?”
“You aren’t actually buying into this, are you?” Drew asked her.
She quickly shot him an icy glance but didn’t verbally reply.
“Actually, Ben already asked that question about Wentworth. And, the answer is no, the killer is definitely a woman,” I told her with a shake of my head. “Of that much I’m certain. So is Felicity. This scene is the same. The only male energy is the one exhibiting the fear and pain.”
“Okay, then I guess Wuornos just got some competition,” she assented.
“Wuornos?” I questioned. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Aileen Wuornos. Killed at least seven men in Florida.” She recited the details almost mechanically. “Executed by lethal injection October ninth, two thousand two. Pronounced dead at 9:47 a.m., six minutes after the injections were started. To date she is the only female serial killer to be officially classified as a sexual predator.”
“There she goes,” Ben mumbled. “You’re worse than Rowan with all the crap you carry around in your head.”
“You should be used to it by now,” she replied.
“Yeah, right,” he grunted.
I couldn’t help but notice that Agent Drew was staring at all of us in disbelief. I turned fully to him and shook my head. “Look, maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. But, let’s see if the evidence bears me out.”
“And, what if the evidence isn’t sufficient to make that determination?” he asked.
“Try talking to one of your profilers, and see what they have to say, I guess.”
“Trust me, we will.”
“I’ve got news for you. They’ll agree with Rowan,” Mandalay told him.
“How can you be sure?” he challenged.
She replied simply, “Because they always do.”