Free Game by Barry Lyga Page A

began to emerge.
    The killings had begun seven months ago, long before Billy escaped from Wammaket, long before the Impressionist launched his one-man assault on Lobo’s Nod. Summer in New York. From the way Hughes told it, it had been sweltering since the solstice, with off-and-on rain that crept up on you without warning.
    The first two victims had both been found near a place called Connecticut Bagels, a little deli in a neighborhood called Carroll Gardens. They were found two weeks apart, and at first nothing had connected them. The first victim—awoman named Nicole DiNozzo—had been killed in the alleyway behind the deli, her throat slit with a precision Jazz couldn’t help but admire. A crude hat had been carved into the flesh of DiNozzo’s chest. Since all of the wounds to the body were slashing wounds, there was no way to determine any of the blade characteristics; she could have been cut with a pocketknife or a samurai sword, for all anyone knew. Bruising and general trauma indicated she’d been raped, though no fluids had been found, meaning the killer most likely used a condom.
    Pretty simple. Other than the carving, it could have been any number of random rape/murders.
    “But this is Carroll Gardens,” Hughes told them. “If this was the nineteen-eighties and DiNozzo was mobbed up, I’d say she screwed someone over and was made an example of. Used to happen all the time back then. The Mob was big around here—Italian neighborhood. Used to find bodies in Carroll Park a few times a year. But things are different now.”
    “And DiNozzo’s
not
mobbed up, according to your own data,” Jazz said. “What about the other victims? Give me a preview. How many are white?”
    “Thirteen out of fourteen,” Hughes said. “We’re pretty sure our unsub is white.”
    “Makes sense. This first murder is pretty controlled.”
    “Yeah. Check out the second one.”
    The second victim—Harold Spencer—was found dead in the same alley, at the other end. His genitals had been excised. No one had found them. Also dead of a slashing wound across the throat, this one not as precise as DiNozzo’s.
    “So what are the odds your crime-scene guys just missed the penis in their search?” Jazz asked.
    Hughes shook his head. “Zero. Are you kidding me? Two murders in the same alley in the same number of weeks? We went over that place with a magnifying glass. If it was there, we’d have found it.”
    “So what happened?” Connie chimed in from the bed. “Did he—gross—take it with him?”
    “Maybe,” Jazz said. “Or maybe he just tossed it somewhere else.”
    “The FBI profile says he’s terrified of his own power. Rapes the women, makes up for it by castrating the men. Punishing himself.”
    “No,” Jazz said immediately. “Doesn’t track. In that case, why take the penis with him? If he’s punishing himself, he wouldn’t take it. He would shun it. He’s not terrified. He’s proud of his male power. He revels in it. Cuts off the penises to show his dominance.”
    “But for the eighth victim,” Hughes pointed out, “he left the penis at the scene. Cut it off and tossed it aside. Same for number eleven. Our profile—”
    “No profile is perfect.”
    Jazz and Hughes stared at each other. Jazz could have kept it up all night, but he shrugged and flipped to a photo of the second victim. A crude dog had been carved into Spencer’s shoulder.
    “These guys usually get better with each murder,” Jazz pointed out. “But the cut that killed the second guy is jagged, not smooth like the first one.”
    “We think Spencer fought back. Struggled. Made it tougher to kill him. He was older and he was a guy. The signature led us to connect the two right away,” Hughes went on. “Slashing throat wounds in the same alley… Too much of a coincidence. We checked for a connection between the two vics right away, but there were none.”
    “Nothing?”
    “Nope. Other than that they were both white. Spencer was