Free MOSAICS: A Thriller by E.E. Giorgi

between killings may shorten. He’s already gone from using the acid on the body to marring the victim while still alive. Next time, he might take the victim’s feet as souvenirs, to relive the pleasure. When the police searched Brudos’s home, they found two amputated breasts he was using as paperweights. This is how these offenders operate. Our killer is not there yet. He’s still learning.”
    “One hell of a learning experience,” I said.
    Washburn shunned me with his glacial stare, while his index finger caressed the corner of one of the autopsy photos. “We’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg, Detectives. This offender has killed before—maybe got to practice with pets, or prostitutes—and I have no doubt he will kill again.”
    From a dark corner in my head, a voice whispered in my ear.
    Once a killer, always a killer.
    The voice smelled of rusty metal and rancid food, of stiff air, moldy walls and ancient sweat, of—
    Washburn snapped his folder closed. “Expect more killings. These offenders are predators and summer is their hunting season.”
    And with that, the temperature in the room dropped to freezing.
    No wonder Washburn never yielded a drop of sweat.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Satish shook his head. “Breasts as paperweights. How sick is that?”
    “By the end of the meeting I could’ ve used my balls as a door stop,” I replied.
    “Still not getting along with Washburn, are you?”
    “The man doesn’t have a scent.”
    He lined the little boxes of Chinese take-out on his desk and laughed. Wafts of chicken, steamed rice and tempura tickled my nostrils.
    “Come on ,” I said. “So Vargas’s not our man and we need to look for an educated and polished guy with a double life. Are we supposed to take all this as gospel?”
    Satish split his chopsticks an d dipped them into his rice box. “I’m with Washburn on this one, Track. South Central was my beat for five years back when I was a street copper. People out there die for nothing. A carjacking, a drive-by, a dispute over dealing turf. They shoot and run. They don’t do acid— that kind of acid anyway.” He pointed the chopsticks at me. “This ain’t a South Central crime.”
    The sun was coming down, blinking through the Venetian blinds and bathing the walls in a warm, pinkish light.
    I dug into my box of teriyaki. Save for the watch commander, the squad room had already been vacated. A few Rape Special detectives were working late in the room next door, dicks like us beating the trail while still hot.
    “For that matter,” I said, plopping a chunk of beef in my mouth, “this ain’t a sexual crime, either, despite what scent-less Washburn says. He may have all those books to back him up, and all those hours spent picking brains back at the joint, but I’ve got my practical experience.”
    “It doesn’t have to be rape to be sexual.”
    “That’s not what I’m saying. Think about the Broadway murder, two summers ago. Victim found sprawled on the floor, naked, stabbed twenty-nine times, of which fourteen in the groin. Her clothes were never found.”
    Sat took a long swig of C oke. “I remember that. The killer stabbed her eyes, too. There’s no knife here, but there’s acid, which serves the same purpose.”
    I made a face. “Yeah, but he takes of f the socks and then backs away. What the hell, now that he’s killed her he gets frigid?”
    “You’ve heard Washburn. The guy’s still exploring.”
    I swallowed another chunk of meat. “The Jane Doe down in Baldwin. Naked, again, stabbed in the groin and chest. Left breast missing, right nipple bitten off. Sat, these perps go for the stuff they can’t get from women—that’s why they kill them. Our guy isn’t interested in any of that. He’s got a different agenda, and he leaves the tiles behind to tease us.”
    Satish shrugged, my argument no more convincing than Washburn’s. “He’s just not there yet. He’s got a repressed Oedipus complex.”
    “Bullshit.