Free Connor's Gamble by Kathy Ivan Page A

twisted bastard .
    “Unless you've got something you can tell me about her or about who did this, we're done here.”  Remy stood, plucked the picture from Trejo's eager hands, and stuffed it back into the file.  He turned toward the door, praying Trejo's twisted desire to see more pictures would override his unwillingness to talk.
    “No, wait.”
    A barely there smile curled Remy's lips before he composed his expression, and turned back around to confront Trejo.
    “Mickey, if you want to see the other pictures, give me something in return.”
    Trejo balked at Remy's statement, slapped his cuffed hands against the tabletop.
    “Gotta see the pictures,” he whined.
    “Then talk to me.  You should see the others, Mickey.  The one you saw, that was nothing—nothing compared to the rest.”
    Trejo moaned, the sound a combination of anguish and wild animal.  He scrubbed his hands against his face before finally nodding.
    “I didn't do this . . . but it's definitely somebody I've worked with in the past.  They've used my signature style, my techniques.”
    “Your partner?”  This was big news.  They'd never connected anybody else with Trejo's killing spree.
    “Show me another picture, or you're getting squat.”
    Remy pulled the second photo from the file folder, reclaiming his seat across from Trejo.  He glanced to his right, making sure the camera still recorded the entire interview.
    “Oh, yeah, this one's even better.”  Trejo's smile broadened as he studied the new photo.  Similar to the first and taken from the same video clip, it showed blood trickling from the woman's nose onto the duct tape, and one eye swollen nearly shut.
    “Better how?”
    “Look.”  He pointed to something Remy hadn't noticed before.  “See the darker shadows?”  His finger tapped a spot just to the right of the bound woman's shoulder.  “Whoever did this set the mood first.  The flicker of candlelight and lanterns casts such a pretty glow, don't you think?”
    Candles, lanterns?  What the hell?
    “Another one.  Gimme another.”  The anticipation in Trejo's voice disgusted Remy, but he showed nothing, keeping his face impassive.  What kind of sick freak gets off on pictures of a woman tortured and bleeding?   Though he'd transferred from homicide to vice, he'd never in a million years understand what drove men to this kind of extreme.
    “What about this one?”  Remy slid a third picture out of the folder to lay it alongside the previous two.
    “Oh, yes.”  Trejo practically moaned, getting off on the newest picture.  “Exquisite work.”  This photo showed more of the helpless bound woman, as if the person taking the picture moved the camera farther away, so more of her body was visible.
    “Remember I told you about the bindings of the wrists and arms?  She's moved, I can tell.  Her right shoulder is dislocated.  Look.”  Trejo pointed to the woman's shoulder, and Remy saw he was right.  It looked like the shoulder was out of its socket.
    “She's not my usual type.”
    Those words had Remy straightening in his chair.  Really?  “Why not?  What's different?”  Remy couched the question in a casual way, reaching for the photos.  Trejo held them down on the tabletop and stared at him.
    “Look at her.  She's too everything—too clean, too polished, too young.  Perfect hair, perfect skin.  Definitely not homeless.”  The chuckle he gave sounded like pure evil.  “I prefer playing with the homeless, they're so . . . needy.”
    Remy studied Trejo.  He was telling the truth.  Damn it, he had hoped.  She didn't fit the whole profile the FBI had come up with for the serial killer.  Victims tended to be Caucasian, ages forty to sixty, thin to emaciated build, and homeless.  This girl didn't fit the type.  But . . . Dammit!
    “You said you worked with somebody.  Could they have done this?”
    Trejo looked at the three photos, taking his time to peruse them thoughtfully.
    “I'm not