Free BoneMan's Daughters by Ted Dekker Page B

not sure I do, Mark.” She paced to her right, propping one arm on the other, turning the silver cross on her breastbone
     absently. “Standing back, two years after the fact, if I really do pull out the blood work, I just can’t say for sure that
     the killer on that table is the man we have behind bars.”
    “Well, that’ll go over. The killings stopped.”
    “Wouldn’t you stop the killings if you learned that they had blamed your work on someone else?”
    “Not if I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t. You know killers like BoneMan feed off the game. He would find the opportunity
     to show off his handiwork irresistible, particularly after the public had sighed in relief at his supposed capture.”
    “So it would seem. But pysch profiles are only educated guesses. They’re hypotheses about criminals. Isn’t it at least a possibility
     that BoneMan, a killer who isn’t necessarily taking pleasure in his killing, is smarter? Having killed seven, the number of
     completion in many religious circles, he’s fulfilled his obligation to God
and
gotten away with it. Or maybe he’s still killing but burying the bodies, waiting for the day to go public again.”
    “Possible. But with the weight of evidence—”
    “Take away the blood”—she walked over to the table, lifted a thick file, and tossed it on the carpet—“take away the psychobabble.
     Now what do you see?”
    “This isn’t new territory, Ricki. We thought we had the right guy before the blood turned up.”
    “Just follow me. Do you see Switzer on the table now? Separating out the psych and blood?”
    “He’s white, hundred and ninety pounds, size thirteen—all things we know about BoneMan.”
    “So are a couple hundred thousand other Americans.”
    “There’s also his refusal to deny.”
    “Not an admission.”
    “Dead cats—”
    “Not dead girls.”
    “No alibi for any of the murders.”
    “Not exactly a Polaroid of him leaning over the bodies.”
    He frowned, but there was a sparkle in his blue eyes. She’d dated the blond-haired agent from Mississippi long before the
     BoneMan case, but they’d decided that a romance would only complicate their relationship in the office. He’d since married
     Gertrude, a pretty brunette from his hometown, Biloxi.
    Ricki had drifted in and out of a dozen casual relationships over the past ten years, but not too many guys were strong enough
     to handle an “agent with tunnel vision,” as Mark put it. She was admittedly preoccupied. Not that she didn’t want a serious
     relationship; she just wasn’t the type to go hunting for a man unless he’d committed a federal offense and deserved to spend
     the rest of his time behind bars.
    Not the best of bedmates.
    “You really buy all that?” he said.
    “I’m just saying.” Ricki walked up to him, turned to face the table, and crossed her arms. “We’re not necessarily looking
     at Phil Switzer. We may be. We may not be.”
    “You think that’s the way a jury would see it?”
    “Depends on the attorney. But I think the judge will see it that way.”
    “So you think we have the wrong man. The DA’s gonna convince the mayor to throw you a party.”
    “I’m not saying we
do
have the wrong man, Mark. I’m saying that we can’t be sure, not without the blood evidence. And if we can’t be sure that
     BoneMan is behind bars, we might want to consider the fact that he’s still out there.”
    He said nothing to that.
    “If he is, we still have a lot of work in front of us.”
    Mark crossed to his desk and sat. “I don’t know, Ricki. I think you’re wrong about this one. And unless we get another dead
     body, I think the rest of the world will agree with me.”
    “You willing to take that risk? Another victim?”
    “Come on, Ricki, this is me. Of course not. Please don’t tell me you’re going to pitch this to Kracker. You know how tight
     he is with the DA. They’ll crucify you, going out on a whim like this.”
    “I don’t know