I finally exhaled heavily and spread my hands on the top of my desk. I can handle it. I’ll solve these cases, using every fucking trick in or out of the book. So what if no one had been able to solve the Symbol Man murders the last time he was doing his killing. None of them could see the arcane. That gave me an advantage.

Now I just had to use it.

Leaning back to reach my filing cabinet, I yanked open the middle drawer, then riffled quickly through the files until I came to the thick folder containing the pictures from all the previous murders—Series One, as I was beginning to mentally refer to them. I flipped through the pics quickly. All those bodies had been dumped in places that were traveled infrequently, which meant that they were often not found for days or weeks. The body at the waste-water plant had been found quickly, but the fracture injuries made me think that he’d meant to place the body up on the vat, or somewhere else less visible.

But the victim at the ball field was meant to be found quickly. So why the change?

I worked my way through the pictures, taking note of something else. The Series One victims had been killed in a variety of ways, except for the last two—who’d been strangled. They’d all shown evidence of prolonged torture, but the main feature that had tied those murders together was the symbol. Always the same symbol, though not always in the same place on the body. Sometimes not even in an immediately visible location. Both victims from my cases—Series Two—had been strangled. So, why the change? Could it be a copycat?

It doesn’t matter, I finally decided. It’s still a murder investigation.

But there was one more striking similarity between Series One and Series Two. Every single victim was the type of person who had no one to miss them. Homeless, prostitute, drug addict, mentally ill. Sometimes all of the above. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian—all were represented. And the victims were chosen carefully—of that I was sure. These were not random snatches off the street. The killer studied them, followed them, and made certain they were alone and would not be missed for some time.

I sat back in my chair, drumming my pen on my chin. How did he take them? Tox screens on the victims had never come up with anything more than traces of “street” drugs, which was to be expected with the types of victims he chose. But if he was holding them for several days before killing them, then any drug he used to subdue them would probably have time to clear from their bodies, though I’d need to check with Doc for specifics. Did he gain their trust? Was there a connection? The investigator on the original case hadn’t found any link between the victims, but I had no idea how deeply he’d dug either. Somehow, the Symbol Man snatched his victims without anyone seeing it happen, then transported them to a secure location where they were heinously tortured for several days and then ritually killed, sometimes suffering for up to a week before finally being put to death. And always the arcane smudges left behind on the body, as well as that unidentified symbol.

But why? What was he doing arcanely? There were a number of things that involved death and blood, but unfortunately—or fortunately—Aunt Tessa wasn’t an expert in any of them, other than the basic knowledge of Things That Are Bad.

I picked up the picture of the girl found at the treatment plant and scrutinized the parallel cuts and the symbol carved onto her chest. That shit had to hurt like crazy. And the knife had to be insanely sharp, judging by the precision in the cuts.

I sighed and pulled out the pictures from the very first body, seven years ago. This one was a young black male in his mid-twenties who’d hit three of the four factors: homeless, prostitute, and drug addict. I flipped through the pictures quickly until I found one of the symbols. It had been meticulously burned into the inside of his left upper thigh, just below the scrotum.

I replaced that file, then grabbed up the next: a white male in his sixties, homeless, no family, mentally ill. His symbol had been seared directly onto his genitals. More torture. Not just a brand, but one that was meant to cause incredible pain as well.

But why should that surprise me? It didn’t tell me anything new about the killer. But maybe it told me something about the symbol itself. If it was an arcane marking, then maybe the pain involved in its placing was important. Somehow generating more potency?

I replaced the files, then pulled out the one on the victim I’d actually seen when I was a road cop. But I didn’t need to look at the pictures. I remembered vividly where that symbol had been. In fact, at first the detectives hadn’t believed it to be the same killer, because no symbol had been found on the body. It wasn’t until the pathologist removed the tongue and trachea during the autopsy that it was found—seared onto the base of her tongue.

I jumped at the knock on my door and bit my tongue against the yelp. “Come in,” I called, then had to work to control my expression when Cory Crawford opened the door. His flat brown eyes flicked over the files and pictures scattered around my desk, then he looked at me, a sour expression curling his mouth.

“Dr. Lanza called to say he has court in the morning, so he’s not cutting your latest until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay,” I replied, guarded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Cory’s gaze swept my office again. “You making any headway?”

“It’s … a lot to go through. I’m trying to find a link between the victims now.”

He gave a stiff nod, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then shook his head. “Kara, I was a dick the other night. You’re going to do just fine. Sorry.”

I let my breath out. “It’s cool.”

He nodded again, then closed the door. I could hear his footsteps fading down the hall as I leaned back in the chair, feeling as if a bit of the weight on me had been lifted. Yes, all better now. Now you only have to stress about the chief thinking you’re an inadequate nutjob, Agent Kristoff thinking you’re incompetent, your one-night stand with a demon … oh, yeah, and a serial killer still on the loose. I made a face and sat up again, pulling the scene pictures to me and wishing for the millionth time that there was some way to photograph those arcane smudges.

I can’t photograph them, I thought with a growing realization, but maybe I can sneak Aunt Tessa in to look at them. If Doc wasn’t going to cut until tomorrow afternoon, that would give me the time to do it.

I chewed my lip as I mulled over the utter stupidity of such an idea. “Ah, screw it,” I muttered, grabbing my bag. “It’s only my career.”

CHAPTER 8

Breaking into the morgue was painfully easy. The coroner’s office suffered from a lack of funding more than any other agency, mostly due to the fact that people didn’t like to think about death and thus didn’t want to fund it any more than absolutely necessary.

“I’ve done my share of crazy things in my day, kiddo,” Aunt Tessa remarked dryly as she watched me work the lock, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever broken into a morgue in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, this would normally be far too tame for you,” I replied as I slipped the edge of my folding knife into the doorjamb, noting with wry amusement that the jamb was already scored a dozen times over, probably from people who worked for the coroner’s office. The door clicked open and I stepped inside, wrinkling my nose at the ever-present odors—the combination of cleaner and decomposition and bleach, each struggling to overpower the others.

I quickly flicked on my key-chain LED flashlight, then stepped inside and pulled Aunt Tessa in, closing the door behind her.