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“Lieutenant,” Seth said in reply, eyes staying fixed straight ahead.
Nico approached the front door.
Breathe.
Filling his lungs with air and squaring his shoulders, he stepped over the threshold, careful not to disturb anything as he made his way through to the living room, where he heard the familiar flurry of activity.
The first thing he noticed—as he always did at these things—was the smell. Sickly sweet and difficult to describe, the scent of flesh that once lived and breathed and now sat stagnant, awaiting the various stages of rot, was unlike any other. It was the smell of death.
Nico had never been uncomfortable around dead bodies. It was, after all, a natural fate that awaited everyone, eventually. Not to mention part of his job. But this—this was anything but natural. This was a sacrilege of life, the work of a monster, and he couldn’t help the way his hands bunched into fists of rage and revulsion as he took in the scene before him.
The victim’s name was Isabelle Moss. Blonde. Beautiful. And young—twenty-seven, if her ID was to be believed, with an entire life ahead of her. That was until sometime between sundown and sunup the night before last—according to postmortem estimations—when she’d been tied up, tortured, and murdered. Nico had been briefed with the details on the phone before he raced back to his cabin to shower and dress.
He walked a slow circle around the body, observing the way she’d been so painfully tied to a kitchen chair, the duct tape looping around and around from wrists to elbows ensuring there was no hope of escape. It was cruel. And familiar.
Flashes of another crime scene invaded his mind, a déjà vu of blood and pain and suffering. She had been young too.
Sara . . .
Stop, he ordered himself. This is not the same. It can’t be the same.
He could see where the pressure of the tape had bruised the skin while Isabelle had still been alive, dark purple marring the now pale, dead tissue. Long dried and congealed blood oozed from multiple stab wounds on her chest and stomach, her screams silenced by a thick cloth stuffed into her mouth. He knew without asking the medical examiner that she did not die peacefully.
Punishment.
The word hung in the air. Nico felt it there. He suspected he wasn’t the only one.
He swallowed hard against the bile threatening to rise up his throat. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he bore witness to the savagery that human beings were capable of, he never fully got used to it.
Crime scene techs called in from the mainland were scurrying about, lifting prints and fibers from every possible surface. They were still within the forty-eight-hour post-kill window, so efforts were fast and focused. Nico hoped to god they found something.
A minute after entering the room, he felt the presence of another person come up beside him.
“You okay, kid?” Frank asked.
Nico’s eyes remained glued to the body. “Fine.”
“Not exactly what you had in mind for your first week, I bet.”
Nico shook his head.
“Uh, the chief is over here. He’ll be wanting to see you.”
Nico followed Frank through the apartment to the back door, where West was crouched down inspecting the lock. Zoe was in the kitchen, her ebony hair swept up in a tight bun while she rifled methodically through the trash.
West didn’t bother with pleasantries when he saw them.
“She worked at the diner next to the gas station,” he said, standing. “It’s twenty-four-hour. She never showed up for her shift last night. They reported it this morning, so I sent Seth over for a welfare check. He found her like this.”
“Poor bastard,” Frank mumbled. “Hope this doesn’t mess with his head.”
“Shit,” Nico breathed. “Okay, what do we know?”
“Not much.” West gestured to the door he’d been inspecting. “We believe the killer came in through here. It’s unlocked, but there’s no evidence of tampering. No signs of a struggle anywhere in the apartment. The front door and windows were all still secure this morning, so he must have left the same way he came in. Nothing amiss outside that we can see. All neighbors are accounted for except one—Colin Rowe—who we’re still trying to locate.”
Nico glanced around the room, noting the outdated but tidy kitchen, complete with lime-green bench tops and mismatched appliances. The collection of succulents in painted little pots by the windowsill. The empty cat food bowls in the corner. “Murder weapon?”
“Gone,” West replied.
