They Never Die Quietly (2010) Read Online Free
Author: D M Annechino
front of the board. Two weeks later she'd gotten a call from Chief of Detectives Larson, welcoming her to the homicide squad.
Diaz opened the folder again and removed one of the photographs. He stared at it intently. "What do you suppose he does with their hearts?"
"I'd rather not think about it."
"Anything on the kid?"
"Not a word."
"He doesn't do the kids," Diaz offered. "Think he's changed his routine?"
"Let's hope not."
Captain Carl Davison, standing just outside his office, yelled across the room, "Diaz, Rizzo, in my office!"
The two homicide detectives hurried down the narrow aisle between rows of messy desks. Their fellow detectives were huddled in groups, talking about cases and sharing the sordid details of last night's sexual escapades. As Sami negotiated her way past them, she could feel their eyes giving her the once-over. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, but today she felt a bit self-conscious. John Russell, a particularly obnoxious colleague, grinning like a crazed chimpanzee, held out his hand. "Nice knowing you, Rizzo."
"Wish I could say the same, asshole."
The Major Offense Squad comprised six sections: arson, burglary, homicide, robbery, sex crimes, and a special investigative squad responsible for extraordinary situations involving government officials and other officers, or investigations with high media coverage. Sami and Diaz had been warned by Captain Davison that if they did not apprehend the killer soon, he would be forced to turn the case over to the special investigative squad.
They entered the captain's office, and Sami noticed an unfamiliar woman seated opposite her boss. The woman eyeballed Sami curiously, as if to warn her that Diaz and she had better prepare themselves for a not-so-pleasant powwow.
Sami closed the door.
On occasion, Davison, a usually soft-spoken African-American, had the capacity to tear into the hides of overworked and underappreciated detectives. Sami studied his eyes and felt certain that today's little get-together would not be much fun.
Never caring much about state ordinances, particularly when his frazzled nerves needed a soothing blast of nicotine, Davison grabbed the burning cigarette resting in the overfull ashtray and deeply inhaled. The captain, two years from retirement, tipped the scales at two-thirty-five, forty pounds over his ideal weight. To look at him he didn't appear to be overstressed, and in spite of his usually calm demeanor his blood pressure recently hit a level that forced his doctor to insist he take medication to control it. You'd never know it to look at him, but he was a walking time bomb.
"I'd like you two to meet Sally Whitman," Davison said. "She's a profiler with the FBI."
Sally stood up, pivoted gracefully, grasped Sami's hand, and vigorously pumped the homicide detective's arm. The willowy, middle-aged profiler had a grip like Wonder Woman. She wore her dark brown hair severely short, almost in a buzz cut. High cheek bones and a pointed chin punctuated her narrow face. Wearing a trendy outfit, she could easily be mistaken for a punk-rock groupie. A couple of plates of her mother's lasagna, Sami thought, and Sally could gain just enough weight to have a figure.
Ever so slowly, her fingers lingering a little longer than Sami thought reasonable, Whitman let go of Sami's hand. Something in Whitman's eyes troubled Sami. Whitman gave Diaz an acknowledging nod but didn't offer her hand.
"Considering the lack of progress in apprehending this lunatic," Davison said, "I have enlisted the services of Ms. Whitman. Hopefully, she can offer some insights into the mind of a serial killer."
Serial killer?
Although three women had been murdered--all presumably the same way--no one in the homicide squad dared to mouth the term serial killer. It was taboo, as if a curse would befall the first person to say the words. The possibility had been hinted at in the San Diego Chronicle . And one television newscaster's overzealous commentary had
Diaz opened the folder again and removed one of the photographs. He stared at it intently. "What do you suppose he does with their hearts?"
"I'd rather not think about it."
"Anything on the kid?"
"Not a word."
"He doesn't do the kids," Diaz offered. "Think he's changed his routine?"
"Let's hope not."
Captain Carl Davison, standing just outside his office, yelled across the room, "Diaz, Rizzo, in my office!"
The two homicide detectives hurried down the narrow aisle between rows of messy desks. Their fellow detectives were huddled in groups, talking about cases and sharing the sordid details of last night's sexual escapades. As Sami negotiated her way past them, she could feel their eyes giving her the once-over. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, but today she felt a bit self-conscious. John Russell, a particularly obnoxious colleague, grinning like a crazed chimpanzee, held out his hand. "Nice knowing you, Rizzo."
"Wish I could say the same, asshole."
The Major Offense Squad comprised six sections: arson, burglary, homicide, robbery, sex crimes, and a special investigative squad responsible for extraordinary situations involving government officials and other officers, or investigations with high media coverage. Sami and Diaz had been warned by Captain Davison that if they did not apprehend the killer soon, he would be forced to turn the case over to the special investigative squad.
They entered the captain's office, and Sami noticed an unfamiliar woman seated opposite her boss. The woman eyeballed Sami curiously, as if to warn her that Diaz and she had better prepare themselves for a not-so-pleasant powwow.
Sami closed the door.
On occasion, Davison, a usually soft-spoken African-American, had the capacity to tear into the hides of overworked and underappreciated detectives. Sami studied his eyes and felt certain that today's little get-together would not be much fun.
Never caring much about state ordinances, particularly when his frazzled nerves needed a soothing blast of nicotine, Davison grabbed the burning cigarette resting in the overfull ashtray and deeply inhaled. The captain, two years from retirement, tipped the scales at two-thirty-five, forty pounds over his ideal weight. To look at him he didn't appear to be overstressed, and in spite of his usually calm demeanor his blood pressure recently hit a level that forced his doctor to insist he take medication to control it. You'd never know it to look at him, but he was a walking time bomb.
"I'd like you two to meet Sally Whitman," Davison said. "She's a profiler with the FBI."
Sally stood up, pivoted gracefully, grasped Sami's hand, and vigorously pumped the homicide detective's arm. The willowy, middle-aged profiler had a grip like Wonder Woman. She wore her dark brown hair severely short, almost in a buzz cut. High cheek bones and a pointed chin punctuated her narrow face. Wearing a trendy outfit, she could easily be mistaken for a punk-rock groupie. A couple of plates of her mother's lasagna, Sami thought, and Sally could gain just enough weight to have a figure.
Ever so slowly, her fingers lingering a little longer than Sami thought reasonable, Whitman let go of Sami's hand. Something in Whitman's eyes troubled Sami. Whitman gave Diaz an acknowledging nod but didn't offer her hand.
"Considering the lack of progress in apprehending this lunatic," Davison said, "I have enlisted the services of Ms. Whitman. Hopefully, she can offer some insights into the mind of a serial killer."
Serial killer?
Although three women had been murdered--all presumably the same way--no one in the homicide squad dared to mouth the term serial killer. It was taboo, as if a curse would befall the first person to say the words. The possibility had been hinted at in the San Diego Chronicle . And one television newscaster's overzealous commentary had
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