They Never Die Quietly (2010) Read Online Free Page A
Author: D M Annechino
caused widespread alarm among local residents, but no one had officially classified the three murders as serial.
To use this term so matter-of-factly struck a raw nerve in Sami. All her life she'd lived in San Diego, touted to be America's Finest City, and to the best of her recollection the area had not been terrorized by a serial killer since 1932.
The captain crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "Tell the detectives what we're dealing with, Ms. Whitman."
The FBI profiler sat, crossed her legs, and tucked her skirt under her thighs in a proper fashion, never taking her eyes off Sami. "The man we're looking for is a religious fanatic. They're the worst because most of them believe God has empowered them with absolute authority. When a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits. With God's endorsement each one believes he has his own set of twisted commandments. In this case we don't know if the perpetrator is doing God's work or Satan's. Sometimes there's really a fine line."
Whitman pointed to one of the victim photographs. "There's little doubt the women were crucified. The pathologist's report indicates that tiny splinters of wood, along with traces of metal were found in the wrist and foot wounds. The wood is white pine and the metal is alloy steel, probably from whatever kind of spikes or nails he used. My guess is he's either crucifying them as an offering to his God, emulating Jesus' death on the cross, or belittling the foundation of Christianity by performing mock crucifixions."
An air of silence descended upon the room. Diaz grabbed Sami's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Could he be a woman hater?" Diaz offered. "Maybe he's pissed off at his ex-wife and taking it out on other women."
"That's unlikely, detective," Whitman said. "Woman haters typically defeminize their victims by cutting off their breasts or sticking objects in their vaginas. Granted, he did have intercourse with each victim, but I'm thinking that the sex was part of some warped ritual."
"Any idea why he would cut out their hearts?" Diaz asked.
Whitman fixed her eyes on the detective. "He probably collects them. Keeps them as trophies."
"What about the children?" Sami asked. "Why weren't they harmed?"
"In his twisted mind they served some purpose," Whitman said, "but I can only speculate." She studied the photograph. "Maybe he used the children as pawns to get what he wanted."
"I'm not following you," Diaz said. "We've already established that the killer is a big man. Surely he could overpower these women. Why did he need the kids?"
Whitman adjusted her glasses. "Control. Maybe he doesn't want them to fight."
Ordinarily, Sami could manage her emotions, but as a single parent of a soon-to-be three-year-old daughter, she could not help feeling great anguish. Careful not to expose her mental state to the captain, she tried not to make eye contact with him.
"What really bothers me," Whitman continued, "is that the killer is a sociopath."
Her eyes focused on something afar. "In some instances, victims are mutilated after death. But this is not the case with these women. They were alive, perhaps conscious when he crucified them."
With that statement, the room was as quiet as a mortuary. Davison lit another cigarette, and Diaz coughed into his hand. Sami wanted to be anywhere but in that office.
"Ms. Whitman, could you give me a moment with the detectives?" Davison said.
Sally Whitman placed the folder in her brown leather briefcase, eyeballed Sami, and quietly left the office. Sami knew what came next. She'd seen this metamorphosis before.
The minute Whitman closed the door, Captain Davison stood up and wagged his finger at the two detectives. "You know how I hate to be a hard-ass, but the mayor is chewing on my nuts. You two will still lead the investigation, but I'm assigning a special task force to assist you." The captain swiped his hand across his moist forehead. "You've got to find
To use this term so matter-of-factly struck a raw nerve in Sami. All her life she'd lived in San Diego, touted to be America's Finest City, and to the best of her recollection the area had not been terrorized by a serial killer since 1932.
The captain crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "Tell the detectives what we're dealing with, Ms. Whitman."
The FBI profiler sat, crossed her legs, and tucked her skirt under her thighs in a proper fashion, never taking her eyes off Sami. "The man we're looking for is a religious fanatic. They're the worst because most of them believe God has empowered them with absolute authority. When a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits. With God's endorsement each one believes he has his own set of twisted commandments. In this case we don't know if the perpetrator is doing God's work or Satan's. Sometimes there's really a fine line."
Whitman pointed to one of the victim photographs. "There's little doubt the women were crucified. The pathologist's report indicates that tiny splinters of wood, along with traces of metal were found in the wrist and foot wounds. The wood is white pine and the metal is alloy steel, probably from whatever kind of spikes or nails he used. My guess is he's either crucifying them as an offering to his God, emulating Jesus' death on the cross, or belittling the foundation of Christianity by performing mock crucifixions."
An air of silence descended upon the room. Diaz grabbed Sami's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Could he be a woman hater?" Diaz offered. "Maybe he's pissed off at his ex-wife and taking it out on other women."
"That's unlikely, detective," Whitman said. "Woman haters typically defeminize their victims by cutting off their breasts or sticking objects in their vaginas. Granted, he did have intercourse with each victim, but I'm thinking that the sex was part of some warped ritual."
"Any idea why he would cut out their hearts?" Diaz asked.
Whitman fixed her eyes on the detective. "He probably collects them. Keeps them as trophies."
"What about the children?" Sami asked. "Why weren't they harmed?"
"In his twisted mind they served some purpose," Whitman said, "but I can only speculate." She studied the photograph. "Maybe he used the children as pawns to get what he wanted."
"I'm not following you," Diaz said. "We've already established that the killer is a big man. Surely he could overpower these women. Why did he need the kids?"
Whitman adjusted her glasses. "Control. Maybe he doesn't want them to fight."
Ordinarily, Sami could manage her emotions, but as a single parent of a soon-to-be three-year-old daughter, she could not help feeling great anguish. Careful not to expose her mental state to the captain, she tried not to make eye contact with him.
"What really bothers me," Whitman continued, "is that the killer is a sociopath."
Her eyes focused on something afar. "In some instances, victims are mutilated after death. But this is not the case with these women. They were alive, perhaps conscious when he crucified them."
With that statement, the room was as quiet as a mortuary. Davison lit another cigarette, and Diaz coughed into his hand. Sami wanted to be anywhere but in that office.
"Ms. Whitman, could you give me a moment with the detectives?" Davison said.
Sally Whitman placed the folder in her brown leather briefcase, eyeballed Sami, and quietly left the office. Sami knew what came next. She'd seen this metamorphosis before.
The minute Whitman closed the door, Captain Davison stood up and wagged his finger at the two detectives. "You know how I hate to be a hard-ass, but the mayor is chewing on my nuts. You two will still lead the investigation, but I'm assigning a special task force to assist you." The captain swiped his hand across his moist forehead. "You've got to find
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