The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [172]
“He showed off for the camera, played to it.”
“Exactly.” Mira nodded, pleased. “He employed costumes and props, and not just, in my opinion, as tools and disguises. But for the flair of it, and the irony. I wonder if he sees his cruelty as irony.”
She took a breath, shifted her legs, and sipped at her tea. If she’d believed Eve would actually drink the cup she’d given her, Mira would have added some vitamins to it. “It’s possible. It’s a stage, a show. He enjoys that aspect very much. The preparation, the details. He’s a coward, but a careful one.”
“They’re all cowards,” Eve stated and had Mira tilting her head.
“Yes, you would see it that way, because to you the taking of a life is only justifiable in defense of another. For you murder is the ultimate cowardice. But in this case, I would say he recognizes his own fears. He drugs his victims quickly—not to save them pain but to prevent them from fighting, and perhaps overcoming him physically. He needs to set the stage. He puts them in bed, restrains them before cutting off their clothes. He doesn’t strip them in a rage, and he makes certain they’re bound before he goes to the next step. Now they’re helpless, now they’re his.”
“Then he rapes them.”
“Yes, when they’re bound. Naked and helpless. If they were free they would reject him. He knows this. He’s been rejected. But now he can do as he wishes. He needs them awake and aware for this so that they can see him, so they know he has the power, so they struggle but can’t escape.”
The words, the images, had Eve’s already uneasy stomach pitching. Memories danced too close to the surface. “Rape’s always about power.”
“Yes.” Because she understood Mira wanted to reach out and take Eve’s hand. And because she understood, she didn’t. “He strangles them because it’s personal, an extension of the sexual act. Hands to the throat. It’s intimate.”
Mira smiled a little. “How much of this had you already concluded?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re confirming my take on him.”
“All right then. The garland is trimming. Props again, show, irony. They’re gifts from himself to himself. The Christmas theme may have some personal meaning to him, or it may simply be the symbolism.”
“What about the destruction of Marianna Hawley’s tree and ornaments?” When Mira only cocked a brow, Eve shrugged. “Breaking the symbol of the holiday in the tree, the eradication of purity in the angel ornaments.”
“It would suit him.”
“The pins and tattoos.”
“He’s a romantic.”
“A romantic?”
“Yes, he’s very much the romantic. He brands them as his love, he leaves them a token, and he takes the time and the trouble to make them beautiful before he leaves them. Anything less than that would make them an unworthy gift.”
“Did he know them?”
“Yes, I would say he did. Whether they knew him is another matter. But he knew them, he’d observed them. He’d chosen them and for the length of time he had them, they were his true love. He doesn’t mutilate,” she added, leaning forward. “He decorates, enhances. Artistically, perhaps even lovingly. But when he is finished, he is done. He sprays the body with disinfectant, erasing himself. He washes, scrubs, erasing them from him. And when he leaves, he is jubilant. He’s won. And it’s time to prepare for the next.”
“Hawley and Greenbalm were nothing alike physically, nor in their lifestyles, their habits, or their work.”
“But they had one thing in common,” Mira put in. “They were both, at one time, lonely enough, needy enough, interested enough, to pay for help in finding a companion.”
“Their true love.” Eve set her untouched tea aside. “Thanks.”
“I hope you’re well.” Aware that Eve was braced to rise and leave, Mira stalled. “Fully recovered from your injuries.”
“I’m fine.”
No, Mira thought, not quite fine. “You only took what, two or three weeks off to recover from serious injuries.”
“I’m better off working.”
“Yes, I know you think so.” Mira smiled again. “Are you ready for the holidays?”
Eve didn’t squirm in her chair, but she wanted to. “I’ve picked up a couple of presents.”
“It must