Lovegame(39)

I save Veronica’s photo to Alicia’s file, then pull up the crime scene photos of Alicia. These will never make the book considering her age when she died—and the fact that I’m not a monster and would never consider making them public even if it was legal—but they’re extremely useful in evaluating Vargas’s psyche considering she was the first kill the FBI attributes to him. He didn’t have his techniques developed yet, didn’t have the set M.O. that would later tie him to so many crimes. In fact, one of the only things that ties Alicia’s murder to the later ones is the red ribbon she was strangled with. A red ribbon that came from the dress she’d been wearing the day she was taken.

Everyone—the local police, the FBI, me—all thought that he’d used that ribbon because it was convenient. And had incorporated it into his M.O. later because of the feelings he associated with his first kill. But now, after seeing that photo in Veronica’s parents’ bedroom, I don’t think that’s the case at all. Instead, I think it was the red ribbon that originally drew his attention to Alicia.

My stomach churns at the thought and I drain the last of the tequila in my glass before opening the first photos. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen them and she’s far from being Vargas’s most gruesome murder. But none of that matters when I’m looking at pictures of a dead child—especially one who so easily could have been Veronica.

I open a couple more photos, study them with the new bits of knowledge I’ve gained since meeting Veronica. I worked for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime for nearly a decade as a behavioral analyst and then a profiler before writing my first book. I looked at tens of thousands of photographs just like this in those years at NCAVC and still it’s my least favorite part of the job.

I do it anyway, because I understand exactly how important every detail in these photographs is. Understand exactly how much they can tell me about why Brogan did what he did. And that’s what this is all about for me—every case I’ve ever worked, every book I’ve ever written. The why, not the how.

I have my second and final interview set up with Brogan in the Massachussets supermax prison, Souza-Baranowski, in two months—just weeks before he finds out the result of his latest death penalty appeal. There are things I want to know before then. Things I need answers to so that I can ask the right questions—so I can get the real answers, answers he still hasn’t given anyone.

I pull up photos from the second crime scene, and the third. Cara Delveggio and Moira Gentry. These are only the second and third murders—or at least the second and third that we know about—but he’s already begun refining the process. Already started to find his routine, and the message he wants each body to send.

It’s obvious he thought about it a lot between Alicia’s murder and Cara’s, obvious that he went over it in his head again and again and again. What he liked, what he didn’t like, what got him off, what he wanted to do better…

Alicia was dumped naked and bruised in a forest, limbs splayed in whatever position she fell in and the red ribbon tangled carelessly around her body. The same can’t be said of these two. They’re naked and bruised like Alicia was, but that’s where the similarities end. Both of them were posed by someone after death, their legs closed and hooked together at the ankles, their fingers tangled and hands joined where they rest in an almost prayer-like position on their stomachs. Scarlet lipstick is smeared across their mouths. And as for the red ribbon that would become Brogan’s calling card…the red ribbon isn’t twisted and dirty and wrapped around their bodies as it was Alicia’s. No, in both Cara’s and Moira’s cases, the ribbon is tied neatly around blond hair that’s been styled in long, perfect ringlets.

Exactly as Veronica’s had been in that Christmas picture.

I’ve never felt sicker about being right about something in my life. Not even when I was working a big case while with the NCAVC. Not even when I was working this case.

I start to pull up pictures from crime scenes four and five—Stacy Chambers and Tamra Adams—but a knock at the door has my eyes darting to the clock in the bottom corner of my screen. It’s eleven-fifteen.

Would she really come this late? I wonder, even as I close down the open files and shut my laptop. If it is actually her I’m not taking any chances with her seeing anything that might freak her out more than she already is. Then I shove the computer in my briefcase and try not to trip over my feet in my haste to get to the door.

I’m half-convinced I imagined the knock, even as I pull open the door. But it turns out I didn’t. Because she’s here.

For long seconds, I just look at her, taking in her pale face and dark, shadowed eyes. She looks like she’s seen a ghost—or more, like she’s well on her way to becoming one.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, stepping back so she can come in.

“Nothing. You told me to be here, and here I am.” She might be pale, but the look she gives me is pure, unadulterated Veronica. Part Disney villain and part Jessica Rabbit, it’s sultry and defiant and a little bit of f*ck you all wrapped up in a solid punch to the dick.

“I told you to be here three hours ago.”

“Yes, well, beggars can’t be choosers, darling.” She all but pats my cheek as she saunters on by. “Hollywood’s a busy place. People to see, people to…do.”