Broken Dolls by James Carol Read Free Book Online Page B

knew for sure was that right now she’d be more alone than she’d ever been.
    All alone and living the nightmare.

10
    I’d promised Hatcher a profile by nine, but that wasn’t going to happen. Sleep usually gave me a clearer perspective. Not this time. If anything, this case was hazier than ever. I had some ideas, but nothing worth sharing. My profile would influence the direction the investigation took, and if I got it wrong an innocent woman would suffer. A bad profile was one of the best ways to screw up a case.
    This case was unlike any other I’d worked. For starters, there was usually a dead body or two to work with. That bugged me more than anything else. Performing a lobotomy would take time and skill. It would be easier to kill the victim. It didn’t make sense, didn’t tally with what I knew about this unsub. This guy was careful and tidy, and he didn’t do anything without thinking it through first, so why go to all the trouble of performing a lobotomy? Also, this unsub got off on torturing his victims. He fed on their pain and screams. Once the lobotomy was carried out the fun would be over. No more pain, no more screams. So, at what point did he carry out the lobotomy? What was the trigger?
    Another thing that bugged me was the contradictory way the victims were being treated. On one hand they were being brutally tortured. On the other hand they were being well cared for. It was possible the unsub was looking after his victims so he could prolong the torture. Possible, but the explanation didn’t sit comfortably.
    I showered quickly then towelled myself dry and got dressed. Yesterday’s jeans still had some life left in them, but my T-shirt and hoodie were past their best. Today’s T-shirt featured Nirvana, and today’s hoodie was black. I ran a hand through my hair to tidy it up. I’ve never been sure whether one of my ancestors chose Winter as a surname because of that errant gene that caused our hair to turn white prematurely, or whether it was one of those cosmic flukes that occasionally happen. I wouldn’t call it coincidence because I don’t believe in coincidence or luck or fate. What I do believe is that in an almost infinite universe anything and everything is possible.
    Like a kid in his early twenties with the surname Winter ending up with white hair. When you get down to it, as far as cosmic flukes go, it’s really not that impressive. Impressive is when two high-school sweethearts separated by circumstance and oceans and half a century of living bump into each other on vacation in some bizarre out-of-the-way corner of the globe, and get to pick things up right where they left off all those years ago.
    I ordered the full English breakfast from room service because God only knew when I’d get to eat again. The first coffee washed down my breakfast, the second came out onto the balcony with me. With the city waking up below me, I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The sky was a bright, sharp blue that reminded me of the winter mornings back in Virginia. The lack of cloud cover meant it felt even colder than yesterday, the mercury struggling to stay in the twenties. My morning fix of caffeine and nicotine kickstarted my system, and by the time I got back inside I was good to go.
    Hatcher had emailed through a folder that contained the before and after pictures of the victims. I started with Patricia Maynard’s photos since she was the victim I knew best. The before picture was fairly typical in that it showed Patricia Maynard caught in a happy moment. These photos were supplied by the family and it was only natural that they would want their loved ones remembered with a rose-tinted glow. The truth was that Patricia Maynard was human. She had good days and bad days. Sometimes she was happy, sometimes she was sad, and sometimes she was angry. There were times she was a joy to be with, and times when she was a complete pain in the ass. The rollercoaster of emotions and moods of a normal