Fire ripped through Angus as if he’d been prodded with a hot poker. “It’s Lassiter, which makes it my case. Period.” He had to get to the body and make sure, but his gut never lied.
Agent Rutherford, his blond hair mussed for the first time ever, reached them next. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I still have some sources in Homeland Defense,” Angus muttered, his hands itching for his gun. “Now get out of my way.”
“It’s not the same,” Rutherford said, his eyes bloodshot.
Wolfe came up on Angus’s left. “What do you mean?”
Rutherford shoved a hand in his perfectly creased dress pants. Who dressed up for a crime scene at two in the morning? “I’ve studied your old case files on Henry Wayne Lassiter. His MO was unique. This crime scene is different.”
Angus swallowed. “Where’s the note?” The bastard had always left him a note.
“No note,” Fields said as techs worked efficiently around them.
“Look again,” Angus said evenly, his gut aching so much he wanted to bend over and puke.
Rutherford planted a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t your case. Please leave before I have you escorted away.”
Wolfe shoved Rutherford’s hand off Angus before Angus could grab it and break a finger or two.
Angus probably owed him for that. “There are two options here. Either you get the hell out of our way so we can examine the scene, or we get in a fight, beat the shit out of the two of you, and then we go and examine the scene.” His voice had lowered to a hoarse threat.
Wolfe tensed next to him, while West drew up abreast, his shoulders back.
They were ready to fight with him, if necessary. His team was good. Better than good.
Rutherford smiled. “I’m ready. You hit one of us, just breathe wrong on us, and we’ll finally get you out of the HDD. You’re done, Force.”
West cleared his throat, his blue eyes dark in the night. “Give us a minute with the scene. If it isn’t Lassiter, Force will know.”
Rutherford began to shake his head.
“Okay,” Fields said, stepping aside. He shrugged at his partner. “Why not? Lassiter is dead, right?”
“Right,” Rutherford gritted, his gaze promising retribution.
The stench of puke, garbage, and worse filled Angus’s nostrils as he stepped past the agents to go deeper into the alley. “Lassiter kidnapped women and tortured them until their hearts gave out,” he told his team. “We’ll need an autopsy on this one, but we probably won’t know much about her heart.”
“Why not?” West stopped short as the body came into view.
“That’s why,” Angus said.
West’s breath caught. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. A tarp had been erected above the body to protect it from the elements. She lay naked on the pavement, her eyes open and staring straight up. Long dark hair, milky brown eyes, petite form. Her arms were spread wide, hands open and facing up. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles with a common clothesline rope found in a million places.
But the signature was just similar. Not the same. What did that mean? Her chest gaped open, the ribs and breastbone spread, leaving a hole.
West coughed. “Her heart is gone.”
Angus went even colder. The scene was…off. “He eats it. Says it makes them stay with him forever.” Nausea tried to roll up his belly, and he shoved it down.
Wolfe came up on his other side, his movements silent. He didn’t gasp, stall, or go tense. He just stared at the body, his jaw hard. He pointed to the victim’s arms. “Burn marks?”
“Affirmative,” Angus said crisply. “There will be both cigarette and electrical burns.” Outside and inside the woman. “As well as whip marks, ligature marks around the neck, and knife wounds. Shallow and painful—not enough to let her bleed out.” Yet the cuts made to remove the heart were rough—not smooth as Lassiter liked to do.
No. Yet the heart was gone.
West coughed. “Raped?”
“Probably,” Angus said.
Special Agent Tom Rutherford approached from the far end of the alley, carefully stepping over water-filled potholes with his shiny loafers. “There’s no note, and she’s not blond. In addition, the cigarette marks are too large—almost like a cigar was used.”
Angus breathed in and out before responding. He so much preferred Fields to this guy. Lassiter had been very choosy about his cigarettes and never would have used a cigar. Too common. Angus dropped into a crouch, closer to the woman. Lassiter had also loved blondes. This close, the victim’s skin looked dusky, not pale. Lassiter had liked them pale. “Are you sure there isn’t a note?”
“No note,” Rutherford snapped. “Told you it wasn’t him.”
Yet, everything inside Angus insisted it was Lassiter. He looked around, noting the alley had been cordoned off, blocking access to any nosy neighbors or the press. In a different case, he’d be fighting with Rutherford right now about the news media. It probably killed the guy that he couldn’t chase the cameras yet. “Once you get an ID, track down her medical records.”
“No ID,” Rutherford said, glancing down at his phone. “Her prints came up empty.”
Wolfe scouted the alley, his gaze sharp. “You think Lassiter did this?”
Yes. “I don’t know. The MO is close but not perfect, and he was a perfectionist.” Frustration tasted like metal in Angus’s mouth. “If it isn’t Lassiter, it’s a copycat. This is my kind of case. I was the best profiler the FBI had.”
“Until you drank the entire wagon,” Fields said, his bushy eyebrows raising.
Something on the victim’s hand caught Angus’s attention. “Glove?” He gestured toward a couple of techs.
One tossed him a blue glove, and he slid it on, gently turning the woman’s right hand over.
“Shit,” West said, leaning down. “Is that what I think it is?”
Angus swallowed. “Yeah.” A perfect tattoo of a German shepherd had been placed right beneath her knuckles.
Wolfe shook his head. “Looks like Roscoe.”
“Could be a coincidence,” West said, his lips turning down.
“Probably is,” Angus stood. But he knew it was Roscoe. “Fields? I want this case. Lassiter or not.”
West gripped his arm and pulled him to the side. He leaned in to speak quietly. “You sure you want this? Serial killers don’t just change their MOs, right? Especially ones like Lassiter.”