NOTE: I apologize for the extreme delay between chapters - life's been a bit crazy these last few weeks. It's settling back down, though, so I hope to update a bit more regularly from here on out.
{*****}
Peter Foley walked through the doorway to his bedroom. He was young - maybe twenty eight or twenty nine - boyishly attractive in an oddly plain sort of way, and clearly in a hurry.
Having just returned home from work, he was wearing a white lab coat over a blue shirt, matching blue tie, and dark gray slacks. Slightly messy light brown hair fell to just over the top of his ears, and just brushed the top of his wire-rimmed glasses - the combination should have been extremely appealing, but there was a certain unsettling awkwardness to Peter's demeanor that marred it somehow.
Some people - perhaps due to a difficult life, or some other equally urgent circumstance - were known to decide early on that a certain invisibility is the best way for them to adapt to the social status quo. Peter Foley was one of these individuals, and had made such a tremendous effort at being neutral and nondescript that he was now unsettling in his sheer ordinariness.
Today, though, 'neutral' and 'nondescript' were neither desirable nor appropriate. Peter was entertaining a guest, and was eager to make the best possible impression on her. To that end, he quickly changed out of his rumpled work clothes - wanting to look his best, he selected a fresh shirt in a different shade of blue he'd been advised suited him very well, and a fresh pair of slacks he'd ironed just last night.
A quick glance in the mirror showed him that all was in order, though he paused for a moment to fix his hair ever so slightly, enjoying its casually tousled look. He also took a moment to consider whether he needed a tie as well, but decided against it - ties only ever got in his way, and the situation wasn't formal enough to require one.
With that, Peter left the bedroom, cutting through the living room on his way to the kitchen. The house had been his mother's before it had been his, and still reflected the care she had put into decorating it. Some of the furnishings and knick knacks were decades old by now, but Peter thought it gave his home a certain old-fashioned charm.
The kitchen was a bit of a mess, which was not at all unusual. Peter worked hard to keep the rest of the house clean enough to meet the exacting standards his late mother had instilled in him, but let the kitchen stay as neat or as dirty as his mood dictated. He'd been quite distracted by his guest over the last few days, more so than he'd realized, and decided to take a moment and tidy up the kitchen before moving on.
He actually started humming as he cleaned, grabbing himself a bottled water and straw once he was done, and kept up the noise as he let himself through the locked door to the basement - some Sixties song or other that he'd heard at that festival yesterday when he'd taken his camera there to film.
Walking down the stairs into the basement proper, he paused to stare at the sleek, metallic array of machinery lined up against one wall. The computer setup was his special baby, something he'd spent hours designing and building, and the camcorder currently attached to the computer was equally special, though he'd had little to do with its design.
There were also other devices - monitors, an old VCR, even a separate dvd player for when he didn't want to use the one on his computer - and every single one of them was precise and efficient and predictable. It soothed him in a way interacting with living beings never did.
The human factor - something Peter Foley had never understood or mastered - was conspicuously absent here. Pleasantly absent, if anyone would have asked Peter about it directly.
One monitor displayed the image of Randi Salvino, one hand on her hip, the other flashing a peace sign for the camera as she smiled shyly. The flesh and blood Randi lay just a few feet away on a lab table.
The table was covered with plain white sheets, folded to ensure they wouldn't interfere with the makeshift restraints holding Randi down. This was more precaution than necessity on Peter's part - Randi was currently only semiconscious, courtesy of the sedative Peter had injected her with prior to leaving for work that morning. Even if she had been alert enough to protest, a piece of duct tape over her mouth ensured her silence.
Peter leaned over her then, placing his left hand on her forehead. His right hand held a gleaming Exacto knife - it was the first thing Randi focused on when the hand on her forehead roused her, and she quickly expended what little strength she had left fighting against her restraints.
Waiting for Randi to settle back down, Peter stared at the huge wall-length white board directly behind her. It was filled with a collage of various images, some taken with a camera and others captured from video footage. The left side of the board held images from his previous three victims, taken both before and after death - including Jennifer Lyle, who held the current place of honor.
The right half of the board wasn't full yet, but he'd made a good start. It currently held pictures of the various crime scenes, with a heavy focus on the lead Inspectors, Nikita Mears and Owen Elliot. The true place of honor, though - for the entire board, not just one specific side - was held by images of Amanda Collins, including a few he'd managed of her with her ward Alexandra Udinov.
Randi had finally quieted down, drained of what little fight she'd been able to muster, and Peter returned his attention to her. Shushing her like he might a fussy child, he braced his left arm against her and used his free hand to cut a small, precise slit through the duct tape directly over her mouth - he liked the look of it on her, but also wanted to hear her if she decided to talk to him.
Peter opened the water and placed that straw into the bottle, holding it out so Randi could see that he'd brought it just for her. "I brought you something to drink. I told you I'd take care of you, didn't I?"
Randi struggled pointlessly to pull away at first, as Peter slipped an arm under her to lift her head and shoulders up as much as he could within her restraints, but thirst won out and she eventually let Peter help her drink through the straw. The effort exhausted her, though, and the remnants of the sedative she'd been given earlier that day pulled her back under.
Peter caught her as she slumped back down against his arm, noting the contrast of his blue shirt against her white dress - the dress he'd taken care to keep as clean as possible - and just stood there holding her for a moment as he admired the tableau.
Then he settled in to begin his true task for the evening...
{*****}
Only hours later - not even a full hour after Owen's call had woken her at Amanda's loft - Nikita Mears stood on a stony, windswept hilltop high above San Francisco.
The early morning fog had yet to burn off, swathing the landscape in something very reminiscent of gray tulle as Nikita stared out over it. The cold, barren ground seemed to match the mood and color of the haze around her perfectly, putting her eerily in mind of one of the post-apocalyptic movies Owen seemed to love so much.
Shaking the thought off, Nikita turned her back on the unsettling view to focus on an even more unsettling sight - the body of young Randi Salvino, face-down on the ground and naked except for a pair of white bikini underwear. A No Dumping sign stood just beside her, and something Nikita recognized as fatigue verging on hysteria kept drawing Nikita's attention back to that sign.
Wishing the coffee would just hurry up and kick in already, Nikita forced herself to focus on the coroner. Frank, looking as unhappy as she'd ever seen him, was just wrapping up his initial examination, and his assistant stood nearby waiting with a body bag, looking just as unhappy.
A uniformed patrolman also stood nearby observing, managing a decent game face for all that he seemed a little green in the face, and Nikita beckoned him over. "You isolated the kids who found her, right? Made sure they didn't touch anything?"
The officer confirmed both things for her - the kids' only contact with the victim had been one of them checking the body for a pulse - and Nikita sent him off to help Michael and Owen gather witness statements from the group gathered nearby. They were all attendees of the Festival Of Love and Nikita could sympathize with their obvious upset.
Michael took the officer's arrival as a sign to break from his interviews and go update Nikita. He reached Nikita shortly after Owen did - just in time to see Owen place a hand at the small of Nikita's back and lean close to whisper something in Nikita's ear.
"Good morning," he said, and Nikita almost winced as she saw him take in both her and Owen's mutually disheveled appearance. "Rough night?"
For all that he hated it and did his best to control it, Michael had a jealous streak that Nikita's friendship with Owen apparently tripped by virtue of simply existing. He also had an extremely protective streak - one of the reasons Nikita had known it was never going to work long term - and Nikita knew exactly what conclusion that combination of traits was pushing Michael to.
She also had zero time for Michael's alpha male bullshit that morning. "I was with the CSI crew at Amanda Collins' apartment all night. Owen was working the files we got sent from Boston. Now, can we get back to work, please?"
Nikita strode over to the body without waiting for a response - she didn't see the silent showdown between Owen and Michael, but she didn't have to. It didn't last long, anyway - Owen was only a step or two behind his partner.
Frank waited for Nikita's nod, then gave his report. "Definite signs of sexual assault, but no defensive wounds. Cause of death is asphyxiation, but there are no ligature marks and no bruising around her neck. She has needle marks on her arms but doesn't look like a habitual user."
Nikita and Owen looked at each other for a long moment before Owen just cursed under his breath and shook his head. "This isn't our guy."
Nikita's gut instinct said differently, though, so she signaled for Frank to continue. He didn't waste any time. "I think she was dragged here post-mortem. Her heels are all scratched up but there's no blood - or, at least, not as much as there should have been if she was still alive."
That was all Frank had to offer until he could do his autopsy, and Nikita and Owen stepped back to let the coroner and his assistant bag up the body and carry it away. It was just enough time for the two detectives to look around and confirm that there would be no tracks to speak of given the rocky soil.
There was something sharp and acrid on the morning breeze now, and Nikita forced herself to breathe deep - it was a way of punishing herself for failing another young girl, and she knew it, but that didn't mean she could keep herself from doing it anyway. "We don't even know who she is..."
Owen, feeling much the same guilt and frustration but currently having a better handle on it, just put a hand on her shoulder. "This one's not on us, Nikita. None of these are."
Nikita closed her eyes long enough to take a slow, deep breath - it helped center her again, but only just.
That balance was shattered again just a few seconds later, when Michael moved to block Owen as they headed back to finish interviewing the kids who'd found the body. Nikita, back turned as she headed up the group, didn't see it, but she heard the sound of Owen colliding with Michael's arm and knew her day was about to get even worse when she also spotted a familiar head of blonde hair at the crime scene barrier below them.
Michael apparently believed that Nikita was selectively deaf, because he didn't even let her get far enough away that she couldn't overhear before he started in on Owen - though, to be fair, he at least tried to keep his voice down. "What the hell do you think you're doing? She deserves better than-"
Owen cut Michael off, for once in his life attempting to avoid an argument with him. "You're imaging things, man. I haven't touched her - it's not like that at all."
"I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid," Michael countered, and Nikita jumped in before Owen could supply the expected comeback.
She physically shoved herself between the two men, though she was facing Michael. He took a step back after seeing the look on Nikita's face, but it wasn't enough to calm her down. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jill Morelli is down there right now - and if you don't think she'll notice a fist fight between detectives at a crime scene, you're even more idiotic than you look right now."
Michael glanced over - sure enough, Morelli was already staring right at them - and forced himself to calm down. "Nikita..."
Nikita just glared at him. "Apology not accepted, Michael - and you better believe we will be discussing this later. For right now, just go do your fucking job and get the fuck away from me."
Even with multiple officers taking statements, it took much longer than Nikita would have liked to finish interviewing the kids who had found the body - there were a lot of false alarms and possible red herrings to sort out, but in the end it was obvious that the kids had had no part in the murder and didn't really know anything useful.
If Nikita had had any hopes that Jill Morelli would simply get bored or grow tired of waiting, they were in vain. The blonde was still standing at the crime scene barrier, specifically waiting for Nikita to judge by the way she immediately sprang into action the second Nikita was close enough to hear her over the gawkers gathered around them both. "Nikita! Is this a fourth victim? And what's this I've been hearing about a Boston Strangler copycat?"
"Not now, Jill," Nikita sighed wearily. "I don't have time to fight with you today."
Jill Morelli took one look at Nikita's face - at the raw fatigue in her eyes - and, for possibly the first time ever in her life, stood down.
{*****}
Amanda Collins stood in the bathroom, pill bottle in one hand as she measured out her medication. Days and days of waiting for test results to come back on the fourth murder had been more than Amanda's nerves could handle - though Amanda was pleased to note that she was nonetheless using less of her medication than before, and drinking far less than she had been.
At least they had identified the victim - Randi Salvino, a nineteen-year-old San Francisco native.
The doorbell rang, and Amanda felt a sudden amusing flare of deja vu as she called out for an absent Alex. Rolling her eyes at herself, she hurried to the door.
Nikita Mears was at the door, file in hand and with that certain look that Amanda had already come to associate with being completely immersed in puzzling out new information. Nikita smiled as she waved the file, but the gesture didn't quite reach her eyes. "We've got all the reports back finally."
Amanda nodded and invited her in. "You need to call the station, by the way. They've been trying to reach you but your radio's down and your cell phone is just going to voicemail."
Nikita looked at her a little oddly, though she was clearly more amused than offended or put off. "How the hell did you know that?"
"It was on the police scanner," Amanda admitted, hoping her face didn't reflect her embarrassment.
As was typical when talking to Nikita Mears, Amanda rushed on before she could stop herself. "I keep turning the damn thing off because I can't listen to it, but then I turn it back on because I can't not listen to it. Sometimes I make Alex listen to it for me, which she really, really hates."
The words all tumbled out in a rush - very unlike Amanda's normally precise speech pattern - and Nikita's expression changed from amusement to concern. "Amanda - are you okay? You seem a little..."
Amanda drew in a deep breath, then let it back out. "Better than I have been in a long time, actually. But sometimes being cooped up here, it just..."
She trailed off, but Nikita understood her well enough. Amanda was fine, just lonelier than she'd ever openly admit and apparently in dire need of someone to just talk to.
Despite all this, Amanda was the picture of patience as Nikita borrowed her landline to call the precinct. She also made them both a snack and poured them something to drink while she waited, which may have helped.
Finally, though, they were able to sit down and go over the info Nikita had brought. Nikita couldn't help expressing her frustration about it all. "Everything's different, but my gut says this is the same guy. I can't prove that, though - Randi Salvino was asphyxiated but not strangled, was sexually assaulted, and was dumped outdoors."
Amanda nodded. "So nothing like DeSalvo, then."
"There's something... artificial about the whole thing," Nikita added. "Like the body dump was staged. I mean, why else would you leave it on that hill when you know it'll be found right away?"
Amanda pondered that for a moment, then just shrugged. "It's not common, but the routine - the ritual - does sometimes change. The killer was copycatting before - maybe he's working out his own modus operandi?"
Nikita nodded slightly in acknowledgment as she opened the folder and pulled out the reports. "There were two kinds of sperm found. None of this reads like a gang rape gone wrong though."
Amanda froze in the middle of sipping at her tea, an odd look on her face. "One secretor and the other not, right?"
She was already tapping away at her tablet before Nikita could even respond. "Yes, exactly."
"Was there a needle mark on her left arm?" Amanda was still tapping away, not even bothering to look at Nikita.
Nikita, for her part, wasn't sure how Amanda knew all of this when she hadn't reviewed the files yet, but wasn't going to question it without a damn good reason. "Yes, but toxicology came back clean - or at least, nothing she couldn't have taken at the festival."
Sensing that Amanda was onto something, Nikita offered up the only other fact of note she could think of. "She was found near a No Dumping sign."
"Like this?" Amanda finally asked, holding out the tablet.
Nikita swore, loudly and at length, as she looked at the old, grainy image Amanda had pulled up - a dead girl, naked except for a pair of underwear, lay face-down in a field beside a No Dumping sign. "That's my goddamn crime scene!"
Jumping to her feet, Nikita started pacing. Amanda allowed the detective that moment or two of silence, so that Nikita could process enough of her response to the change in the case that her emotions wouldn't cloud her analysis. She was about to call Nikita's attention back to the files when Nikita stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "Okay - who? Who is the bastard copying now?"
Amanda calmly sipped at her tea - she'd poured herself a second cup while watching Nikita pace. "He's switched to Bianchi and Buono - collectively known as the Hillside Strangler. Everything else aside, his commitment to a perfect recreation is impressive."
She didn't flinch or blink as Nikita glared at her, but the brief flare of anger burned through the last of Nikita's emotional turmoil. "So why change now? These guys tend to be robots - you said it yourself, it's like a ritual to them."
Amanda shrugged. "Perhaps copying other killers *is* his ritual - or maybe he just gets bored. Either way, once he's recreated one killer to his satisfaction, he moves on to the next - though it would be nice if we had enough information to determine some sort of pattern to who he copies."
Nikita, back to pacing silently - though in contemplation now rather than anger or frustration - didn't respond, so Amanda looked through the folder for the toxicology report. Scanning it, she saw that it hadn't looked for any of the things they actually needed it to - though she hadn't really expected it would. "You need to have another toxicology screen run - one that tests for the chemicals found in Windex. Bianchi and Buono injected one of their victims with it."
Nikita stopped pacing and just flopped unceremoniously onto the couch, frustration written in her posture and in her eyes. "Fucking hell! We had this - just last night - or at least the bastard wanting us to think we did. I thought maybe that video was our lucky break, but she was probably already dead before he even sent it to you."
Amanda had never been one to comfort or coddle unnecessarily - she'd always believed that a healthy dose of realism was the best way to approach any situation. That didn't mean she couldn't sympathize, though, and she felt for Nikita's obvious distress. "I'm sorry, Nikita. I wish I could give you better news, but this guy is very good at what he does. He's smart, he's enjoying himself, and he's going to keep killing until someone stops him."
Nikita just stared at her blankly for a moment as she processed Amanda's candor, then finally nodded her acceptance. And this time, when Amanda held out a snifter with a nice helping of cognac, Nikita didn't turn it away.