off?”
“We may be. But the markings don’t support that theory. Either way, we need to find out why he is using this mode of killing. I haven’t done any research yet, but it seems to be his signature, unique to our unsub.” Peyton pointed to Gabe Wagner. “I’d like you to see what you can find out on electrocution. See if there have been any serial killers who’ve used it as their method of killing.”
“Will do, Chief,” he said, standing.
To me, Peyton said, “You know what your assignment is, Skye. It’s July. Summer classes are just getting started. You’ve registered, correct? If you register yourself, I’m not technically sending you undercover . . .” At my nod, she added, “Excellent. Keep your ear to the ground. See what you can learn about our two victims.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, yanking once again on my skirt.
“And the clothes are perfect. Good job.”
Perfect? It was no wonder I was a social outcast back in the day. I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a getup like this.
This assignment was nothing like the last. I wasn’t putting myself directly in the line of fire, so to speak. I wasn’t setting myself up as bait. But, by the same token, I was about to revisit a time in my life I would have gladly forgotten. And I was doing it dressed like a ho.
“I know you will do a great job.” She turned to JT next. “Thomas, you, Fischer, and I are going to have to sit down and hammer out a plan. Thomas, Fischer will be focusing on the victimology, looking for any common connections between the girls. I want you to work with McBride. See what you can dig up on Michael Barnett.”
I gathered my things and scurried back to my desk. Class would be starting in a little over a half hour. I needed to get myself mentally prepared for this. And I might have to bend a few traffic laws to make it to class on time.
I grabbed my purse, a notebook, and a pen; then I hauled ass out of the building, eliciting more than a handful of curious stares along the way. Outside, I cranked on my car and zoomed out of the parking lot.
I was about to reenter the third level of hell. Yay, me!
I read Dante’s Divine Comedy when I was in third grade. I never forgot it. This is why I can say with absolute certainty that he missed the mark, particularly when it came to his description of the deepest bowels of hell. I know this because I was in it.
The teacher was droning on and on about nothing in particular. This was supposed to be an economics class, but he was talking about dodging the draft during the Vietnam War. I was getting the stink eye from the gaggle of girls in the back row. There was no air-conditioning, and it had to be at least 120 degrees in the classroom. And my phone, set on vibrate, was ringing nonstop.
How the heck would I convince anyone that I belonged here? That I was one of them?
Moving carefully, I slid my hand into my new backpack to check my phone. The last call was from Katie. I gave a mental sigh.
“Excuse me, Miss Skye,” the teacher said. “Care to answer my question?”
I zipped my backpack, snapping, “What question is that?”
The class broke out into riotous laughter.
At first, my face flamed. But then, as I noticed that more than one student was giving me a friendly smile, a virtual high five, my mortification lifted.
Could it have been so easy? Could I have avoided years of torment if only I’d dressed like a prostitute and acted like I was stupid?
Now the teacher’s face was turning colors. That shade didn’t look so great on him. It deepened when a few residual snickers echoed through the room. He pointed toward the door.
I was being excused from class. I’d never been thrown out of a class. I’ll admit, I was a little embarrassed. But I did my damned best to hide it as I gathered my things. Just before leaving, I glanced at the gaggle. One of them acknowledged me with a little tip of the head.
I headed out into the hall, wandered down to
“We may be. But the markings don’t support that theory. Either way, we need to find out why he is using this mode of killing. I haven’t done any research yet, but it seems to be his signature, unique to our unsub.” Peyton pointed to Gabe Wagner. “I’d like you to see what you can find out on electrocution. See if there have been any serial killers who’ve used it as their method of killing.”
“Will do, Chief,” he said, standing.
To me, Peyton said, “You know what your assignment is, Skye. It’s July. Summer classes are just getting started. You’ve registered, correct? If you register yourself, I’m not technically sending you undercover . . .” At my nod, she added, “Excellent. Keep your ear to the ground. See what you can learn about our two victims.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, yanking once again on my skirt.
“And the clothes are perfect. Good job.”
Perfect? It was no wonder I was a social outcast back in the day. I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a getup like this.
This assignment was nothing like the last. I wasn’t putting myself directly in the line of fire, so to speak. I wasn’t setting myself up as bait. But, by the same token, I was about to revisit a time in my life I would have gladly forgotten. And I was doing it dressed like a ho.
“I know you will do a great job.” She turned to JT next. “Thomas, you, Fischer, and I are going to have to sit down and hammer out a plan. Thomas, Fischer will be focusing on the victimology, looking for any common connections between the girls. I want you to work with McBride. See what you can dig up on Michael Barnett.”
I gathered my things and scurried back to my desk. Class would be starting in a little over a half hour. I needed to get myself mentally prepared for this. And I might have to bend a few traffic laws to make it to class on time.
I grabbed my purse, a notebook, and a pen; then I hauled ass out of the building, eliciting more than a handful of curious stares along the way. Outside, I cranked on my car and zoomed out of the parking lot.
I was about to reenter the third level of hell. Yay, me!
I read Dante’s Divine Comedy when I was in third grade. I never forgot it. This is why I can say with absolute certainty that he missed the mark, particularly when it came to his description of the deepest bowels of hell. I know this because I was in it.
The teacher was droning on and on about nothing in particular. This was supposed to be an economics class, but he was talking about dodging the draft during the Vietnam War. I was getting the stink eye from the gaggle of girls in the back row. There was no air-conditioning, and it had to be at least 120 degrees in the classroom. And my phone, set on vibrate, was ringing nonstop.
How the heck would I convince anyone that I belonged here? That I was one of them?
Moving carefully, I slid my hand into my new backpack to check my phone. The last call was from Katie. I gave a mental sigh.
“Excuse me, Miss Skye,” the teacher said. “Care to answer my question?”
I zipped my backpack, snapping, “What question is that?”
The class broke out into riotous laughter.
At first, my face flamed. But then, as I noticed that more than one student was giving me a friendly smile, a virtual high five, my mortification lifted.
Could it have been so easy? Could I have avoided years of torment if only I’d dressed like a prostitute and acted like I was stupid?
Now the teacher’s face was turning colors. That shade didn’t look so great on him. It deepened when a few residual snickers echoed through the room. He pointed toward the door.
I was being excused from class. I’d never been thrown out of a class. I’ll admit, I was a little embarrassed. But I did my damned best to hide it as I gathered my things. Just before leaving, I glanced at the gaggle. One of them acknowledged me with a little tip of the head.
I headed out into the hall, wandered down to
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