squinting at broken blood vessel s in Emily’s unseeing eyes. A shot of the inside of her nostrils depicted faint white fibers clinging to nose hairs. Another hands-off kill. Why not smother her with a hand? A male hand would likely be large enough to cover both nose and lips. Impossible she’d struggle too much, if an average-sized man sat on her chest and used all his weight to pin her to the ground.
Something was off, wrong, hideously, mind-blowingly awful, and the theory his mind played with was the same one he’d seen scribbled in the margins of Lisette’s case files. “Others were watching the video feeds?”
“ Looks that way. Seems like just one from what Brooke’s described.”
“So what was it he was watching?”
“Abby being tortured, from all I can tell. Brooke couldn’t see anything, but she heard her screaming. I figure it’s two-way torture porn. Physical pain for Abby, psychological pain for Brooke. Brooke gave him lip. He wanted to keep her in check. Making her listen as he tortures Abby would keep her quiet and make her feel responsible at the same time.”
“He must use some type of night-vision if he’s taping everything for an audience. Sensory deprivation and forced nudity are forms of psych torture as well.”
Lisette slid into a chair at the oval table and yawned into her palm. “Brooke said his voice seemed familiar, but she can’t place where she’d heard him. The guy kept his face covered at all times. Why would he bother if they’re always in the dark and if the girls would be dead soon? He wasn’t filming them the entire time. He didn’t need to keep Brooke blindfolded when he drove her and Abby to the dump spot. He put her in the back—she thinks it was a van—and it was around two-thirty in the morning. She wouldn’t have been able to see much. And I’m sure he thought she’d kill herself like the others. So why bother hiding his face?”
John listened, though he didn’t appear to be doing so as he clic ked over to view the red hole in Brianna Weaver’s abdomen.
“And he must have a day job. The way she describes it, he visited for a few hours at a time. I’m thinking it’s at night, since that’s when he’s active during dump jobs. Obviously he’s got privacy, a house to store them in. He’s not going to keep them in an empty building next to a fucking donut shop.”
He nodded, and she went on. “Wherever it is, it’s someplace with a basement or a cellar. There aren’t many of those in Los Angeles. She walked up one flight of stairs to get inside, then down one flight, into a room with a kind of tiled floor that was cool to the touch. The way she describes how the door sounds when it shuts makes me think it’s steel. Something heavy. It’s sound-proofed, because once it closed she couldn’t hear a thing from the floor above. That kind of setup requires a lot of materials. We can check work orders, ask around to contractors in the area. It sounds like a big job, and he probably had help, unless he’s in a house built in the 1920’s or some shit. And basement dungeons aren’t going to be on realtor’s brochures.” She paused. “Are you listening to a fucking thing I’m saying?”
“Yes, I am. You’ve found a lot of useful information. It’s good Brooke’s responding well to you.” He turned to find her looking slightly mollified, blonde brows forced up in surprise. “Anything else about the stash house?”
She raked a loose strand of hair from her eye. “It looks like it may be in a residential area. Brooke said it felt like she was walking on grass when he first took her inside. She was blindfolded the whole time, but she couldn’t feel any lights around when he moved her back to the car. She estimates it was about a five-minute walk to the vehicle, and a fifteen-minute drive before he dumped them.”
“If it took five minutes to
Something was off, wrong, hideously, mind-blowingly awful, and the theory his mind played with was the same one he’d seen scribbled in the margins of Lisette’s case files. “Others were watching the video feeds?”
“ Looks that way. Seems like just one from what Brooke’s described.”
“So what was it he was watching?”
“Abby being tortured, from all I can tell. Brooke couldn’t see anything, but she heard her screaming. I figure it’s two-way torture porn. Physical pain for Abby, psychological pain for Brooke. Brooke gave him lip. He wanted to keep her in check. Making her listen as he tortures Abby would keep her quiet and make her feel responsible at the same time.”
“He must use some type of night-vision if he’s taping everything for an audience. Sensory deprivation and forced nudity are forms of psych torture as well.”
Lisette slid into a chair at the oval table and yawned into her palm. “Brooke said his voice seemed familiar, but she can’t place where she’d heard him. The guy kept his face covered at all times. Why would he bother if they’re always in the dark and if the girls would be dead soon? He wasn’t filming them the entire time. He didn’t need to keep Brooke blindfolded when he drove her and Abby to the dump spot. He put her in the back—she thinks it was a van—and it was around two-thirty in the morning. She wouldn’t have been able to see much. And I’m sure he thought she’d kill herself like the others. So why bother hiding his face?”
John listened, though he didn’t appear to be doing so as he clic ked over to view the red hole in Brianna Weaver’s abdomen.
“And he must have a day job. The way she describes it, he visited for a few hours at a time. I’m thinking it’s at night, since that’s when he’s active during dump jobs. Obviously he’s got privacy, a house to store them in. He’s not going to keep them in an empty building next to a fucking donut shop.”
He nodded, and she went on. “Wherever it is, it’s someplace with a basement or a cellar. There aren’t many of those in Los Angeles. She walked up one flight of stairs to get inside, then down one flight, into a room with a kind of tiled floor that was cool to the touch. The way she describes how the door sounds when it shuts makes me think it’s steel. Something heavy. It’s sound-proofed, because once it closed she couldn’t hear a thing from the floor above. That kind of setup requires a lot of materials. We can check work orders, ask around to contractors in the area. It sounds like a big job, and he probably had help, unless he’s in a house built in the 1920’s or some shit. And basement dungeons aren’t going to be on realtor’s brochures.” She paused. “Are you listening to a fucking thing I’m saying?”
“Yes, I am. You’ve found a lot of useful information. It’s good Brooke’s responding well to you.” He turned to find her looking slightly mollified, blonde brows forced up in surprise. “Anything else about the stash house?”
She raked a loose strand of hair from her eye. “It looks like it may be in a residential area. Brooke said it felt like she was walking on grass when he first took her inside. She was blindfolded the whole time, but she couldn’t feel any lights around when he moved her back to the car. She estimates it was about a five-minute walk to the vehicle, and a fifteen-minute drive before he dumped them.”
“If it took five minutes to
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