snapped, glaring down the rolling hill of grass. “Who else?”
“Maybe one of your past victims,” Camden replied.
Victims? That’s completely the wrong word.
“I think you mean patients,” Prentiss said through clenched teeth.
“Right,” Camden said. “Patients.” There was a pause. Prentiss took the opportunity to glance at the time on his phone but he could still hear Camden. “You’ve had other patients besides Angela.”
But they hadn’t been patients , thought Prentiss, not really . It wasn’t until he’d impersonated a priest that the roles had really come together, really gelled into outstanding performances. Even so, who had ever heard of a surgeon who hadn’t had previous patients?
“Of course,” Prentiss said quickly. “I’m eminently qualified to perform this surgery. You might say I’m the best.”
“And where will you be performing your work, Doctor?”
How completely obvious.
“In the operating room, of course,” Prentiss replied, pleased to be parrying words so easily.
“How many of these surgeries have you performed?”
“Six,” Prentiss said, immediately. “This will be my seventh. I’ve honed it. Any blade can be used.” That had to be impressive. That had to get on the news. “I’m going to–”
“Why the psychic?” Camden asked.
Prentiss blinked.
“The what?”
“Why involve the psychic, Isabelle de Grey?” Camden asked, sounding rushed. “And why call me? Out of all the reporters in L.A.? Why me?”
Prentiss pursed his lips and snapped the phone closed.
Without a backward glance, he turned and strode up the hill to a bum sleeping on one of the benches. Prentiss tossed the cell phone to the grass underneath.
• • • • •
Mac fumed, hardly hearing what Sergeant Dixon was saying. He glared down at the sergeant’s desk, in the middle of the bullpen seating in the West L.A. Police Station.
Another opportunity lost. Did these people want Angela to die?
Again the cell phone triangulation had been successful and, again, they’d found the phone without the Priest, this time at Angel’s Knoll. The homeless man hadn’t seen a thing and the tiny park had been empty except for him.
“Mac?” Isabelle said quietly as her gloved hand touched his arm.
They sat side by side, Sergeant Dixon across from them, trying to link another two unknown victims to the Priest–who was apparently now a doctor–and a surgeon. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Mac.
“He doesn’t have multiple personality disorder,” Mac declared, looking from Isabelle to the sergeant and back.
Dixon had been rifling through the files in front of him but stopped.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because the doctor knows about all the operations,” Mac said. “Including the one on Esme.”
“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said.
“It’s also known as dissociative identity disorder,” Mac said. “The personalities alternate control. One identity doesn’t have the memories of the other.”
“The doctor knew about multiple other victims,” said Dixon.
“It never made sense to me that he’d have multiple personality disorder,” Mac said. “The odds were always against it.” Mac leaned forward in his seat. “No, he’s a chameleon, taking on a new persona with each kidnapping.”
“But the torture remains the same,” Dixon said.
“It has to,” Mac said. “It’s sexually motivated in some way. It’s what drives him in the first place.”
“The knee?” Isabelle asked.
“Not just the knee,” Mac said, tracing the line on his own leg. “It starts at the knee and then moves up the thigh.”
“Even so,” Dixon said. “It’s a far cry from–”
“We’ll find a wound on him that’s the same,” Mac said, sitting back, almost stunned at his own conclusion. “Something that, to him, is associated with sex. Something that happened during sex.” He looked from Dixon to Isabelle. “And now he’s recreating
“Maybe one of your past victims,” Camden replied.
Victims? That’s completely the wrong word.
“I think you mean patients,” Prentiss said through clenched teeth.
“Right,” Camden said. “Patients.” There was a pause. Prentiss took the opportunity to glance at the time on his phone but he could still hear Camden. “You’ve had other patients besides Angela.”
But they hadn’t been patients , thought Prentiss, not really . It wasn’t until he’d impersonated a priest that the roles had really come together, really gelled into outstanding performances. Even so, who had ever heard of a surgeon who hadn’t had previous patients?
“Of course,” Prentiss said quickly. “I’m eminently qualified to perform this surgery. You might say I’m the best.”
“And where will you be performing your work, Doctor?”
How completely obvious.
“In the operating room, of course,” Prentiss replied, pleased to be parrying words so easily.
“How many of these surgeries have you performed?”
“Six,” Prentiss said, immediately. “This will be my seventh. I’ve honed it. Any blade can be used.” That had to be impressive. That had to get on the news. “I’m going to–”
“Why the psychic?” Camden asked.
Prentiss blinked.
“The what?”
“Why involve the psychic, Isabelle de Grey?” Camden asked, sounding rushed. “And why call me? Out of all the reporters in L.A.? Why me?”
Prentiss pursed his lips and snapped the phone closed.
Without a backward glance, he turned and strode up the hill to a bum sleeping on one of the benches. Prentiss tossed the cell phone to the grass underneath.
• • • • •
Mac fumed, hardly hearing what Sergeant Dixon was saying. He glared down at the sergeant’s desk, in the middle of the bullpen seating in the West L.A. Police Station.
Another opportunity lost. Did these people want Angela to die?
Again the cell phone triangulation had been successful and, again, they’d found the phone without the Priest, this time at Angel’s Knoll. The homeless man hadn’t seen a thing and the tiny park had been empty except for him.
“Mac?” Isabelle said quietly as her gloved hand touched his arm.
They sat side by side, Sergeant Dixon across from them, trying to link another two unknown victims to the Priest–who was apparently now a doctor–and a surgeon. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Mac.
“He doesn’t have multiple personality disorder,” Mac declared, looking from Isabelle to the sergeant and back.
Dixon had been rifling through the files in front of him but stopped.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because the doctor knows about all the operations,” Mac said. “Including the one on Esme.”
“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said.
“It’s also known as dissociative identity disorder,” Mac said. “The personalities alternate control. One identity doesn’t have the memories of the other.”
“The doctor knew about multiple other victims,” said Dixon.
“It never made sense to me that he’d have multiple personality disorder,” Mac said. “The odds were always against it.” Mac leaned forward in his seat. “No, he’s a chameleon, taking on a new persona with each kidnapping.”
“But the torture remains the same,” Dixon said.
“It has to,” Mac said. “It’s sexually motivated in some way. It’s what drives him in the first place.”
“The knee?” Isabelle asked.
“Not just the knee,” Mac said, tracing the line on his own leg. “It starts at the knee and then moves up the thigh.”
“Even so,” Dixon said. “It’s a far cry from–”
“We’ll find a wound on him that’s the same,” Mac said, sitting back, almost stunned at his own conclusion. “Something that, to him, is associated with sex. Something that happened during sex.” He looked from Dixon to Isabelle. “And now he’s recreating
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