Rhythm of the Knife: A Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thriller (Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers Book 5) Read online

  Rhythm of

  the Knife

  Meredeth Connelly Mind Hunt Thrillers

  Book 4

  E.H. Vick

  Dark Triad Publishing

  NEW YORK

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my uncle, Porter Van Zandt, and for my aunt, Debra Mooney Van Zandt, and my cousin, Kirstin Mooney, who lived in Sherman Oaks.

  I hope you enjoy Rhythm of the Knife. If so, please consider joining my online community—details can be found at the end of the last chapter.

  CHAPTER 1

  Autumn of Terror

  Los Angeles, CA

  Michael Druitt watched the pretty little brunette assess the darkened alley. She stood in the sickly cone of light shining down from a streetlight badly in need of maintenance. It was late—or early, depending on your point of view—somewhere after three in the morning, but not yet four, and she appeared exhausted. Druitt knew she’d just finished a shift and a half at the hospital three blocks away, and he knew the brunette’s name: Mary Ann Blocker.

  She glanced at the empty street behind her, then turned her attention to the street in front of her before shifting her gaze back to the dark alley. Druitt had made sure it was dark—a silenced pistol had taken care of the lights hung by both the city and the property owners, and shattered glass lay about like so much confetti.

  He loved Blocker’s tight little body, and he loved the way her yellow scrubs accented her curves. He suspected she bought one size small to emphasize her womanly wiles. She’s a slut, he thought. She deserves this. He had a long history of hating easy women that stemmed back to an incident in his late teens—an incident in which he’d felt used and abused. Come on, Mary Ann! There’s no one hiding in this alley…except me, that is.

  She turned to face the alley and drew a deep breath, steeling herself to take her accustomed shortcut to the parking garage two blocks over. It was clear she didn’t like the darkness, but he’d also taken measures to ensure the street was dark as well. He’d left the streetlight under which she stood and several others chosen at random. She’d think it was a problem with the power grid—at least that’s what he hoped.

  Blowing her breath out through pursed lips in an almost whistle, Mary Ann stepped out of the penumbra of weak light and, clutching her bag under her arm, she stepped into the mouth of the alley. Michael took a slow breath, ensuring he made very little, if any, sound. He held his left hand behind his back, and in it, he clutched the long-bladed Liston knife. He’d spent hours polishing and sharpening the knife, then had sterilized it in an autoclave. He had other instruments with him as well, but they were for later. He focused his thoughts, visualizing the first cut, the left-to-right slash across poor Mary Ann’s throat. He would lunge out of the shadows from her right, the eight-inch blade already arcing toward her throat. She would have no time to defend herself, no time to evade the blow. He stilled himself, barely breathing, and forced himself to wait for the perfect moment.

  Anticipation built and built as Mary Ann advanced slowly into the alley. Good God, hurry up! he thought at her. Her knuckles had gone white on the canvas strap of her bag, which bulged under her arm. He had no doubt her palms were sweating, no doubt her vision and brain worked in concert to paint a rapist in every shadow, behind every dumpster and trash can, and Druitt imagined he could hear her pulse thundering from her carotid.

  She drew near, and his grip tightened on the Liston, the muscles of his left arm engorging with blood. He forced himself to stand still, forced his feet not to shuffle, and she drew nearer still. Her eyes were wide, dilated to take in as much light as possible, but she didn’t see him. Perhaps she sensed him, but in modern society, few gave credence to the irrational shouts in the back of their minds.

  That’s what made his chosen profession so much easier.

  She stepped within range, but it would still be a reach, so Michael remained frozen in place—a black shadow amidst other black shadows. She scanned the alley from her left to her right, her gaze skipping right past him. She took another step, then halted. “Wuh…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Who’s there?”

  Druitt grinned but, of course, said nothing.

  She peered around the alley again, then shrugged and took another step.

  Druitt lunged out of the shadows made by the bump out of the apartments on the second floor and the shrub hiding the pillar between two roll-up doors, the Liston’s blade a silver arc that would bisect her throat with ease. Her gaze darted to him, her gaze found his, and for a moment, he saw recognition there.

  But then the knife had completed its arc, and he’d barely felt the impact. Mary Ann’s blood jetted into the air, and being a registered nurse, she did the right thing: she tucked her chin and grasped her throat with both hands, staggering back. Her bag fell to the crumbling macadam with a thump and the sound of glass breaking.

  Michael took another rapid step forward, closing the distance between them. With his right hand, he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back and up, peering into her eyes. He saw her plan a moment before she tried it, but a moment was all he needed, and her knee glanced off his thigh instead of slamming into his groin. She didn’t dare use her hands or risk passing out in moments—one of the reasons he enjoyed the throat slash as his opening move—but she tried with the other knee, nonetheless. He countered that blow as well, his grin stretching and stretching.

  Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t make a sound thanks to the deep bite of the Liston knife. He’d severed her trachea and esophagus as well as her carotids and jugglers. The blackness spilling from between her fingers was a mix of arterial and veinous blood, and she had only seconds of consciousness remaining, a few seconds more of life.

  She tried again with her knee, but the blow was weak and ineffectual against his thigh. She floundered backward, trying to create space between them, and he let her go.

  “Mary Ann, stop all this foolishness,” he said and saw the confirmation of her suspicions in her eyes. “Yes, you know me, and I know you.” He pulled the balaclava off his head and grinned at her, enjoying the relatively cool air across his cheeks. “Come, we both know you are already dead.”

  She turned and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, reeling like a drunk, stumbling over her own two feet. He chuckled as she tried to run, then listed to the left and fell into the ground cover lining the right side of the alley.

  “See there?” he asked. “I’d say you have seconds, Mary Ann, so let me assuage your curiosity. I chose you because you’re a slut, a dirty little whore. Your tight uniforms, your bouncing little ass. You are beautiful, especially your eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hazel so bright. But…unfortunately, I can’t abide a woman of low morals, a seductress, a slut.”

  She rolled to her back and looked up at him, her eyes imploring him to help. She didn’t dare shake her head, not with the death grip she maintained on her throat, not if she valued her last few moments as a living woman, but he could see the denial in her eyes, and it enraged him.

  “Don’t pretend I’m wrong!” He strode to her, bent, and pulled her hands from her throat. She had no strength left to fight him—even the arterial jetting from her severed arteries had weakened to a gush.

  She thrashed from side to side, her mouth forming words she didn’t have the air to speak. She tried to kick him, but it was no more effective than the knees to the groin had been.
>
  “You’re a dirty little whore, Mary Ann, and I’m going to make sure the world knows. They will call me ‘Jack,’ which is quite a compliment, really.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you believe in a god or gods, Mary Ann?” Her eyes were glazing, rolling from side to side, and her struggles had weakened to the point that he hardly needed to counter them. “Do you? A simple nod will suffice.” She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her eyes, looking past him, looking through him. “Who do you see? Mary Ann? What do you see?” A momentary regret flashed through him. She’d never make another sound, which meant he’d never get an answer.

  Her eyes rolled, and her mouth made gasping, fish-like movements. The gush from her neck became a sluggish dribble, then stopped altogether. He felt the rush, reveled in it, throwing his head back and releasing a satisfied sigh. Then he dropped her wrists, watching her arms flop to her sides. He stared down at her a moment, then turned and jogged back to his gear, retrieving the other surgical instruments he’d brought with him and arraying them beside Mary Ann Blocker’s cooling corpse.

  He knelt astride her legs, his butt resting on her knees, and reached for one of his custom knives, the one he’d fitted with a number ten scalpel blade, and started cutting.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jack’s Back

  Quantico, VA

  Jim McCutchins called Meredeth as she strolled down the hall with Michelina—or Dana Jensen as the FBI knew her. They’d discussed Lucy in great detail, and it was clear the diminutive woman would be a dead end as far as interviewing her went.

  Meredeth stopped walking. “One second, Dana. I’ve got to get this.”

  Michelina nodded and pulled out her own phone, staring intently at the screen.

  “What’s up, boss?” asked Meredeth after accepting the call.

  “My office. I have a formal request for your services.”

  “Where to this time?”

  “California, again.”

  Meredeth thought she heard a hesitation, a bit of heartbreak, in Jim’s voice as he named the state.

  “But Southern California, this time. Los Angeles.”

  “Ah. The City of Angels and all its assorted demons.”

  “Yes. My office, now.”

  “Right, chief. I’ll just collar Van Zandt and‍—‍”

  “No need. He’s on his way.”

  “Oh, okay. Then so am I.”

  McCutchins hung up without another word, and Meredeth smiled at Michelina, then shook her head. “Sorry, Dana. We’ve got to cut this short.”

  “Catch a case?”

  Meredeth nodded. “Los Angeles.”

  Michelina frowned. “I suspected there was someone out there. You know, warming up.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. There’s been a few disappearances in the homeless community—all women.”

  “Disappearances, but not murders?”

  “Of course, I believe they were murdered, but there are no bodies, and the homeless population is transient by nature. The women could have simply moved on.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “No.”

  “Care to share why you feel that way?”

  Michelina shook her head. “I can’t say, not really. It’s just a feeling I get when I look at data models sometimes.”

  “Uh-huh. What about the data‍—‍”

  “I really don’t know, Meredeth. It could be something with the timing of the disappearances or the similarity between their living arrangements. It could be nothing. I could be totally wrong.”

  “I don’t know, Dana. I tend to think of you as an expert at seeing unknown crimes in the data sea you play in.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m wrong as often as I’m right.”

  “Or are always right and we just don’t know enough about the cases where we can’t find anything.”

  “Maybe. Go on, though, Meredeth. Go talk to McCutchins, but I’d like to be kept in the loop on this.”

  “Sure. I’ll call once we know something. Maybe it will shake the trees a little bit, and you’ll find what you need to on those disappearances.” Michelina nodded, then turned away and walked in the direction of the data analysis section. Meredeth went the other direction, back toward the BAU offices and, more specifically, Jim’s office.

  It took only a few moments to get there, and as she stepped into the office, she nodded to Jim, then sat beside Bobby. “What’s going on in L.A.?” she asked.

  “A body in an alley,” said Jim.

  “Just once, I’d like a serial killer to leave a body somewhere nice, somewhere that doesn’t smell like garbage and excrement.”

  “Noted, but I doubt we’ll find anything like that.”

  “There’s always hope, Jim. Tell me about the bodies.”

  “Well, right now, there’s only one.”

  She frowned, bunching her eyebrows. “One? Then it can’t be classified as a serial murder.”

  “I know that, Connelly,” said Jim, “but if you’ll let me continue, you’ll understand why I’m granting the LASD’s request for profiler assistance.”

  “Sorry.” She lifted her hands to shoulder level, palms toward Jim.

  “Right. The victim was Mary Ann Blocker, a nurse at Kindred Haven Hospital in Sherman Oaks. She was found in an alley three blocks from the hospital—roughly between the hospital and the parking lot reserved for hospital staff. The local detectives say the alley is a shortcut that reduces the walking distance by four blocks.”

  “Robbery?” asked Bobby.

  “No. Her wallet was in her bag, along with some jewelry, and her watch wasn’t taken. Her throat was cut from left to right from the victim’s perspective. The ME says she clamped both hands on the wound, but that only delayed the inevitable. The wound was just too deep, and it severed her trachea and esophagus. Even if she’d clamped the arteries and veins in her neck with enough force, she’d have drowned from the blood pouring into her lungs from internal injuries in her throat.”

  “Left to right? So, facing her, right to left. A right-handed killer would leave a cut going the opposite direction from his perspective. A southpaw,” said Meredeth.

  “Or someone smart enough to pretend he’s left-handed to throw us off the track,” said Bobby.

  “The ME says no. The wound was deepest on the right, and the blood splatter thins out to the left. Left-handed or not, the killer struck with his left hand and with enough force to cut deeply and make it through the anterior portion of her throat in a single blow. The ME says he nicked a vertebra and would certainly have severed the cord otherwise. Based on the blood at the scene, she fought him, then tried to run, but as I said earlier, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d eluded him.”

  “A single laceration? No other wounds?” asked Meredeth.

  “Oh, no. The cut to her throat was inflicted antemortem, but the rest came postmortem. He cut her abdomen from the bottom of the ribs along the right side to the bottom of her pelvis. Another, ragged wound appeared left of her stomach and was deep enough to cut the omentum. He inflicted two stabbing wounds in her genitalia, and three inches from her left side in the lower abdomen he gave her another jagged cut that ran very deep. On the right side at the same level, he cut her four times, parallel wounds of moderate depth.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Bobby smiled as he said it.

  “Nope,” said Jim. “He also inflicted postmortem bruises to her‍—‍”

  “Let me guess,” said Meredeth with a sour expression on her face. “A bruise here”‍—‍she pointed to her lower right jaw‍—‍“another here”‍—‍she raised her finger to her left cheek‍—‍“as if he grabbed her by the mouth using a forefinger and thumb. Did she also have one an inch below her jaw on the left side?”

  Jim frowned at her. “Yes. And you’re correct about the first two. How did you‍—‍”

  “And her name was Mary Ann?”

&nbsp
; Jim nodded, then made a pulling gesture with his hand.

  “Mary Ann Nichols, boss.”

  “No, her last name was Blocker.”

  Meredeth shook her head. “Think Whitechapel. Mary Ann Nichols was Jack the Ripper’s first confirmed victim. Her wounds‍—‍”

  “I thought that was Mildred Tabram?” asked Bobby.

  “No, her wounds were inconsistent with the rest of the series. Two knives were used—one a thick, heavy blade, and the other a dagger. Blocker’s wounds are duplicates of those inflicted on Nichols.”

  “Oh, Christ,” muttered Jim. “A Ripper copycat?”

  Meredeth shrugged. “Looks that way. I see why they requested help with only one body. Was she found on August 31?”

  Jim ruffled through his notes. “Yes. A garbage crew trying to get the dumpsters in the alley reported the crime at half past five that morning.”

  “Well, if he sticks to the pattern, that gives us seven days until the next one.”

  “And four more victims?” asked Jim.

  “Four more verified, yes. If he goes by the letters, there may be six more.”

  Jim sighed and shook his head. His emotions were close: anger, grief, hate, but Meredeth knew those were directed at Kahin Alshaytan and Anya Seneca, a.k.a. Lucy. “Go on,” he grated. “Talk to Melanie. Get flights this morning if you can. If you can’t, let me know and I’ll arrange a jet. Stop this guy, Meredeth. Don’t allow him to complete the series.”

  “We’ll do our best, boss,” said Meredeth. She stood and motioned for Bobby to follow her. They left the office and stopped by Melanie’s desk to ask her to arrange their flights, rental car, and accommodations, then to pass it all on to the LA County Sheriff’s Homicide Division. “Jim says if you can’t get us flights this morning, to let him know, and he’ll get us a jet.”

  “Check,” said Melanie. “I assume you’re going home to pack?”

  “No need,” said Meredeth. “We have go-bags here.”

  “Very good. I’ll email the details to you both.”