Thread: A Vision In Blood (Miss Eleanora and Mr. Quixotic)

One triple-shot latte. At the field office, ensconced in his leather seat with feet up on the desk and staring at the computer monitor, Lyle barely acknowledged Jerry's attempt to weasel back into his good graces. Fetching coffee was about all Jerry was good for. What are you doing? Still, the other man hadn't picked up the hint, so after taking a sip of the beverage, Carter sighed and turned to meet his keen expression. Running the MO through VICAP. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or ViCAP, was a database designed to help catch the nations most violent offenders by linking together unsolved crimes. A serial rapist wielding a favorite knife in one attack might be identified when he used the same knife elsewhere. The system was rooted in the belief that some criminals methods were unique enough to serve as a kind of behavioral DNA, allowing identification based on how a person acted, rather than their genetic make-up. So far, no hits. I'll tell you what Jerry, if you want to be useful, you can take over. Carter picked up a notepad containing a list of words scribbled in barely legible handwriting from the desk with a flourish, stood and thrust it into his rookie parter's hand. Try every keyword on that list, then every combination of every keyword and then every combination of every combination of every keyword. I don't give a rats ass how insignificant it might appear, print off every result the database throws up. I'm off to the Lab. New Orleans might be in the grip of a serial-killer, but nothing changed the glacial momentum of bureaucracy and Lyle knew the physical evidence from that morning's scene would take up to a week to process, the DNA even longer, and there was no point in rushing them. However, whilst he'd been waiting for Jerry to return from Starbucks, the lab had called to advise a copy of the print found on the corpse was available. Good news and bad news. It was fast, but almost meant it likely wasn't a reproduction as requested. But... The man's mouth fell open as Lyle tapped him on the shoulder and continued onto the door, not deigning to respond. That should keep Jerry buried in paperwork for the rest of the day, and out of his hair. Hey Al. After passing through security, Lyle waltzed straight into the crime-lab, speaking to Alice Ryan, an assistant lab tech. You got that reproduction for me. The blonde turned and returned Lyle's friendly smile. Unlike with Jerry, since he'd arrived in New Orleans, Carter had attempted to get on good terms on those who could do him favours. Sorry, no can do, they have it under the lights now, but if it's like the others, they won't find anything. Best I could do was this. She moved aside and indicated a poster sized photographic enlargement of the print left on the corpse. The image once again raised goosebumps on Lyle's flesh and a shiver ran down his spine. Even in a photograph, the medium of the original was patently obvious. Thanks, Alice, I owe you dinner. Lyle watched as she rolled up the print and dropped it into a cardboard cylinder, his brows raising when, after she was done, she collected four more cylinders and proffered all five. You sure do. I thought you might want the previous four as well. Your perp is one fucked-up human being. Aren't we all, Alice, aren't we all. I'll call about that date. Not that he would, considering both were well aware she was happily married, but the flirting game was fun. If there's any developments, contact me direct. Will do, last I heard they still hadn't identified the victim. Half an hour later, Carter surveyed the exterior of Crystaline Memories art gallery from the driver's seat of his dark-blue Chevy Impala. He could have gone to an FBI's forgery expert, or one of the artistic consultants on a b bureau retainer, but he'd resisted that concept. The graphic prints had been left with the bodies for a reason and whilst the work, as far as his untrained eye could see was of a high quality, he wasn't looking for a brush-stroke analysis or a criminologists perspective. Others were already working on that and running the images through a series of visual recognition databases. Comparing them against millions of others down to the tiniest matching detail to see if that produced any names. Carter was more concerned with what the art meant. Not to the viewing audience, but the artist. Were there hidden meanings or symbolism in the poses andor in the medium itself? What could a trained eye of one who herself painted for a living, rather than simply appraised others work for pay and often gave only answers they believed they were expected to give, discern that they couldn't. A she. That's one of the reasons he'd chosen this particular gallery from the plethora that had his internet search had thrown up. There'd hadn't seemed a whole lot of difference between them otherwise and, after spending his days hunting down and communicating with the dregs of society, if given the choice between an hour or two spent in the company of a sixty-year old flamboyantly gay - and likely pretentious - artiste and an attractive woman, he'd choose the latter every time. Attractive, Elizabeth Rescorae certainly was in the images provided by Google. Her name rolled quietly off his tongue as he pushed open the doors of Cyrstaline Memories, feeling slightly incongruous in the double-breasted black suit perfectly tailored to his athletic frame, polished black wing-tips, crisp white shirt and neutral tie. To anyone who'd ever watched a movie, the outfit, replete with sunglasses, concealed Glock 22 holstered on his right hip and neatly cut short brown hair, just screamed FBI agent. Despite that, Lyle displayed no hesitation in waltzing right on in, intent on asking a complete stranger to view the Vampire of New Orleans bloody handiwork. If the woman was a true artist, she was sure to have seen worse even if only fictional representations of the tortured and maimed.