Cross

make specific threats to keep you from talking after he was gone?”
    She nodded first, then verbalized her answer. “Yes.”
    Suddenly, I was hopeful. “Did he make threats against other people you know? Family, friends, that sort of thing?”
    “Yes.”
    “Has he contacted you since that night? Or made his presence known in any other way?”
    “No. I thought I saw him again on my street one time. It probably wasn’t him.”
    “Were his threats more than verbal? Was there anything else he did to make sure you wouldn’t talk?”
    “Yes.”
    I’d hit on something, I could tell. Mena Sunderland looked down at her lap for a few seconds and then back up at me again. The tension on her face had given way to something more like resolve.
    “Please, Mena. This is important.”
    “He took my BlackBerry,” she said. She paused for a few seconds, then went on. “It had all my personal information. Addresses, everything. My friends, my family back home in Westchester.”
    “I see.”
    And I did. It fit right in with my preliminary profile of this monster.
    I started a silent ten count in my head. When I got to eight, Mena spoke again.
    “There were pictures,” she said.
    “I’m sorry? Pictures?”
    “Photographs. Of people he killed. Or at least, said he killed. And”—she took a moment to muster the next part—“
mutilated.
He talked about using butcher saws, surgical scalpels.”
    “Mena, can you tell me anything else about those photos he showed you?”
    “He made me look at several, but I only really remember the first one. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” The sudden memory of it came into her eyes, and I saw it take hold. Pure horror. Her focus went soft.
    After several seconds, she collected herself and spoke again. “Her hands,” she said, then stopped herself.
    “What about her hands, Mena?”
    “He’d cut off both her hands. And in the picture—
she was still alive.
She was obviously screaming.” Her voice closed down to barely a whisper. We were at the danger line; I felt it right away. “He called her Beverly. Like they were old friends.”
    “Okay,” I said gently. “We can stop here if you want.”
    “I want to stop,” she said. “But.”
    “Go ahead, Mena.”
    “That night . . . he had a scalpel. There was already somebody’s blood on it.”

Chapter 61
    THIS WAS HUGE, but it was also bad news. It could be anyway.
    If Mena Sunderland’s description was accurate—and why wouldn’t it be?—we weren’t just talking about serial rape anymore. It was a serial
murder
case. Suddenly, my mind flipped over to Maria’s murder, the serial rape case back then. I tried to put Maria out of my mind for the moment. One case at a time.
    I wrote down as much as I could remember right after the meeting with Mena, while Sampson gave me a ride home. He had taken his own notes during the interview, but getting these things from my mind onto paper helps me piece a case together sometimes.
    My preliminary profile of the rapist was making more and more sense. Trusting first impressions, wasn’t that what the bestseller
Blink
was all about? The photos that Mena described—keepsakes of whatever kind—were fairly common in serial cases, of course. The photographs would help tide him over during his downtime. And in a grisly new twist, he had used the souvenirs to keep his living victims right where he wanted them—paralyzed with fear.
    As we drove through Southeast, Sampson finally broke the silence in the car. “Alex, I want you to come onto this case.
Officially,
” he said. “Work with us. Work with
me
on this one. Consult. Whatever you want to call it.”
    I looked over at him. “I thought you might be ticked off at me about taking over a little back there.”
    He shrugged. “No way. I don’t argue with results. Besides, you’re already in this, right? You might as well be getting paid for it. You couldn’t walk away from the case now if you tried.”
    I shook my head and frowned, but only because he was right. I could feel a familiar buzz starting in my mind—my thoughts involuntarily locking on to the case. It’s one of the things that makes me good at the job, but also the reason I find it impossible to be
kind of
involved in an investigation.
    “What am I supposed to tell Nana?” I asked him, which I guess was my way of saying yes.
    “Tell her the case needs you. Tell her Sampson needs you.” He took a right onto Fifth Street, and my house came