Lover Beware

left her exhausted and more than a little shaken.
    Around her, the anticipation of the NOPD’s Eighth District vibrated the air. At last, they had gotten a break, a detailed description of the perp they were certain was their French Quarter Killer, as well as hard-core evidence that could help nail him in court.
    Anna had more than a hunch that they were wrong. She’d suspected as much when hearing Barker’s description of her attacker. She became certain of it when experiencing the crime through the victim’s eyes and touch. The images that had so painfully assaulted Anna were not the same as those she’d experienced those few moments at the Bobbie Cox crime scene.
    Several mug shots flashed up on the screen, side by side like a lineup—potential perps, all resembling Barker’s description. Hispanic. Black shaggy hair. Tattoos. Her gaze zeroed in on one.
    “That’s him,” she said, fighting against the sudden onslaught of hot energy that rushed through her.
    Jerry moved up behind her, placed one hand on her shoulder as he looked at the screen.
    Donovan turned in his chair, his expression bemused and skeptical, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Yeah? How the hell do you know that?”
    She gave him a flat smile. “He fits the description.”
    Armstrong joined them, sipping hot coffee from a foam cup. “They all fit Barker’s description.”
    “Bring up his sheet,” Jerry told Donovan.
    Donovan punched a button and the details of Angel Gonzales’s previous crimes flashed across the screen. Convictions for assault, child molestation, larceny, and parole violations. Outstanding warrants in Texas and Mississippi for Assault with a Deadly Weapon. Hookers attacked with a knife. Perpetrator considered Dangerous.
    “Run off copies of those five suspects,” Jerry said. “Take a drive over to Charity and show them to Ms. Barker. If she identifies Gonzales, we’ve got our man.”
    Anna walked from Donovan’s office, down the long corridor past offices and groups of conversing cops. She needed a cigarette. Badly. And a drink. A stiff one. Not to mention sleep.
    She exited the building. The miserably hot night settled over her like a damp wool blanket as she sat on the steps and stretched her long legs out, dug into her purse for a cigarette. The doors opened behind her.
    Jerry sat down beside her. He regarded her in silence for a moment. “What’s the problem?”
    She watched traffic move along the street. “Gonzales is your man, all right. Barker’s assailant. But he’s not your serial killer, Jerry.” She looked at him and shook her head. “It’s all wrong. Nothing about this M.O. matches the profile of the killer.”
    He reached for her cigarette and took a deep drag. “Go on.”
    “Your killer never raped his victims.”
    “Bobbie Cox—”
    “Bobbie Cox—hooker—may well have serviced one or more men before the killer got to her. The collection of semen from that victim is circumstantial at this point and you know it. Even if the DNA matches the perp who assaulted Barker, that doesn’t mean Bobbie didn’t have sex with Barker’s assailant before the killer got to her.
    “His pattern is definable. He performs his gruesome ritual in the victim’s apartment. He binds and gags them, tortures, then kills.”
    “So this time the woman refused to service him. He attacked her. He told her he would cut off her head.”
    “Come on, Jerry. You know as well as I that the news has been all over this. You even admitted you’ve got a snitch in the department who leaked information to the press. Every lunatic in this city knows the details of this creep’s signature—including the fact that he cuts out his victim’s heart and tucks it into what’s left of her uterus—thanks to your snitch.”
    She took her cigarette from him and smoked. “Your killer gets his jollies by domination and from inspiring fear in his victim.”
    “I venture to say that threatening to cut off Barker’s head inspired her with tremendous fear.”
    “Your killer is smart, Jerry. Organized. He’s rational enough to choose his victim, not at random, but in a calculated manner. The techs so far have been unable to pick up any evidence whatsoever at the crime scenes.”
    “So he got sloppy once. Maybe he was pissed that she refused to service him.”
    “A killer like this doesn’t get sloppy.”
    “They all get sloppy, Anna, or we would never nail them.”
    “I can name a few who didn’t. The Green River