Page 6 of Pose for Me
With gloved hands,I push the hair back from the woman’s face, noting how cleanly her eyes have been removed.
It takes a careful hand to do that. That, or someone who works in the medical field is responsible.
As if reading my mind, Brock says, “I’d wager it was a surgeon who did this.” He bends as well, careful to avoid disturbing any evidence. “The Poser strikes again.”
The fucking Poser.
They’re a fucking ghost, snatching people off the streets and doing obscene things to them before they pose them and leave a sketched picture behind.
That’s the one detail we haven’t released to the public, as there have been copycats trying to pin their murders on The Poser but are missing the key component that makes them who they are.
Brock scoffs, standing to his full height. “Does this fucking psycho have a job? Seems like they spend most of their time doing this sick shit.”
I nod as I rise, peeling off my gloves and stepping away from the victim so the medical examiners can gather evidence beforecutting her down for transport. “Probably stays in their mother’s basement. A fucking antisocial freak, if I have to guess.”
I unfold the sketch that was found in the front of our victim’s dress, scanning over the drawing with a practiced eye. I’ve seen enough of them to know what to look for.
The Poser usually has thick, precise lines with no hesitation in their strokes. There are no accidents, no stray charcoal lines were abandoned. I hate to say it, but they’re a fucking artist.
“Think they’re devolving?” Brock asks, peeking over my shoulder at the sketch.
I pass it to him and shake my head. “Nah. They’re still as organized as they were before. I think the removing of the eyes is because of how they drew the victim, not anything to do with them losing control.”
I glance over at the couple who found the victim, both of them holding each other as they tell another agent the details of their discovery.
They were just out for a morning jog when they came across our victim. They made the mistake of walking closer to see if she was still alive and saw her eyes resting on the ground in front of her. They’ll never get that image out of their minds.
“No ID?” Brock asks.
“Nope. We have no idea who she is.” I return my gaze to the victim, and a pang of sympathy flows through me. Right now, her family and friends are going about their lives, not knowing that their loved one was murdered by a psychopath that doesn’t value human life.
A crowd has gathered, though they’re held back by crime scene tape. I look at those assembled, focusing on each for a second or two to read their expressions. Killers often visit the scene of their crimes, wanting to see their handiwork.
No one sticks out to me as enjoying the scene or getting off on being so close to their crime. All I see are fearful eyes, pleading with us to get a sick criminal off the streets.
Two hours later, the victim’s body is moved, and all the evidence is collected. About thirty minutes ago, the press arrived, sticking microphones in witnesses’ faces and giving their—mostly incorrect—theories on the crime.
As Brock and I duck under the crime-scene tape, a ballsy reporter runs over, pushing through the barricade of officers to get a sound bite.
He shoves his microphone toward me and asks, “Agent, what can you tell us about the murder? Is it true that she might be a victim of The Poser?”
Any other time, I wouldn’t engage with the press. Anything we say is misconstrued and garbled up until what we said is the opposite of what’s reported. But I’m tired of this creep having one up on us. This sick fuck thinks they can get away with killing people under my protection.
I hold my hand up when an officer tries to remove the reporter. I don’t miss the look of triumph that crosses the reporter’s face, but that’s not what I’m focused on. I want to speak directly to the killer, so they know I won’t give up searching for them.
“Yes,” I say, “she was a victim of The Poser. We don’t have her name yet, but we’ll figure it out by the day’s end. Right now, we’re solely focused on catching this son of a bitch.” I’m sure they’ll bleep out my language, but I don’t give a fuck.
“Do you have a message for The Poser if they’re watching?” the reporter asks, pushing the mic so close to my face I have to throw up a hand so it doesn’t strike me in the mouth.
Staring directly into the camera, I say, “There is a message. If you’re watching, know that you’re not invincible. I will find you. I will get you. And I’ll lock you away for your natural life.” Withthat, I push through the rest of the reporters and slide into the passenger seat of our government vehicle.
Brock chuckles dryly as he pulls away from the scene. “What was that about?”
“I want to see if taunting them will draw them out. Maybe they’ll make a mistake.” I lean back in my seat and release a long breath. “I don’t know, man. I had to try something.”
He nods. “This is the worst they’ve posed. They’ve never desecrated their bodies like that. We have to stop them and fast.”
I agree, but I don’t know what else we can do besides continue to investigate the bodies The Poser leaves for us. That thought pisses me off more than anything else. We have to wait for more people to die and then hope our killer slips up so we can apprehend them.
