It did the trick.
“Are you bitter about what happened? Do you resent people who live the life your wife can’t? There are millions of people out there who have the life you wanted. Do you despise them?”
“No. Not at all.”
The drunkenness seemed to have suddenly faded.
“Teri Harper. What’s your relationship with her?”
“Who?” asked Jesse.
“Krystal. The escort.”
“Nothing. I’ve seen her two or three times.”
“You sent her flowers. Why?” Ella asked.
“It was her birthday.”
“A few weeks ago?”
“Uh-huh,” Jesse said, coughing up phlegm.
Ella suddenly realized she’d got something wrong in the profile. Something that could help her put the last piece of the jigsaw in place.
“Did she remind you of your wife?” Ella asked.
“Yes. Same smile. Same eyes. Beautiful, talented, kind.”
“Krystal is dead,” Ella said without compassion. It was a harsh maneuver but a necessary one.
As she expected, Jesse Perry broke down into pieces, collapsing onto the cell floor clutching his head again.
“But if you hold tight, I’m going to find who did it, and you’ll be out of here, alright?”
Jesse gave no response. She watched him a moment longer, using the opportunity to gauge his body language but not wanting to leave him alone either.
Now, she was sure of two things.
Jesse Perry’s remorse was genuine. No one was this good of an actor.
And he was innocent of these murders.
The real unsub was out there, waiting for her, and Ella was going to find him tonight whatever it took.
***
In her office, Ella buried the desk in paperwork. Victim profiles, crime scene photos, witness statements. If it was related to the case, she had it, ready to devour at a moment’s notice.
Closing in on 8pm now. If the killer was keeping up momentum, there was every chance he might strike again tonight. She wouldn’t let that happen.
First of all, she reviewed the profile, but this time she focused solely on one aspect: who was this person killing over and over again? Who were these women surrogates for? Serial killers who were this clinical were always addressing a deep-rooted trauma that could be traced back to a single incident, a single person, a single event that scarred them for the rest of their days.
Countless historical cases jumped into Ella’s head. Harold Shipman’s abusive mother died via a morphine overdose, so he pumped old women full of morphine to kill her over and over again. Edmund Kemper killed girls that reminded him of his mother and sister. Peter Sutcliffe killed prostitutes that resembled a single prostitute who had made fun of him. Ted Bundy killed women that reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. Tsutomu Miyazaki killed girls with beautiful hands because his own hands were deformed.
Trauma was at the core of this. Whoever this mysterious person was, she was an amalgamation of every victim. If she Frankensteined the right parts of these women, she could assemble what profilers termed the trigger figure.
And she had a good idea of what features she needed to extract. According to her old profile, this person was a woman, born in November, a sex worker, and named Irene.