The stench of puke, garbage, and worse filled Angus’s nostrils as he stepped past the agents to penetrate deeper into the alley. “Lassiter kidnapped women and tortured them until their hearts gave out. We’ll need an autopsy on this one, but we probably won’t know much about her heart.”

“Why not?” West stopped short as the body came into view.

“That’s why,” Angus said, trying to shut down his humanity. So he could analyze the crime scene and not lose his fucking soul.

West’s breath caught. “Oh.”

Yeah. Oh. A tarp had been erected above the body to protect it from the elements. The woman lay naked on the pavement, her eyes open and staring straight up. Long dark hair, milky brown eyes, petite form. Her arms were spread wide, hands open and palms up. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles with a common clothesline rope found in a million places. Her chest gaped open, the ribs and breastbone spread, leaving a hole. The crime signature was similar but not exactly the same. What did that mean?

West coughed. “Her heart is gone.”

Angus went even colder. Rain dripped off his hair and down his face. The scene was…off. “He eats it. Says it makes them stay with him forever.” Nausea tried to roll up his belly, and he shoved it down.

Wolfe came up on his other side, his movements silent. He didn’t gasp or go tense. He just stared at the body, his jaw tense. He pointed to the victim’s arms. “Burn marks?”

“Affirmative,” Angus said crisply. “There will be both cigarette and electrical burns.” Outside and inside the woman. “As well as whip marks, ligature marks around the neck, and knife wounds. Shallow and painful—not enough to let her bleed out. The cuts for the heart here were rough—not smooth the way Lassiter liked to do—which was why the press dubbed him ‘the surgeon.’”

Yet the heart was gone.

West coughed. “Raped?”

“Probably,” Angus said.

Agent Rutherford approached the scene from the far end, carefully stepping over water filled potholes with his shiny loafers. “There’s no note, and she’s not blond. In addition, the cigarette marks are too large—almost like he used a cigar.” He looked around as if worried the FBI would catch them working outside their purview. The Homeland Defense Department didn’t deal with serial killers.

Angus breathed in and out before responding. He much preferred Fielding to this guy. “Lassiter is very choosy about his cigarettes and would never use a cigar.” Angus dropped into a crouch, closer to the woman. Lassiter also loved blondes. Were the victim’s features Asian? This close, her skin looked dusky and not pale. Lassiter had liked them pale. “Are you sure there isn’t a note?”

“No note,” Rutherford snapped. “Told you it wasn’t him.”