I wasn’t a huge fan of these guessing games, but I’d learned over the years that he loved to do it, and there didn’t seem to be any way of breaking his habits now. So nothing to do but go along for the ride.

The lines on the victim on the screen were very thin, almost paper-cut light, and weren’t very deep, maybe an eighth of an inch deep. The design wasn’t what killed her. It was the blade that had pierced her chest cavity and heart. It was done with a single strike.

Pausing, I thought about what Kirby had mentioned in class: whoever had done this was a true artist.

“Is the Chameleon devolving? Becoming more unstable,” I asked and turned around to look at the body and the doctor once more.

“One might think that if they didn’t understand art, but no. What you have on your hands is a copycat.”

I stared between the two screens. “Give me your reasoning because I have to tell you, the last thing I need is another killer on my hands.”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what you have. Let’s start with the face. As gruesome as some of the bodies have come in, the faces were never touched like this. If anything, they were washed and left in pristine condition. Eyes may be missing, etcetera… but the Chameleon Killer doesn’t beat them. Whoever killed the woman on the table is angry and most likely hates women.”

The doctor walked around the table and pointed at the marks on the shoulder that I could see.

“The lines on this body are rough and jagged, like the killer is inexperienced with a knife or doesn’t have the same tool, but that’s not what sealed it for me. It’s the artwork itself. Do you see how these lines on your victim’s shoulder are simplistic in nature? Circles and some sort of a pathetic attempt at tribal art? This artist is not an artist. This killer is mimicking being one to throw you off their trail.”

The doctor grabbed the remote once more, and with a couple of clicks, one of the full-body images they’d taken of a previous victim was on display.

“This scene of a mother cradling a child is artwork.” I cocked a brow at the way the doctor said the words as if he were envious of whoever had done this. “Every detail, from the strands of hair to the clothing and the facial expressions, is perfection. They show pain and a mother’s remorse. Not only is the image of someone who has been trained or is a serious natural talent, but the lines are the same width and depth no matter where the Chameleon Killer cut.”

“The exact same depth? How is that possible?”

The doctor gave a little shrug.