Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Kaylie Hunter (books on motivation txt) 📖

neck. She scrunched her nose, as she stepped off, shifted her stance, and placed her other foot on Bert’s neck.

I split my focus between her facial expressions and her demonstration. “You think it was a foot?”

Tasha shifted her weight again. “In theory, it could be a foot, but it’s hard to imagine applying the right force while maintaining control of the victim. The victim would be struggling. Grabbing at the attacker to throw him off balance.”

What she said made sense. The victims weren’t likely to stay stationary once they realized they couldn’t breathe. “A knee hold?”

Tasha got down on the floor and repositioned her knee directly on Bert’s neck. “Maybe… But there wasn’t any bruising on the back or shoulders. With only the knee to the neck, the victim could still unbalance the attacker.”

She moved to lie on top of Bert, placing her forearm against the back of his neck. She shifted between straddling him mid-back level to lying flat on top of him. She slowly shifted upward again, with her upper body centered over Bert’s neck. Her lower body remained over Bert’s back and hips, pinning him down.

Nodding to herself, she finally spoke. “If I had to guess, this position seems reasonable. I’d need to run the computer module to be sure, but with the attacker lying on top of the body, the victim’s movements would be limited. Also, the pressure is distributed over a large section of the body which accounts for the lack of bruising on the victims’ backs and shoulders.” She studied her position. “And the killer still has a significant share of his body weight centered behind his forearm to choke the victim.”

I circled around Tasha and Bert. “But why? If the attacker is strong enough to take his victims down—and weighs enough to keep him there—why doesn’t he choke them the old-fashioned way with his hands? Why this way?” I snapped a picture of Tasha and Bert with my phone.

Tasha glanced at my phone, then flipped me the bird as she stood. “Your attacker could lack the hand strength to strangle someone. Nerve damage or even arthritis could make using his forearm preferable.” She leaned over and grabbed Bean-Bag Bert by the hand, dragging him back to his hook.

“You said a knee or boot wasn’t feasible because of balancing while the victim struggled. Couldn’t enough force be applied to the neck with a quick kick or punch to cut off oxygen?”

Tasha shook her head. “If you were to stomp on someone’s neck that hard, you’d expect to see damage to the vertebrae. No such damage has appeared on any of the victims’ x-rays. No. For whatever reason, the killer doesn’t want to break their necks. He prefers to control their airway until they pass out.”

I looked down at my phone and studied the picture. “Tasha?”

“Yes, Charlie?” she said, mimicking me.

My stomach did a summersault. “Did you scan the victims’ clothes for semen?”

“I assigned lab techs to examine the clothes. They didn’t report finding anything other than hair and fibers.” She walked over, studying my face the same way I’d studied hers earlier. “Why? None of the victims were sexually assaulted.”

“Just because their clothes were still intact, doesn’t mean they weren’t sexually assaulted. Look at your position on top of Bert,” I said, turning my phone toward her to show her the picture. “Now imagine the killer was taller. Bigger. What if he rubs his body against the victims’ while they lose consciousness? What if it excites him? That would explain why he chooses not to break their necks.”

Tasha was silent a moment as she studied the photo. “You’re going to delete that picture, right?”

“Nope. But because it depicts the killer’s method of killing, I won’t post it on Twitter.” I closed the photo gallery app on the phone. “Can you rerun the clothes for trace? It’s unlikely that there’s anything there, but if the killer ejaculated enough to wet his own clothes, there could be transfer on the victims’ clothes.”

“I’ll have all the clothes rechecked. It’s a valid theory. In the meantime, I need a favor.”

“I’m not deleting the photo,” I said, sliding my phone into my pocket.

“Whatever,” she said, waving a hand that she didn’t care. “I’ve been photographed doing worse than molesting Bean-Bag Bert.” She moved over to her filing cabinet and pulled a file. “Two years ago, a victim came through this office. I wasn’t allowed to work the case because the victim was someone I knew.”

I took the folder from her and flipped it open. Victim’s Name: Terri Weston. Cause of death: Severed artery on upper right thigh. Details: African-American Female, 26 years old, 125 pounds, five-foot three-inches tall. Her body was found in Hibiscus park near the jogging path.

“Do you have the police file?”

“No. I’m not even supposed to have the autopsy. After Dr. Brighton retired, I used his login to print myself a copy.”

“Naughty-naughty,” I said, shaking a finger at her. “Who is she to you? How do you know her?”

“She was my college roommate. We went to medical school together, but she had to drop out because her mother fell ill. She switched to a nursing program and later was hired at the county hospital. We lost track of each other for a few years but reconnected when I moved to Miami.”

“And it’s a cold case? I thought I knew all the unsolved homicides.”

“Her file isn’t classified as unsolved. They arrested her boyfriend, Terrance Haines. He was sentenced to twenty years in prison.”

I studied her face, but she kept her emotions hidden. “He didn’t do it, did he?”

“I can’t prove he’s innocent.”

“But you know him. Personally?”

“Yes. I knew him well enough to help him shop for a wedding ring the day before.”

I closed the folder and leaned against the wall. “Maybe she said no. Maybe