Collecting Evidence. Rita Herron

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       Prologue

      Special Agent Dylan Acevedo pressed the blade of the knife against Frank Turnbull’s fleshy neck.

      “Go ahead, kill me,” Turnbull muttered.

      Dylan jabbed the blade into his skin, a smile curving his mouth as a drop of blood seeped to the surface. He should just do it.

      The man deserved to die.

      The images of the women the serial killer had brutally murdered—all young Native Americans in their twenties—flashed into Dylan’s head in sickening clarity. Their delicate throats slashed, bodies left exposed in the rugged terrain of the desert, blood dripping as if to lure the wild animals to feed on their remains.

      Young lives lost for no reason except to fulfill the sick cravings of a demented mind.

      Dylan glanced down at the knife in his hand. The knife that had belonged to Turnbull. The same kind he’d used to cut the women’s throats.

      It was only fitting he die by the same instrument.

      With his throat sliced open by a Ute ceremonial knife made from white quartz and Western Cedar, the kind of knife used to cut the umbilical cord of a newborn or to harvest herbs for sacred ceremonies.

      Another important component of Turnbull’s MO was his calling card—he’d left a piece of thunderwood by each victim. Another dig to the Ute people who had a religious aversion to handling thunderwood—a piece of bark from a tree struck by lighting. The Utes believed that thunder beings would strike down any Ute Indian who touched it.

      Turnbull’s swollen eye twitched with menace and a dare. A challenge to Dylan to feel the thrill of the kill, Turnbull seemed to say silently.

      Dylan clenched his jaw. He wanted to see fear in Turnbull’s eyes. Wanted to hear him scream as his victims had. Hear him beg for his life.

      Instead Turnbull laughed, a hideous deep growl that punctured the night like a wild animal just before it tore into a smaller one’s carcass.

      “You’re just like me,” Turnbull mumbled. “I can see the evil in your eyes.”

      Dylan’s fingers tightened on the knife handle. At that moment he did crave the kill. But his need was driven by revenge and justice, not depraved indifference.

      “Dylan, don’t…”

      His brother Miguel’s voice rumbled from behind him. Miguel, who was a saint compared to him. He’d been an altar boy while Dylan had been the troublemaker.

      They СКАЧАТЬ