For those who've read the first chapter of The Artist and want, must read more, here is chapter 2, because I love you. If you haven't yet read chapter one, press HERE.
A Serial Series Book 1
By Diana Graves
Copyright © 2016 Diana Graves
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
[CHAPTER TWO]
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A Serial Series Book 1
By Diana Graves
Copyright © 2016 Diana Graves
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
[CHAPTER TWO]
Kindle Edition
Kindle Edition
Jim was totally right. I found myself sitting in one of the library’s soundproofed study rooms with two men. The rooms were meant for reading groups or collaborations in which people needed to talk to each other without disturbing the other library patrons, but they worked just as well for interrogations.
I had expected police, but what I got was FBI agents in snazzy suits that made even Jim look underdressed. They had a list of books I’d checked out with such titles as: Criminal Minds, The Profile of a Killer, and my personal favorite, One-Hundred and One Ways to Kill. Was it damning? I didn’t think so, but they did. The agent in the black suit, agent Miller, slid the list across the table with a strong sure hand, as though it proved something. As though they had caught me red-handed. Agent Miller had dark skin, light brown colored eyes and a smile on his lips.
“Can you explain your reading material, Miss. Cobb?” asked the agent in the blue suit, a tall pale man with light eyes and hair. Everything about him was fair except the dark thin mustache above his heavy frown. He was standing over me, glaring down at the top of my head. I guess he was supposed to be intimidating or something. I didn’t catch his name, if he gave it at all.
I shrugged. “I’ve been studying criminology since I was a teenager. It’s a hobby of mine.”
“You come to this library on a regular basis. At least twice a week.” said Miller. He seemed calmer, nicer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were actually doing the whole bad-cop/good-cop thing. I had to smile at that, and it was a big bright smile that held restrained laughter. I nodded. “Why do you study this particular subject?”
My smile almost slipped but I caught it and held onto it. I was a good liar, always had been. Lying on the spot was my specialty. The trick was to mix truth in with the lie.
“It started in my sophomore year of high school. I took a class in psychology. I remember being told that humans are the only animals that kill their own species. I’m not sure if that’s true. I don’t study animals, but it was that statement that made me first curious about what would drive one man to kill another. Usually its hate, revenge or economic gain; mundane reasons like that. Serial killers, however, their reasons defy logic. They might kill a person based on their age, or hair color, or career. The man that killed the girl on the cross certainly wasn’t driven by anything we could relate to.” I was smiling and talking too fast because for the first time I was discussing my passion with people who might actually appreciate it.
“Were all his victims so dramatically displayed?” I asked.
The agents spoke over each other.
Miller asked, “What makes you think it was a man?”
While the man in blue asked, “What makes you think this was the act of a serial killer?”
I looked at both of them in turn like they were being foolish, but their eyes were trained on me. They really meant to get their answers.
“Come on guys.” I sighed and relaxed into my plastic chair. I looked at the agent in blue, still standing over me like I was going to make a run for it. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a serial killer. The FBI show up for only a handful of reasons, and a woman found dead in a library isn’t one of them.” I turned to Miller, “And even if we overlook the fact that it would have taken a lot of muscle to display that body like it was, requiring a lot of upper body strength, less than one percent of serial killers are women.”
Miller nodded, but the other agent smiled and finally sat down. It wasn’t a happy smile though. “So, we shouldn’t suspect you. Is that what you’re saying?” he said.
I shrugged (I do that a lot). “Do what you want. You’ll just be wasting your time. Meanwhile your killer will be out there, killing and mutilating another person.”
Miller nodded rapidly while flipping through a thin stack of papers in front of him. They were statements written by all the people in the library this morning, including myself. He found the report he was looking for and quickly read it under his breath before looking back up at me, his eyes narrowed, holding a question for me.
“Someone stated that you called the crime scene, ‘art.’ Is that how you see it?”
“No. But the killer does. I think he sees himself as an artist, and the woman’s body was his medium. If he’s a serial killer than there’s more out there somewhere. More pieces to his collection than just his…crimson angel.”
“You’re from North Carolina, aren't you Miss. Cobb,” said the agent in blue.
“Yes. How-”
“Your accent,” he explained. “I spent some time there. Yours is a bit muddied from being in the North West, but I have an ear for accents.”
“Ok…”
“One of the library’s employees filed a complaint against you for harassment, didn’t she?” he continued.
“Years ago. What kind of conclusion are you trying to draw here? I’m a girl from the south with interests in criminology and I incidentally creeped out some uptight librarian three years ago, so what? I obviously killed this woman? Smart. Good detective work,” I said sarcastically.
Miller looked to the other agent. The tall pale man shook his head and Miller shuffled his paperwork. “That’s all for now, Miss. Cobb. You may go.”
I sighed. They disappointed me. I guess what they say about meeting your heroes is true…
“It’s a serial killer and looking at you two, there will definitely be more bodies out there in the future.” And with that I stood and moved to leave the room.
“Don’t leave town,” the agent in blue said before the door closed behind me.
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