Mercy(White Collared Part 1)(16)

Prepared for this possibility, she’d taken a pill this morning. “I’ll be fine.”

She lifted the top picture and flipped it over, telling herself the woman in the photo was a stranger. Not Alyssa Deveroux. Not Jaxon’s wife or Nick’s friend.

She examined the photo with detached interest. It was a close-up of the victim on her back, her eyes closed and smeared with blood. Then she picked up another picture, this one of her on her stomach. The fingers and toes were purple. Premorbid loss of circulation or postmorbid pooling of blood?

Kate peered closer. “These thin lines were made from a single-tail, but these other welts are thicker.” She lowered the photo to the desk and pushed it closer to Nick, pointing to red marks on the back of Alyssa’s thighs. “He probably used a cane.”

Nick’s brows furrowed, creating deep lines in his forehead. “I’m not sure I know what that is.”

It didn’t surprise her. He didn’t play in the BDSM community, and he wasn’t exactly the prime target for erotica.

“I have a book I can bring in that might help you understand a little more about BDSM and the types of equipment used. Would that help?” Her face flushed hot. “Or you could look it up online,” she added nonchalantly. Like she had. She’d found all sorts of information about kink on the Internet—even pictures.

She didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. As evidenced by his friendship with Jaxon, Nick didn’t seem to have any sexual hang-ups when it came to the alternative sexual lifestyle.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said softly, making her feel more comfortable for suggesting it. “Yes, by all means, bring in the book.” He handed her another photo. “What else can you identify from the pictures?”

Something in the photos nagged at her. She was missing something.

When she was a child, she and her father used to play chess. For years she’d blamed her losses on her young age and lack of experience until, one day, her father told her to look at the entire board rather than a single area.

On a hunch, she laid out several of the photos at once, looking at them as a whole rather than piece by piece. And that’s when she noticed it. “Thirteen.”

“Excuse me?”

Nick watched her intently. “Thirteen whip marks. Thirteen welts. Thirteen cuts. And although it’s difficult to tell from the photos, I’m guessing thirteen stab wounds.”

They didn’t know what it meant, but it had to be a clue. Hopefully, a clue that would lead them away from Jaxon and to the real killer.

“You’re amazing,” he said with awe.

She shrugged. “In my teens, I went through a dark period where I studied books about serial murderers, satanic cults, and . . .” His eyebrows shot up. “You think I’m strange.”

“Yes. But in a good way. You’ll make an excellent attorney, and, despite your protests, I think you’d be well-suited as a criminal defense attorney or, God forbid, a prosecutor.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough. I’ve been doing this for eleven years, and I’ve met thousands of lawyers in that time. Not one of them could sit down with a crime photo like I gave you and hone in on such a significant detail in such a short amount of time. In fact, most couldn’t stomach a photo like that at all. You’re unique, Kate.”

“Thank you.”

For the first time, she believed she’d have a future at this law firm. By this time next year, she could have her own office. No more uncertainty. A steady paycheck. Job security. Stability.

Everything she’d ever wanted.

Nick leaned back. “What else do you notice in the pictures?”

The killer had left thirteen shallow cuts that weren’t made by any traditional BDSM tool, but she recognized the source all the same. Her own father had used the knife every time they’d cleaned their deer after a hunt.

“He used a Buck 110 Folding Hunter Knife to make the cuts and stab wounds.”

Nick’s jaw slackened. “How could you know that?”

Her hands trembled as she remembered. “I used to go hunting as a kid. This knife is excellent for skinning an animal. It also has a unique angle you can find only with this knife.”

“If we can track down who bought this knife, we could find the killer?”

She shook her head, sorry to erase the hope that had flickered in his eyes. “No. It’s a common knife. They sell thousands.”

“Too bad.” His shoulders dropped. “Anything else jump out at you?”

She looked again, focusing on the less obvious. “Bruises. Judging by the yellowing, I’d say they’re a few days old.” Had Jaxon made these marks as they played? “Shit.”