I turned away as a crying female ME assistant knelt by Angela, getting ready to move her. Her father, mercifully sedated, was out in an ambulance on East 58th. I wished I were as well. “What do you think?” I said to Emily as we stepped along the rows of toys for the exit. “Does this dump fit in with the Fish case in some way?” “No, actually,” Emily said. “They found his victim’s remains in an abandoned house upstate. My gut says our unsub screwed up, probably botched the dosage, trying to keep her quiet.” “Sounds about right,” I said as we arrived back out in the street. I was hoping the outside air would make me feel better, but the crowds and heat only made me feel shittier. “Guess our copycatting friend isn’t Mr. Perfect, after all,” I said. We left the agonizingly sad and angering crime scene about an hour later. I took Fifth Avenue south from FAO Schwarz and hooked a right at 34th, by the Empire State Building. “It’s weird,” Emily said, squeezing the empty water bottle in her hand as she stared at the sketch.
