Shoot to Thrill by P.J. Tracy Page B

same tactic in interrogation rooms often enough. ‘Killers are getting their
    She looked down at the file in the center of her very tidy desk, then pushed her fingers back through her hair, making it stand up and look weird. This was body language Magozzi understood, because it was brutally honest. Women did not muss coiffed hair or rub mascaraed eyes voluntarily; this was impulsive, careless, and real. ‘I’ve read the file. And, yes, I’ve had a pretty bad day. And I could use a beer. Maybe two, because it looks like all the beasts are coming out to play.’
    It was indeed a terrific pub, with a wild Irish band and the smell of hops and sweat and probably twenty criminals who looked a lot like Harley Davidson doing jigs in their motorcycle boots. Whatever the on-tap stuff was, it hit Magozzi’s system like great-grandmother’s practice quilt, fluttering down over your body and head, blocking the light, making a hidey hole.
    ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ Dr. Chelsea Thomas was saying, words running together just a little, because she was on her second beer, as promised, and she wasn’t used to it. ‘People use the Web to post documentation of their bad behavior all the time.’
    ‘Like those high school girls beating up their classmate.’
    ‘Exactly. But aside from the very rare snuff film that appears on an underground site, we’ve never seen film of a real murder posted, certainly not on sites like YouTube,
    Magozzi stared at her. ‘Bragging to whom?’
    ‘The whole world. The point is, the FBI has confirmed five actual homicides with posted videos – six, counting your river killing – all of which have happened within the last four months. This is truly chilling.’
    Well, yes, it was, but in spite of that fact, Magozzi had part of a beer inside and a warm environment outside and a pretty woman across from him, and he was starting to get a little too comfortable. He waved over a waitress and ordered hamburgers and onion rings. This was bar food – bad food – and he was salivating like Pavlov’s dog waiting for it. He tried to remember the last time he’d stopped at a bar on the way home for a couple of brews and some saturated fat, and couldn’t. ‘You and my partner think alike.’
    ‘Is that good or bad?’
    ‘Bad. You’ve just given validity to his theory that it’s a traveling serial killer taking advantage of a world-wide audience.’
    Dr. Chelsea Thomas shrugged out of her blue suit jacket and showed a white blouse with little frilly ruffles around the collar that interested Magozzi not at all, because Grace wasn’t wearing it. ‘Let’s hope so.’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘Look at it this way. Take your average serial or thrill killer. All that bullshit—’ she stopped abruptly and blinked. ‘Oh dear. Sorry about the language.’ She pushed her beer mug away. ‘Anyway, all that dogma about killers waiting to get
Guinness Book of Records
title for most hits, or most horrible hits, whatever. Trouble with a career like that is you can’t show off how good you are.’
    ‘So this killer is looking for attention.’
    ‘Not attention. Fame. There’s a big difference. Attention invites scrutiny, and, like I said, these sickos don’t want to be caught. From the conception to the crime, to the fear they create in the public and the frustration they cause the cops, this whole process is all about power. But we’re a visual society now. Headlines don’t cut it because nobody reads anymore, and cops never show the butchered victims on the nightly news. Enter the Internet. “See what I did? See what I can do to
you
?”
    Magozzi actually felt his face crinkling up, which, for some inexplicable reason, made her smile again.
    ‘So. If serial killers can show their work on the Net, the power surge intensifies. The film is the new trophy. They don’t have to cut off body parts or snatch bloody panties to hide in their walls. They don’t have to escalate to garner attention,