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  To my parents, Bob and Judy,

  for always believing in me

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

  All of the ancient Egyptian symbolism and Washington, D.C., architectural history in Cut to the Bone are real. Likewise, the neurological, medical, and psychological ideas presented here are based on real phenomena. Visit ellisoncooper.com to find out more.

  I’d like to express my endless thanks to everyone who helped make Cut to the Bone happen.

  I’m immensely grateful to my agent, Amy Tannenbaum, for everything she’s done. Thanks also to Jessica Errera and everyone at Jane Rotrosen Agency for being flat-out amazing in every way.

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Leslie Gelbman, and to everyone at St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur Books, including Tiffany Shelton, Hector DeJean, Alison Ziegler, Joe Brosnan, Paul Hochman, and Kelley Ragland.

  Thank you to Megan Coen, my brainstorming partner and dear friend who never thinks my ideas are too dark.

  Thanks to Theresa Iantosca for her sharp-eyed edits fixing all my mistakes! I raise a glass to the whole Curbside Crew, the best neighbors in the world.

  Finally, I can never thank my family enough for always encouraging me to pursue my dreams. As always, special thanks to my husband, Sean, my best friend, true love, and partner in crime.

  DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA POLICE DEPARTMENT DISPATCH CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The radio crackled in D.C. Police Department dispatcher Karla Haskell’s headphones. “This is Officer 2026 checking in. All’s quiet on the southern front.”

  Karla’s cheeks warmed hearing Officer Frankie Graham’s voice.

  “Evening, Frankie, I copy.” She tried to sound casual but they’d been talking more and more while he was out on foot patrol. Officers were only required to check in once midshift, but he’d called in a lot more than that lately. And last night he’d practically left his radio channel open. They’d chatted for hours between her steady stream of check-ins.

  She could hear his soft footfalls and slightly labored breath. Walking night patrol in late December was a rough gig even in the best weather and it had been snowing on and off all day. She glanced at the clock. Not even nine thirty yet. It would be a long, cold night out there.

  “It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here.” Frankie paused. “I mean, excuse my bad language.”

  She let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve been a police dispatcher for nineteen years, Frankie. In my world, brass monkey balls don’t qualify as bad language.”

  He chuckled. “Well, thank goodness for that. Hang on, I might have me a graffiti artist here.”

  “Where you at?” Karla shifted back into work mode.

  “I’m at Constitution and 22nd. Looks like he’s defacing the Einstein Memorial. Let me run him off really quick. You mind holding on? There’s something I’d like to ask…”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Karla was glad he couldn’t see the red flush climbing up her neck. Frankie might not look like Patrick Swayze, but his toothy smile was genuine and he had a reputation as a good guy around the precinct. Plus, Karla hadn’t been on a date in years.

  “Hey, buddy,” Frankie called out.

  There was a long silence, then a sharp inhale. “What the—” Frankie said loudly.

  Karla could hear the alarm in his voice. The sharp crack of a gunshot made her whole body jolt.

  Frankie let out a cry so visceral that the hair on her arms stood up.

  “Frankie? Frankie?” she screamed into her mic.

  A crash followed by a ragged howl sucked the breath from Karla’s chest. Heart pounding, she listened with horror to a series of wet grunts. After an intolerable few seconds of nothing, she could just barely hear the faint sound of someone singing in the distance.

  The soft atonal chant made her shudder.

  As she shouted, “10-33, officer down!” Frankie’s radio went silent.

  GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY LECTURE HALL, GEORGETOWN, D.C.

  FBI Senior Special Agent Sayer Altair glanced at the clock at the back of the lecture hall. Her talk had ended almost thirty minutes ago and students were still asking questions. She pointed to a young man in the front row with his hand enthusiastically in the air.

  “Agent … Doctor…?” He trailed off and blushed.

  “Either is fine.” Sayer tried to smile, but probably bared her teeth instead. She’d agreed to do this guest lecture at the Georgetown University Department of Neurology as a favor to her old advisor, but she hadn’t expected it to become the never-ending question brigade. As a neuroscientist who studied the brains of serial killers for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, Sayer was apparently far more interesting than most neurology guest lecturers.

  “You said you found numerous differences in the brains of serial killers,” the student continued.

  “Numerous deficiencies, yes.”

  He glanced down at his notes. “So, they have less gray matter around the limbic system, smaller than average amygdalae, and less active ventromedial prefrontal cortices. My question for you is, do you believe we should be screening children for these brain markers?”

  Sayer blinked. It was a good, though horrifying, question. She took a deep breath.

  “What do you do with a child with a ‘psychopathic’ brain? My answer is … nothing. Though our brain structure dramatically impacts our behavior, a person can actually be a psychopath without being a serial killer. They probably won’t win a Mr. Congeniality award, but that child is statistically much more likely to grow up to be a surgeon or successful politician than a serial killer.”

  A murmur spread through the lecture hall.

  Sayer continued, “In fact, my most recent project involved interviewing what I call prosocial psychopaths—people with psychopathic traits that manage to channel their narcissism, lack of empathy, and preternatural calm into successful careers as CEOs, lawyers, police officers, and doctors. There are millions of people who qualify as psychopaths on the Psychopathy Checklist yet have never committed a crime.” She looked out at the darkened room. She could elaborate but she knew that a celebratory meal was waiting at home. Her recently adopted adult daughter, Adi, was leaving tomorrow for a trip to check out Stanford, and her neighbor and dog co-parent, Tino, had just graduated with their dog from K9 therapy school. Sayer was ready for a beer and some delicious food with her family.

  “I’ll take one more question and then we’re going to wrap things up,” she said.

  A dozen hands shot upward.

  Sayer called on a mousy young woman sitting in the back row.

  “You’ve interviewed hundreds of psychopaths, what was the most disturbing interview you’ve ever conducted?”

  An involuntary shudder lifted the hair on Sayer’s arms as she thought about Subject 037.

  “Funny you should ask that immediately after the last question. The most unusual and disc
oncerting interview I’ve conducted was with one of my noncriminal research subjects…” Sayer paused, trying to make sure she didn’t break confidentiality with her answer. “One of the people I interviewed for that project achieved a perfect score on the Psychopathy Checklist. Not even the most disturbed killer I’ve interviewed managed that dubious achievement.”

  “Your creepiest interview wasn’t with a serial killer?” the young woman pressed.

  “That’s right. The killers I’ve interviewed were generally not very smart and tend to have an inflated sense of self. Don’t get me wrong, they are monsters who destroyed innumerable lives, but they’re generally more pitiable than frightening. But this anonymous interview subject was”—Sayer struggled to find the right words to describe her interviews with 037—“chilling.”

  “And you don’t even know who he is?” a student called out.

  “That’s right, I allowed my subjects to remain totally anonymous. Otherwise many of them wouldn’t have been willing to talk to me,” Sayer said. “But psychopaths tend to be self-aggrandizing, and I found that many of them were thrilled to be interviewed. This particular subject, though, protected his anonymity very well.”

  Sayer didn’t mention that, during her research, Subject 037 had taken an unhealthy interest in her life and career. In fact, he was clearly someone well connected in D.C., maybe even someone high up at the National Security Agency. And he had used those connections to save her career in the middle of a major FBI scandal. That he seemed inexplicably invested in protecting her was worrisome.

  Any interaction with 037 felt like drawing the attention of a tamed tiger—a great opportunity to learn about the inner workings of a truly unusual mind, but also incredibly dangerous. A man like 037 could turn on her without warning.

  “What was it about him that was so creepy?” another student asked.

  Sayer was about to answer when her phone buzzed on the podium and she had never been so happy to be interrupted. Though she primarily worked as an FBI neuroscientist, she was also a field agent with the Critical Incident Response Group and she was always on call.

  “Sorry, I have to take this.” She checked her phone and was surprised to read “Director Anderson” on the screen.

  Sayer fumbled to answer.

  “Agent Altair.” The man’s patrician voice did little to soften his harsh tone.

  “Director Anderson…” Sayer waved apologetically to the students and hurried off the stage to the back room.

  “There’s been a double murder downtown,” he continued without any small talk. “One victim is a D.C. police officer. They’ve got reason to believe that this might be a serial and they’ve requested that the FBI take the lead. Or, more specifically, your fans at the DCPD have requested you.” Blatant disapproval crept into Anderson’s voice. “Never one to disappoint local law enforcement, I’ve decided that you, as the media’s golden child, are lead.”

  Ignoring the snide comment, Sayer read the incoming file on her phone. Officer interrupted the killer, shot in the chest. Single female body also found at the scene. Ritual elements.

  “It says here ritual elements. Do you know what that means?” Sayer asked.

  “Do I look like your dispatcher?” Anderson snapped. “This happened on the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences just across from the Mall. It’s the week after Christmas so the mayor is worried about spooking tourists. DCPD thinks the girl’s a teenager and there’s some kind of writing in blood. You’re on your own on this one. Keep me up to date.”

  Anderson hung up with a click.

  Sayer stared at the phone. Anderson’s comment about being on her own had been perfectly clear. Because she worked on her research most of the time, she didn’t have a full-time partner assigned and apparently she wasn’t getting one for this case. Which meant that no one would have her back. And the death of a police officer meant that this would be a high-stakes case from the get-go.

  She let the weight of that heavy burden settle on her shoulders.

  After a quick farewell to her old advisor and a thank-you to the students, Sayer grabbed her helmet and headed out into the cold night air.

  She paused for a brief moment at the side of her motorcycle. The world felt perfectly still except for the snow drifting down around her, gathering along her eyelashes and in her short, dark curls. She enjoyed the silence knowing that she would probably not have another quiet moment for a very long time.

  A dead girl and a dead cop. There would be families to notify, a heartrending job at any time, but this close to the holidays it would be even worse.

  Shaking off the last bit of lingering warmth from the lecture hall, she yanked on her helmet and gunned her Matchless Silver Hawk so hard the back wheel skittered sideways before catching.

  As she raced toward the scene, Sayer let herself dwell on what might be waiting up ahead.

  ROAD TO THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF SCIENCES, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Sayer drove through the sparkling tunnel of holiday lights along 14th Street. As she neared the scene, she called FBI data analyst and computer wizard, Ezra Coen.

  “Ez, you heard about the murders in D.C.? I’m lead and I want you in charge of coordinating the data.”

  “I knew you’d need me and I’m already heading to the office to gather info as it trickles in. I’ll crunch everything into something coherent by the time you get here.”

  “Great. First thing, we’re going to need a small task force for this one. Get that approved and handpick a few field agents and analysts. Then I want you to focus on ID’ing our female victim. Sounds like she could be young.”

  “Will do. Have them scan her prints and photo to me as soon as the medical examiner gets there.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Damn straight I am,” Ezra said. “I actually just left in the middle of a date for this so you officially owe me. Your adulation can take the form of an invitation to Tino’s for dinner sometime soon.”

  Sayer let out a small laugh. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “Always. See you when you get here.” He hung up.

  Sayer was glad to see Ezra’s inner smart-ass emerging more and more every day. He had lost both of his legs in an explosion last year and the road to recovery was a rough one.

  Across the National Mall, Sayer navigated her motorcycle onto Constitution Avenue and rolled past the cheerful glow of the National Christmas tree just as the sky cleared for the first time in a week. Something about the crisp air made the stars seem brighter than usual. Even the Milky Way made a rare appearance, arcing over the quiet city.

  Winter in D.C. could be an endless slog of slushy rain and gray skies, but right now, between the stars, the powdery dusting of snow, and the glow of holiday lights, it felt like a fairy tale.

  The illusion was shattered by the line of police cruisers along Constitution Avenue, their rolling lights creating a sharp red and blue strobe effect on the snow. All the action was on the southwestern corner of the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences.

  The corner that housed Sayer’s favorite memorial in all of D.C.—the Albert Einstein Memorial.

  She parked and made her way through the small gaggle of onlookers, their eyes alight with the familiar combination of disgust and fascination. It was the same at every crime scene, people riveted by the excitement of death so close to their own beating hearts.

  A broad-shouldered D.C. police officer blocked her entry as she ducked under the police tape. “Whoa, lady. This is an active crime scene.”

  Sayer realized how she must look, a damp, brown-skinned woman covered with road grit. “FBI, Senior Special Agent Altair.” She flipped open her badge.

  “No kidding, Agent Altair!” He smiled. “Now I recognize you. You worked with my cousin on that Cage Killer case, Wilson Tooby. I’m Joe Tooby.”

  Sayer gave him a curt nod. “How’s Wilson doing these days?” she managed to squeeze out, not really wanting to make small talk.

 
“He’s great. Retired last month. Spending time with his daughter before she leaves for college. Glad it’s you running this case. Detective Wyatt’s waiting to give you an update.” He gestured to a stout DCPD detective.

  The hunched detective in a large puffy black jacket and a fuzzy red winter hat calmly jotted notes amid the chaos of the crime scene.

  “Welcome to hell, Agent Altair,” he said as she approached.

  “You must be Detective Wyatt.”

  He glanced up from his notes. His youthful round face was aged by a deeply rueful expression. “Heard a lot about you. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “I’m just sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  They both looked over at Officer Graham’s body.

  “So, what’ve we got?” Sayer said.

  Wyatt led her over to the body just off the sidewalk. The victim was sprawled on his back, police uniform torn open where the EMTs had tried to revive him. The edges of the blood pooled on the frozen ground around him were already drying in the cold.

  “Officer Frank Graham, seven years on the force. He was on the radio with dispatch when he saw someone painting what he thought was graffiti on the Einstein Memorial. Dispatcher said that he interrupted the person who then shot him without warning.” Wyatt’s voice fell low with emotion. “He bled out before EMTs could get here.”

  Sayer stood over the dead officer, heart beating painfully in her throat. “He have kids?”

  “Yeah, one son, living with his ex-wife now.”

  “Damn.” She couldn’t help but remember getting the call about her fiancé Jake’s death. She knew exactly what it would feel like for his family to get the call tonight. She shut down the flash of grief that always hit when she thought about Jake and turned to scan the bloody footprints ringing the body. She couldn’t tell if they belonged to the medics or the killer. Something for the evidence team to sort out.

  Grim-faced, Detective Wyatt led her toward the Einstein Memorial. “Second victim is why we called you in. Looks like she’s in her late teens. Definitely some ritual elements to the murder. I’ll let you take a look.”