CHAPTER ELEVEN
An hour later, Avery stood in a small, dark side chamber with O’Malley and Connelly. Ahead of them, through one-way glass, sat George Fine. His hands were handcuffed to a metal table and he had bandages on his shoulders and legs from the gunshot wounds. He was lucky, Avery realized, that she had just grazed him. Her aim had been true.
Every so often he muttered something under his breath, or twitched. Blank eyes sought out nothing but seemed deep in thought.
In her hand, Avery held a picture that displayed six different black-and-white interpretations of a man’s face, based off the surveillance videos of the killer. Each picture showed a Caucasian perpetrator with a narrow chin, high cheekbones, small eyes, and a high forehead. In three of the photos, the wig, glasses, an
