He shakes his head. “Parents deceased, no siblings, no partners, just a handful of friends. No one in their life who would notice them missing. It’s a pattern.”
“How many open cases do you have?” I ask numbly.
“Around fifty, give or take.”
My blood goes cold. “You said serial killer,” I murmur after a moment. “Does that mean you found bodies?”
George munches on his fries, unaware of my inner turmoil. “We found two. Restraint marks on their wrists and ankles. Massive bruising, signs of torture, needle marks in places you wouldn’t think to look. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to conduct autopsies because both bodies disappeared from the morgue. It was evident that they hadn’t died in the custody of the killer. They had escaped somehow. We found both bodies within hours of each other. It
