Fitting in and being normal; not the same.
Still, I managed fairly well. Not perfectly, of course, but enough to give the illusion of it. But all illusions can be shattered.
I’d made a mistake.
Perhaps the error of a lifetime.
Killing an old man? Really? It wasn’t that I planned it, but fate often enough tossed a ball you had to dive to catch, and so it had happened. The thud to the ground, the plume of dust it raised, and the impact all counted just as much as the actual capture of the ball.
Deal with it.
I did. He’d come out of the house, holding a rifle, and I hadn’t expected him. So … the knee-jerk reaction wasn’t perfect. He didn’t die immediately either. I had to expedite it, and then the rest of it was more imperfect, which I hated.
I watched the news with a jaundiced eye, judging the reporter, the copy, the newscast in general, wondering about the stories, about the teacher in Madison who was up on charges of molestation, the latest political snafu—would they never learn, and in an election year—
And there it was. Just a pan of the building with the camera, the farmhouse not leveled as I intended, smoke still rising from the roof, the sky darkened, and people gathered around, like at a funeral, which it essentially was if you cut to the chase. It hadn’t done what I wanted, but fire is like having a lover. I can never quite predict it. Oh, I know the nuances, I get the changes in temperatures and airflow, but it does not mean it will cooperate. The flame is in charge.
That’s part of the fascination.
I swear it.
JULY 9
“This person,”
Montoya,
the profiler from the FBI Ellie said she’d talked to in the Northwoods case, said to the room at large, “is exerting a powerful control over all of us, this city, and the potential victims he sees out there. It is all escalating at a rate that alarms me. He feels entitled.”
The place was stifling. The power had gone out twice at the station during the day, but luckily, Jason hadn’t been there either time. However, he was suffering now, after the fact. It was entirely too hot have so many people crammed into a small, airless space. There was a fan, and it was a nice touch, but still, doing little to nothing.
Jason had to admit it all sounded like stupid psycho grad school crap to him, but this was the FBI and he knew he was required to sit and listen in a polite way. Federal law enforcement had never appealed to him. Too much red tape; it was worse than at the city level and that was bad enough. Besides, he doubted he could get in, not with his past. His military record was clean, but there were a few nicks and dings on record that they would frown on. That said, it didn’t stop him from waving a hand at the man standing at the front of the room.
He was never good at staying quiet. It just wasn’t his strong suit. “Excuse me, but may I ask a question?”
They were in the briefing room and apparently all these murders in such a short time frame required the entire world of law enforcement to arrive. Well, maybe not the world, but there were at least twenty of them, including detectives from the Division of Criminal Investigation, some of whom Ellie told him she knew.
“Of course.” The FBI profiler looked interested. “Please do.”
The bastard wasn’t even sweating.
Jason’s initial instinct was to point out that since not one person in the room knew who the asshole was lighting people on fire, wouldn’t they be more effective if they didn’t sit around yapping about it and instead actually investigated? But he had the feeling that might push Metzger over the edge and he didn’t want to be instantly unemployed, so he settled for saying, “What the fu— I mean, what the heck do you mean by entitled? If you are here to get me into his head, which is not a place I am sure I want to go, can you be clearer?”
The profiler, tall, with angular features, dressed in a suit that was so tailored Jason felt particularly grubby in his khakis and blue polo for the briefing even though they were both pressed and clean, cleared his throat. He said, “Certainly.”
Ellie, sitting next to him, didn’t even glance over in reproof, so at least he felt as if the request was pertinent. Usually, when he said something she didn’t approve of, he was on the receiving end of a certain kind of look. They were starting to know each other that well.
So, then, good question.
That was progress.
“Entitlement is about a perception of deserving recompense for an effort exerted or a sense of righting a perceived wrong. He thinks: I experienced this, so I can have X.” The profiler looked around the room. “The ritualistic aspect of this case or cases represents something we don’t yet understand, but we will. Let’s just hope it is before the next victim. I’m not quite certain why the actual process is the same and yet the locations change so radically, but I’m going to speculate that his urgency is increasing not because he’s more homicidal, but because he wants to get it all over with. The places he leaves the bodies and burns down mean something, we just don’t understand what yet.”
“Why do you think that?” Someone else, a uniformed officer up front, asked.
Good. Jason wanted to know that too, not that he was all that certain profiling really worked. He’d figured out all of that for himself already.
“He isn’t more reckless. He’s
less
reckless.” A picture flipped on with the singed and extremely unattractive parts of the last scene displayed for everyone on a flat screen on one wall of the room.
At least they didn’t have to live it, smell it, be there for body bag exit. Jason didn’t realize it, but he’d shifted in his seat and he consciously stopped himself. It had been a particularly horrific experience in his opinion.
It was Ellie who spoke up and said, “Less reckless. How do you know that?”
“Usually there is a part of them that wants the glory of being caught. That is, almost beyond exception, part of the psyche of an individual who commits multiple homicides.” The agent surveyed his audience again, resting his hands on the podium. “But we are dealing with a different animal. Not this one. He doesn’t want to be caught at all. The shooting was because he didn’t anticipate an interruption, and the dismemberment of the other victim was done elsewhere, the body parts brought to the farmhouse and set on fire to make sure we stay as confused as we have been so far. He isn’t average in any way.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that,” Jason muttered under his breath to Ellie, “but what the fuck has he told us that can actually help?”
“Just listen.”
Montoya went on, pointing at the board with the locations of the victims. “I think, unlike most cases, the motivation is the key. I believe in this one, we need to figure out why. And I rarely come to that conclusion, but after looking over the data and evidence, I completely believe
why
will lead you to
who
. Usually serial killers have compulsions we just don’t get. Some of it is sexual and arousing in a certain convoluted way that is at odds with how normal people think, but this doesn’t seem like it to me. He’s … purging, if I had to guess.”
The guy even had good English. Annoying. Jason never could figure out when to use who and whom.
“I told you I’ve talked to Montoya before,” she said quietly without looking over, her gaze focused on the speaker. “I don’t believe this is ever the magic wand, but I do think it can be a way to think it through. It’s a tool, not an answer.”
“Goddamnit, I really don’t need someone to help me think it through. I’ve thought about it enough and come up with the astonishing conclusion that the killer is fast, quiet, and worst of all, smarter than we are.”
It might have been better if he hadn’t raised his voice. He could blame it on the malfunctioning air-conditioning. He was sweating more than just a little. Heads swiveled.
His partner also turned to him, her hazel eyes level and challenging. “Maybe smarter than
you,
Santiago. Speak for yourself.”
At least someone nearby could hear their exchange because there was a low whistle and a chuckle. He ignored it, studying his notes, but he did temper his tone. “All I really wanted was a tip I could use or I would have skipped this. Jesus, it’s hot in here.”
“Keep on listening,” she shot back. “With profilers it isn’t really what they think they see, but more what they think
we
should see.”
“What the shit does that mean?”
“Can you ever speak and not use foul language?”
“I don’t fuckin’ think so.”
MacIntosh sent him a lethal look. “Very funny. Just listen. He’s maybe going to help us, and maybe he won’t. Either way, federal law enforcement is here, we need to just work with it, and if all goes well, no one else will die.”
“How effing likely is that?” He raised his hands, palms forward. “Hey, effing isn’t technically a swear word.”
“Really more likely if we can catch him.”
That was, in his opinion, a kind of big “if.” As far they knew the guy drove a black car. That narrowed it down. Not. The sheriff’s deputy was a possibility as a way to nail the killer, but only if they could finger someone for him to identify.
It wasn’t hopeless, but it wasn’t all that great either.
The profiler was still talking. “What strikes me most was that though the scene is rushed, he was still methodical. Since he’s never shot someone before it deviates from the usual plan. He stops and makes sure he has the casings; we think he used gloves to move the victim now that sometimes we can get fingerprints from skin under the right circumstances; and he still went through with what he needed to do, because he is just that cool under fire.”
“Is that a pun?” Jason couldn’t help it. The words just came out of his mouth.
Special Agent Montoya didn’t look all that amused. With splayed hands he braced himself against the podium and said, “No, Detective. What I’m suggesting is that perhaps there is a chance we are dealing with someone who is law enforcement.”
The resulting silence was impressive.
* * *
Carl extended his
legs and listened, his demeanor not precisely condescending but somewhat skeptical. He felt about profiling like he felt about triple A baseball. It was close, but not really the big league team.
But, as always, he could keep an open mind. The FBI wasn’t chump change, the ideas being presented were being listened to by everyone who was anyone in the department, and he needed to cash in on being offered this ticket of attendance because Metzger was throwing him a bone.
God knew he’d pushed to get it.
“Law enforcement?” One older guy, Jamison, not a uniform, a little heavy in the middle and jowls, sounded offended. “Just because he’s methodical, doesn’t mean he’s one of us. Most serial killers don’t really have nerves. That’s why they can do it.” He ticked off on his fingers. “No brakes, no conscience, no humanity, no scruples, no nerves. I don’t think I agree.”
Grasso found it interesting that MacIntosh, who might be the only person in the room who had ever been face-to-face with a serial killer—discounting the ones the profiler had probably interviewed—didn’t say a word. She didn’t take notes either, just sat relaxed in her chair, a bottle of water in her hand, her expression remote. It was getting to be a tiresome joke about how pretty she was, and he didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested in the tasteless comments. He liked women—that was hardly the issue—but Metzger hired her because of the Northwoods Killer case, and here she was, assigned to this one.
It did give him a second of pause that he envied her that much, but then again, he did. He’d always wanted to work a serial, much less two of them … and all he could think was
lucky her.
“You don’t have to agree.” The profiler panned the gathering with a long look. “And I’m not saying it is necessarily a police officer or any other type of civil servant, but I am trained to pick up nuances in the behavior of individuals who commit certain types of crimes. Obviously homicide is one of the higher levels of infraction, considering the possible penalty. We take it seriously, and so does the offender with a functional brain. There is a reason we create laws on a scale to match the crime. In my opinion, this particular criminal is very able to consider what he does from an analytical viewpoint, which does not indicate a drug-induced state, or an impulse-generated situation.”
“He went out and bought a frigging table,” Jason Santiago said. He added clearly, “
I
could tell you he’s a planner. Might just be the four crime scenes with no real clues that tipped me off. Tell me what you think he’s going to do
next,
will you?”
Montoya didn’t look offended. “That, I don’t know. It is possible he could be done.”
“Done?” MacIntosh spoke finally, lifting her pen. “I wouldn’t mind if you explained that.”
The profiler just shook his head. “I think that he has a purpose to this we haven’t found out yet, and it has happened before with this sort of killer. Once he’s finished with it, he feels he’s completed whatever journey he thought he needed to take. What you need to do is connect either the victims, or the fires, before he just quits and leaves you hanging onto an investigation that could last for months, or even years.”
To a certain extent, well, duh. Carl couldn’t agree more. Because there was a pattern, there was a reason … but they hadn’t found it yet. The clock was ticking now with the task force a reality.
He signaled that he had a question. “Five years ago I worked a case that had a victim who was burned on a table. Almost the same exact methodology except he was male and all our recent targets have been female. Any idea why the killer would wait so long?”
Montoya looked at him and nodded. “Good point. I’ve been told that there could be a precedent, but I’ve also been told that there is absolutely no physical evidence to link the crimes. Part of our problem here is that because of the fires, the general contamination of the scenes, the lack of ties from the bodies to the places where they were burned, and nothing back from the medical examiner’s office that is really helpful, I can’t even give an educated guess. There have been serial killers in the past who have stopped for years and we still are not quite sure why. It could have a logical explanation, or it could just be a trigger. It is definitely something the task force should investigate.