Body Count (10 page)

 

Sam starts. “We've covered the age before. Caucasian.”

I nod. Killers tend to hunt within their own racial group. All three of our vics are Caucasian, so it's a safe bet.

“And we've also talked about him being an organized offender. So the next item is occupation. Like we said the other night, a medical or scientific background, perhaps even nursing, is likely. All the nonfatal wounds were very carefully placed without being too deep. For instance, with this wound here—” she points to Jean's upper arm “—we've got a vertical cut that missed her arteries by only a fraction of an inch. Any more to the left and that would have been a fatal wound. And this one here—” she points to a cut on
Teresa's hip “—another fraction of an inch deeper and he would have hit an artery and she would have bled out.”

“Sounds pretty precise,” I say.

“Exactly. If our guy hasn't studied anatomy formally, he's taken it upon himself to study it outside of his usual occupation.”

“Med student?”

“Potentially,” Sam says. “Might be something for Flynn and Jones to look into.”

I read from the next section of the profile. “Single, but sexually active.” It makes sense. “I think our guy has had girlfriends in the past, but the fact that he thinks of his victims as girlfriends indicates he's single at the moment.”

Sam takes a swig of beer. “We can't rule out the possibility that he's picking these women up at bars or nightclubs then nabbing them later, after the first meeting, perhaps even after sexual contact.”

“He may have even been in Jean's apartment. Invited up for a glass of wine.”

“But then someone would have seen him, surely.”

“Were the victims at the bars alone? Did their friends see them dancing with some guy before they disappeared?” I ask.

“Flynn and Jones haven't turned up anything like that. No common males in their lives. Jean was a party girl, though.”

“Jean was his first in D.C. Maybe when he was stalking her she noticed him. Thought he was an interested guy. A suitor.”

“The boyfriend said she liked to play the field,” Sam says.

I run my hands across the photos. The victims. “The killer must have a face. Someone must have seen him.”

“Let's say he's a cop, he could get into a girl's apartment that way, and probably get them in a car, spinning some story about a relative or friend in need. Jean may have been different. But perhaps she never met the guy before either. The glass could have been hers from the night before.”

“Yep, the evidence is vague for Jean. I like the cop angle. Maybe he's met them before, maybe not. But he either is a cop or poses as one. That gets him the trust he needs to abduct them in the first place.”

We move to the next section of the profile.

“No kids,” Sam says.

“Agreed. Goes back to the girlfriend angle. So, his childhood.”

Sam continues. “He's confident, overly confident, which is often a trait of an only child. He also keeps to himself, and that correlates with a single child or perhaps a child with much older siblings.”

“The menopause pregnancy?” I've heard of it happening. The woman thinks she's starting menopause but then finds out she's pregnant.

“Exactly. He may have felt unwanted, or in the shadow of much older, successful siblings. So he's trying to prove himself. Show them what he's capable of.” Sam moves on. “Given his knowledge of anatomy I'd say he's smart, and this would have showed through in his grades at school.”

“Whether he got into med school or not, he studies hard.” I read the next point out aloud. “Kept to himself at school, just a few good friends.”

“I think at least in his youth he was socially awkward. That's why he keeps the girls for so long, because he thinks he doesn't make a good first impression.”

“Confident in killing, but not confident with women,” I say.

Sam nods hesitantly. “What do you think?”

I pause. “I like it. In some ways contradictory, but not really. Lots of intelligent guys are overconfident about their intellect and underconfident with women.”

“It ties in with the next two points here too.” She indicates the childhood section. “Awkward with women during his teens and the victims he goes for now reflect his taste in women.”

“What's your line on the father?”

Sam takes a sip of water from her glass. “Two things. The way he controls the women, it's about power, almost a discipline. Perhaps he grew up as the man in the house and took on a disciplinarian role and he likes to inflict that on others. Also, he treats these women as his girlfriends, yet he cuts them up. Like he's punishing them. That could be about the discipline or it could be he saw that sort of relationship growing up.”

“The husband who beats his wife and then tells her how much he loves her.”

Sam nods. “Personality,” she says, moving on. “He must be well spoken and well groomed to fit into the places he went when stalking his victims, especially Teresa. She was a high flyer and he knew her routines. He was able to fit in, in her surroundings.”

“He's one of the charming ones,” I say.

“The men women think are too good to be true.”

“And they are.”

“What about Marco, is he too good to be true?” Sam's ready to take on my cynicism.

“Josh? At the moment he's pretty good, but we're in our ‘good behavior' period.”

“They're always so accommodating when they've only just got into your pants.”

I laugh.

“So, back to our guy,” Sam says. “No disabilities. He stalks his victims, and we've covered the relationship he has with his victims. Next is remorse, an emotion our guy doesn't feel.”

A lot of serial killers don't feel remorse and that's a major indicator of a psychopath. But the way the bodies were found also
shows
us his lack of remorse. Generally, a killer who feels guilty about his crime will cover the body with something and close the eyes so the victim's not staring at him. Psychologically, open eyes correspond with judgment to a guilty mind, so he closes her eyes. Our guy left all three girls in open areas with nothing covering their bodies. Their nakedness was on display and their eyes open. He wasn't worried about them judging him because he felt no remorse, no guilt over their deaths.

“Agreed,” I say.

“Home life.”

“I think he's got a roomie,” I say. “He's shy, but not a complete loner. Not anymore at least. And he probably functions normally in social settings. His behavior also indicates he's a thrill killer. Having a roommate on the scene would heighten the thrill for him because it's more dangerous.”

“But he's keeping these girls somewhere personal, like his home. Surely he couldn't get away with that if he had a roommate.” Sam plays devil's advocate. “Any feelings on this one?”

“You mean hunches or psychic feelings?”

“Anything will do.”

I shrug. “Maybe our guy rents out a basement? It's got a bit more privacy.”

“Sounds risky.”

“All part of the challenge. He comes to D.C. Rapes and murders under our noses and under a roommate's nose.”

Sam nods. “It would certainly raise the stakes.”

“Or if he takes them somewhere else, it might be somewhere that feels homey to him. Like an abandoned building in a suburb where he grew up.”

She moves on to the next area. “Van. Obviously he's got a van or a similar-type vehicle if he's transporting these girls from parking lots or their apartments to his place or some other location.”

“Yep, that's a sure bet.”

“Intelligence and education level are largely based on the fact that he's an organized offender and leaves no clues on the bodies for us.”

“They're a given.” I read off the profile. “And the outward appearance we covered in personality. The guy's blending in, so he looks pretty good.”

Sam sits down. “What do you think about his criminal history?”

“I think he's been murdering for a while. Although it's possible he's just been rehearsing it. Playing it over in his mind. Maybe even seeing crime scenes in his day job, and now replicating the cleanest ones.”

“Yeah, I bet we could commit a pretty good crime,” Sam says, giving a half-laugh.

“We could throw the cops and profilers off, no worries.”

“The perfect crime.”

“But we're forgetting DNA, and DNA doesn't lie,” I add.

“We ain't got any DNA on this guy yet.”

“He knows his stuff, all right.”

Sam stands up and looks at the last few items on the profile. “MO and signature we know. And the media stuff…pretty standard.” She pauses. “So, have you got anything you'd like to add to the profile? The missing something?”

I lean back in my chair. “I can't put my finger on it.”

“Me neither,” Sam says.

“I'm sure that tattoo I saw on Jean's leg is important. Important to us and important to the killer.”

“But we don't know how.”

“No. Besides, we couldn't put it in the profile. It's based on my visions.”

We're silent for about five minutes.

“Crap,” I say.

Sam stands up and walks to the window. Her eyes follow something on the road. “Patrol car.”

“I'm glad they're keeping an eye on you.”

“Sensible, I guess.” She shivers. “I think we have to leave the profile as is. We don't have time to go any further.”

“No, not with Rivers breathing down our necks.”

“Your neck, honey. Your neck.”

“Gee, thanks for reminding me.”

I'm frustrated we haven't gotten any further, but I don't think there's anything more to get…not yet. “We can add to it on the sly later. Tuldoon can take the credit.”

“He won't mind that a bit.”

“Maybe it's the last victim who holds the secret. Hopefully Susan will tell us something that Jean and Teresa couldn't.”

I watch her body move as she walks toward me. Each step brings her swaying hips closer to me, within my grasp. I imagine having her. Devouring her. Watching her body squirm as she lies on my table. But I must wait. I bring my newspaper to my face and read about my latest exploits. I love reading about my accomplishments. They're calling me the D.C. Slasher. Not very inventive, but it's catchy. And finally I'm getting the attention I deserve.

My mind is full with images of Susan. Her annoying habits recede into the darkness as I remember my hands in her red hair as we made love.

I leave my next prey and hurry to the nearest bathroom instead. I cannot wait to be home to relive the sensation of pleasure. Of power. I am in control. I control my girlfriends, I control the police and I control the FBI.

A
t 5:30 a.m. I give up on sleep. I've had another restless, nightmare-ridden night, but I can't remember any of the dreams.

By 7:00 a.m. I'm at work, exhausted. The thought of seeing Josh tonight for our second date manages to wake me up a little. In bed with Josh…that's a welcome distraction.

I pick the top file from my in-tray and get sucked straight into it. This one's a kidnapping profile that's come from the Chicago Field Office. All profiles in the field have to be checked by us before being forwarded to the cops in the area. I haven't seen a profile from the Chicago office before, though I've been told Matt Johnson, the profiler there, is excellent. I make my way through the coroner's reports, crime-scene photos and police reports, jotting down notes as I go. An image of
the kidnapper forms in my mind. Not as detailed as if I was doing the profile from scratch myself, but enough to have a pretty good picture. Then I compare my notes and impressions with Johnson's profile, reading through each element. I agree with all points of his profile and whip up a covering memo for Rivers.

At 8:45 a.m. I walk the file, memo and the D.C. Slasher profile to Rivers's office, passing Sam's office on the way. Just like yesterday the door is locked and the lights off. She's having a bad week.

“Here's the Chicago file for Rivers, and the D.C. Slasher profile,” I say to Janet, Rivers's assistant, handing her the documents.

“Thanks, Sophie.”

“No worries,” I say.

She gives me a smirk and a nod. She loves it when I use Australian expressions.

I return to my office and as I pick up the phone, Marco's frame fills the doorway.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Hi.” A slight blush rises in my cheeks.

He smiles. “We still on for dinner tonight? My house at seven?”

“It's a date. But can we make it quarter to eight? I want to get a workout in.”

“Sounds fine.”

Marco turns around and I watch his rear end disappear. I smile, imagining it naked. I let the thought sit with me for a couple of minutes before I force myself back to work.

My computer chimes as a new e-mail arrives. It's the daily staff list. Who's sick, who's on annual leave, who's
working from another office, etc. I quickly scan the e-mail and am surprised to see Sam's name under the Sick heading. I dial her cell phone, but get voice mail. I leave a message.

“Hey, you. I hear you're sick? For real? Give me a call and let me know how you're doing.”

I hang up and look at the pile of files in my in-tray. I take a deep breath and plan to work solidly until I go to the gym. I need at least two profiles off my list today. The first file is a child abduction and murder. Two sisters were taken from their home in Miami.

The time flies and before I know it it's 6:00 p.m. I'm very happy with my day's work and I finally feel as though I'm making some progress with my cases. I call it a day and head to the gym. I only do a light workout, just fifty minutes. My body's too tired to take any more than that. But even with the short session, somehow I manage to run late and end up rushing around at my place to get ready on time.

I get to Josh's place at 8:00 p.m. He lives in a three-bedroom terrace house in Georgetown, a ritzy part of D.C. Josh comes from money and I presume his parents must have kicked in for him to be able to afford this place. His street is tree-lined and Josh's is one of the smaller houses on the block. The entranceway consists of a red brick fence and a wrought-iron gate. I walk down the pathway to the front door. The garden is immaculately kept—roses, daffodils and a few small trees. A black wooden door is complemented by leadlight of geometrical shapes. Frosted-glass panels line either side of the door. I ring the doorbell and within a few seconds I hear footsteps coming down the hallway.

Josh opens the door. “Hi. Come in.”

“Hi.”

He scoops me up in a kiss and we continue walking awkwardly down the hall, kissing one another. We get roughly to the dining room when I hear a very purposeful throat-clearing.

Both Josh and I turn around.

“Sorry, Marty,” Josh says, laughing.

Josh doesn't seem too fazed, but I'm embarrassed. Firstly because we all work together, and secondly because I prefer private displays of affection, particularly sexual affection.

“The hot new item,” Marty says, smiling.

Again, I'm embarrassed and this time Josh seems a bit awkward too. I wonder if he prepped Marty on the latest development.

“Marty is going to join us for dinner,” Josh says.

“After that performance maybe I should excuse myself. They say three's a crowd.”

“Don't be silly,” I say. “Stay.” I still feel embarrassed but am eager to keep the mood friendly.

Marty pauses. “I've got work to do tonight anyway, but I have to eat, right? Besides, Josh's cooking is too good to pass up.”

“That settles it. I cooked for three anyway, and it'll be ready in a few minutes. Marty, you can be the host while I make the finishing touches.”

Marty clicks his heels together and does a slight bow. “A drink, madam?”

Josh laughs and moves down the hallway into the kitchen. Marty and I take a left into the dining room.

The house is laid out with a long hall down the middle. There are two bedrooms at the front of the house, one either side of the hallway, and the third bedroom, Marty's, is the second right off the hall. Josh's bedroom has an en suite and the main bathroom is next to the back bedroom. To the left of the hallway is a large open dining-living room and at the end of the hall is a modern kitchen, full of stainless-steel appliances offset by polished wood countertops and polished floorboards.

“I'll have a glass of wine,” I say.

“White or red?”

“Either.” I'd prefer red, but I'm trying to be a good guest.

Marty exits the living room and I take a seat on the sofa. The living area is large, with two long couches, two armchairs and a frosted-glass coffee table, all focused around the room's centerpiece, a widescreen TV system with surround sound. Every man's dream. To the side is a bookshelf that doubles as a cabinet, with rounded squares containing photos, a vase and some books. The room is carpeted in a rich mushroom pile that I know would feel great on bare feet. The couches and armchairs are royal blue with modern square cuts, and the windows are covered by timber Venetians. Josh has got taste.

Tonight the table up the other end of the large room is set for three, with two long white candles in the center. Already on the table sit cutlery, salt and pepper, and some butter.

Marty comes in the far door, carrying two glasses of wine. Red.

“Pinot.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the glass.

Marty sits down in the armchair to my left.

“The chef is dishing up. It looks good.”

I've only experienced Josh's cooking one other time, when we were working the Henley case. Most of the time if we worked late we'd get takeout because it was easier, but one night he whipped up an Asian stir-fry with scallops and egg noodles. It was delicious.

“So, what's he got in store for us tonight?”

“He's doing the French thing.” Marty pauses. “Perhaps in your honor?”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair and take a sip of wine.

“The Pinot's good.”

“Josh said you're a bit of a wine connoisseur. He was gone for about an hour choosing this one.”

Really? He is trying. “I like wine, but I'm no expert.”

I've actually done a wine course in Australia and both my parents are wine lovers. I can usually pinpoint grape variety, but I'm not like some people who can pick the region or year with a couple of sips.

“Any breaks in the Slasher case?” I ask, not being able to keep off the subject for long.

Marty shakes his head. “You're a workaholic.”

“I'm not that bad,” I say.

Josh comes in, laden with plates.

I jump up and put my wineglass down on the coffee table. “Need a hand?”

“I'm fine. We're ready to eat.”

Marty stands up too and we both move to the dining table, glasses in hand. Josh puts two plates on the table, and Marty and I sit down. Josh is back a few seconds later, juggling another full load. In his left hand he holds
his plate, and tucked under his elbow is a basket of sliced French bread. His right hand holds both his glass and the bottle. He's slipped the glass in between his ring and little fingers and holds the bottle by its neck with just his index and middle fingers. It looks precarious, but he has no trouble unloading.

“Beef bourguignon,” he announces.

The three wide but shallow white bowls are full of a hearty mixture of beef, vegetables and a rich sauce. Steam rises and my nostrils are immediately filled with the delicious aroma. A perfect meal for a cold fall night.

“Yum,” I say, now absolutely starving. I pick up my fork, eager to dig in, even though the food looks way too hot.

Marty picks up his fork too. “Anyway, Sophie, I'm afraid the answer to your question is no.”

I blow on a small mouthful. “I was hoping you wouldn't say that.”

“Fill me in,” Josh says, taking a piece of bread.

“Miss Workaholic here—” Marty motions my way with the fork “—wanted to know if we'd turned up anything on the D.C. Slasher case.”

Josh butters the bread. “What are you still processing?”

“Most of the stuff from the third murder. We found some blood at the scene. DNA on it should be in tomorrow.”

“Victim's?” Josh asks.

“We're not sure. She was moved postmortem, so we wouldn't expect blood flow from her. Which leaves us with the perp.”

“Sounds promising,” I say.

“Hopefully.”

“Anything else?” Josh takes his first mouthful of beef.

“Not so far. Coroner did the usual swabs and tests. Nothing unusual. Fingernails were clean and cut back, and we couldn't find a single hair or fiber on her. Bloods came back all clear. Just a slight trace of alcohol, .01, but no other drugs or anything strange.”

“The letter?”

“Still with Mark in Questioned Documents. He's got a bit of a backlog but he's going to let us jump the line a bit.”

Silence.

“You want this one bad, don't you?” Marty says before eating some stew.

Josh smiles. “She wants every one bad.”

It's true. I've always been like that. Psychologically speaking, I know it's because of my brother. I still need justice for him—his killer was never found.

I keep quiet and decide to enjoy the meal.

I take a few more mouthfuls. “This is really, really good.”

Josh beams. “Thanks.”

“Definitely worth hanging around for,” Marty says.

We eat the rest of the meal steering well clear of the case. Maybe I
am
a workaholic.

Just before nine, Marty excuses himself.

“You sure you don't want dessert?” Josh asks him.

“No, I'm fine. I'm just going to finish off a few reports and then do a bit of surfing before hitting the sack.”

We both nod.

“I'll leave you two to it.” Marty smiles and we say our good-nights. He disappears into his room.

“What's for dessert?”

“Lemon tart.”

“I love lemon tart.”

“Not homemade, I'm afraid.”

“You mean you didn't get a chance to whip it up after work?”

He laughs. “No, not tonight. But I did get it from an excellent French bakery.” Josh stands up. “Back soon.”

I get up to stretch my legs and wander around the living room, finishing what's left of my second, and last, glass of wine. I make my way to the bookshelf to look at the photos. Most of them are of Josh and his family—his parents, his sister and her family. There's a fairly recent one of Marty and Josh, taken in the courtyard out the back, obviously in summer. They both have beers in front of them and I can make out a few other people from the unit, including Sam, Peter James and Rivers. I study the photos until Josh comes back in.

“Let's sit down here for dessert,” he says. He puts both plates on the coffee table and brings over two spoons from the dining room. I take a seat on one of the couches and Josh sits next to me.

He picks up his plate and has his first bite of lemon tart.

I follow suit. The tart melts in my mouth and leaves a tingling sensation from the slight bitterness. “It's good.”

“Best lemon tart in D.C.”

I lean forward and cut off another piece with my spoon. My hair falls across my face and Josh runs his hand through it and draws it back behind my ear for me.

He plays with the lemon tart on his plate.

Silence. Something's up.

Finally he breaks. “Sophie?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I'm worried about this D.C. case.”

“Why?” I say, putting my plate down on the coffee table.

“What if the killer knows you've been assigned to the case and is watching you now?”

“I handed in the profile today. Tuldoon's got the case. End of story.”

Josh doesn't seem satisfied.

I sway like a pendulum between two reactions: one, being flattered that he's moved so quickly into protective mode, and two, annoyed that because we slept together he suddenly doesn't think I can handle myself.

Before I come down on one side or the other, I test the waters. “You having a macho moment?”

“I know…I know…it sounds bad. I'm really trying not to do the macho thing, I'm just worried is all.”

“Josh, I've been in worse situations.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“It's just a profile.”

He takes the hint and lets it go. “So, how did the profile come out?”

A wise topic change.

“Good, but there's something we're missing. I'm not sure what yet.”