Body Count (9 page)

“Sophie?”

I wipe the tears from my cheek and turn around. “I used to get hunches, but everyone gets hunches.” I'm not ready to tell Sam about my brother. Not yet.

“Lots of police work is based on hunches,” Sam says. “But that's not what we're talking about?”

“Not this time.”

“Getting too involved?” She's grasping at straws now.

“I wish it was that simple. But no matter how involved I get, how could I see these things? I thought it was my imagination until I saw Susan lying there in that flower bed.”

Sam nods, obviously bewildered by it all.

“Have you ever worked with a psychic?” I stumble over the forbidden word.

“Yes, a couple of times. They were helpful. Once, the
woman actually saved a young girl who had been abducted.”

“Sam, I've been fighting this for days now, and it's the only explanation.”

“Okay, so let's assume you're having premonitions.”

Another taboo word.

“It's crazy, isn't it?”

Sam thinks before she speaks. “I don't know much about this stuff, Soph, but I know you. I trust you.”

I smile, relieved.

“Have you had any more premonitions about the D.C. killer?” she asks.

“No, not since the other night, when Susan was murdered.”

Silence.

“I think we'd better keep these visions of yours between the two of us for the moment,” Sam says eventually. “Unless you want to tell Marco.”

“Are you crazy? That'd scare him off for sure!”

She laughs. “Possibly. What about Dr. Rosen?”

“I thought about her. But I don't want this on my record. Especially when I don't really know what's going on yet.”

As the Bureau psychologist, Amanda would feel compelled to tell Rivers or Pike. She'd probably think I was crazy and pull me off active duty. Another burnout in the BAU.

“Okay, so we've agreed. We'll keep it between the two of us.”

“I know it must sound weird.”

“Well, it's certainly a little out there, but it does happen. So, you haven't had any other visions?” She breaks the tension with a little too much emphasis on the word
visions.

“No.”

I'm relieved to have a confidante, except that talking about it makes it sound even crazier than when I think about it in the confined space of my mind.

She stands up. “Come on. I've slaved over the stove and you're going to let it go to waste.”

I laugh and we sit back down and finish our dinner. After we've cleared up she empties her briefcase onto the kitchen table and we spread out the D.C. photos.

“So Jean is the girl you saw dead?”

“Yes, but she had a strange marking on her thigh. Just below her hip and on the outside. A tattoo, I think. It looked Celtic.”

Sam picks up a photo of Jean, dead, and examines it closely. “I can't see anything, but I'll ask Flynn and Jones for a blowup. Her thighs are cut up pretty bad. It might be tough to see a tattoo.”

“He's really gone overboard with the stabbing,” I say.

“Yes, but like we talked about at your place, it's still controlled, rehearsed, rather than an overkill pattern.” Sam shuffles her profile to the top of the pile. “I've officially classified him as an organized offender.”

I nod. Organized offender rings true with other elements of the crime too. They tend to plan their attacks in detail, use restraints, personalize the victim, demand submission and transport the victim or body. Our guy did all these things. Perhaps the time of death was a moment of disorganized MO, but the killer was definitely in control of the abductions and murders. Unfortunately for us, organized types are also harder to catch—they tend to have high IQs.

“Any trophies?” I ask.

Serial killers usually take trophies of their kills so they can relive the murder over and over again. Just looking at the trophy gives them pleasure, in their sick way.

“Jean usually wore a bracelet, but it was never found, and Teresa used to wear a ring on her little finger.”

“It'll all be evidence,” I say. The serial killer's habitual trophy-taking usually forms part of the physical evidence against them. That's partly how they got Milat's conviction for the backpacker murders in Australia. The police found water bottles, backpacks, scarves and even a tent belonging to the victims in Milat's attic. Pretty good evidence in a court of law. “When was Susan abducted?” I ask.

“Looks like three days before she was killed.”

“Susan for three days, Jean for five days and Teresa for eight days.”

Sam nods and picks up a photo of Jean.

“So…um…do you want to touch the photo? To hold it?”

I look at Sam quizzically, not understanding. Then it hits me—psychics like to touch things. It can trigger their visions.

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” I say awkwardly.

I take the photo and close my eyes, waiting for something, but I'm not sure what. I feel ridiculous. A smile plays around my lips.

Sam picks up on it and next thing I know she's chanting. “Ommmmmm. Ommmmm.”

We both burst out laughing.

“This is ridiculous!” I snort in between laughs. I take a mouthful of beer and then almost send it across the room as another peal of laughter escapes from me. I put the photo down.

My near miss with the beer sets Sam off and she collapses onto the chair, laughing hard.

But the moment of release disappears quickly. I look into the eyes of Jean once again and a searing pain races through my eyes. I fall forward. Sam rushes to me and for a moment I see the shadowy figure of a man play across my field of vision. It's the killer. But before I can make out any of his features the vision fades.

“God, honey, are you okay?”

“I think I saw him.”

“The killer?” She supports the underneath of my arm.

“Yes.” The pain in my head and eyes eases slightly.

“Could you make him out?”

“No. It was dark. Like it was nighttime or he was in a darkened room. I could only see a shadow. A lurking presence. But I know it was him.”

“You're as white as a sheet. Do you feel all right?”

“I've got a headache. A bad one.”

“I'll get you some Tylenol. Hold on.” Sam sits me down on her couch.

She returns a few moments later, pills and glass of water in hand. I gobble the pills. The pit of my stomach is filled with hatred, dread and fear. The hatred is his, the killer's, but the dread and fear are mine. I can't shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen. I think again of John and the nightmares I had all those years ago.

“Psychics often get very physical reactions when they see things,” Sam says.

I hope my physical and emotional symptoms are just part of the insight and that they'll fade soon.

“Could you see where he was?”

“No. I was looking at the photo of Jean when it happened, so perhaps it was when he grabbed her.”

“In her apartment?”

I shrug. “I don't know.”

“Could you tell if it was inside or outside?”

“No. I couldn't make out anything except for his shape.”

“Well, that's something. What was his shape like?”

“You think it was in proportion? To me?”

“Let's assume so.”

“Okay.” I run with the idea. Height and weight are something at least. I stand up. “I'd say he was about three inches taller than me.” I hold my flat palm above my head. “I'm five-ten, so that makes him about six-one.”

“Okay. Was he skinny? Fat?” Sam scribbles on her notepad.

“He had a muscular build. Not fat, but broad.” I pause. “That's it.”

Sam nods. “It's something.”

“You reckon?”

“Well, if Flynn and Jones start interviewing a short, fat guy, we can steer them away.”

I laugh. “You should try stand-up.”

“I don't like big audiences,” Sam says, but I can't imagine it's true.

“Do the cops have any suspects?”

“Not yet. They won't even have anyone to run the profile against.”

“What about the note? Anything on that?”

“Nothing interesting yet. Marty's got the guys in Questioned Documents on it, but the perp used a
standard blue Bic ballpoint, the type you can pick up just about anywhere.”

“Paper?” I ask. But if the guy knew to use a run-of-the-mill pen, he probably did the same with the paper.

“Spirax notebook paper. And who knows how many of them have been sold in the U.S. in the past year.”

“Great. No prints, I take it?”

“Nothing. The note's going to a handwriting expert for analysis tomorrow and they've got a forensic linguist looking at it too.”

“Maybe that'll give us something.”

“They're usually pretty good at pinpointing where the writer was raised, based on the dialect. And the handwriting expert will be able to tell us if he was trying to disguise his writing,” Sam says.

“Where he grew up could help narrow things down.”

“Especially if we cross-reference that with the VICAP info when it comes through.”

“Surely we'll have to get some hits. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't look over the profile last night.”

“Don't worry. You had other things on your mind.”

The thought of Josh eases my headache a little more. “Back to business?”

“You don't look up to it, girl. I doubt you'd even be much good with Marco tonight.”

“Very funny. My headache's going. Let's sit for a couple of minutes and see how I feel.”

“Okay, but you're still very pale.”

I rest my head on the top of the couch. I close my eyes for what feels like a minute, but when I open them Sam is nowhere in sight.

“Sam?” I get up from the couch and look at my watch. It's 9:30 p.m., which means I've been asleep for nearly an hour.

“Ah, you're awake,” Sam says, walking into the living room. She carries a half-full glass of water. “I was just watching TV in my room.”

“Sorry, I can't believe I fell asleep.”

“Don't worry. How's the head?”

“Yeah, it seems to be better. Do you want to get back to it?”

“Do you? I don't want you feeling sick again, honey.”

“This is all so weird. I don't know what to do.”

“Why don't we go through the profile, and you can leave the photos for another time. Besides, maybe Flynn and Jones will have enough with the profile.”

“Sounds good. I don't know if these visions are going to be productive anyway. So far all they've given me is tiny pieces of a much larger jigsaw.”

“I'd still keep them between you and me until you know exactly what you're dealing with.”

“I don't think I'll add it to my résumé quite yet!”

“Sophie Anderson, Profiler and Psychic. I can see your business cards now.”

“Yeah, real good look.” I smile. “Okay, let's go through this profile.”

Sam puts the printout on the table and we stand over it, ready to go through each element together.