Profiled (19 page)

“Thanks.” Angel headed down the hall to find the doctor…and some answers.

After driving past Cami Talton’s and Vickie Jones’ homes, he spent a good portion of the night with Hannah and her lover. Telling them of his conquest. Informing them of what they had caused, what they still caused, so many years after their sin. He’d also spent a good portion of the night fuming at how the chatters on the Fellowship’s website had dismissed him. He accomplished the true goal with every kill, yet they didn’t care. Not even PROTECT&SRV. The Supreme One would be infuriated.

All in all, he had slept less than three hours, but he didn’t need much sleep. During a killing year, his body pulsed with energy, with adrenaline produced from the challenge and with the bliss of accomplishing his goal, a high he only experienced in the midst of a seventh year, when he followed the pattern and claimed the power.

He’d gotten antsy last year with that girl he met in the park. She’d been blonde, pregnant and single. And so pretty, the kind of woman who could tempt a man and lead him to sin, convince him to give her what she needed to gain power. But he resisted the temptation, even when she smiled and flirted and laughed. She’d wanted him. He’d known it as sure as he’d known that if he met her this year, if her baby had come twelve months later, she’d be dead.

That woman had married a month before the baby came, proof she wasn’t a chosen one. He’d been tested to see if he could restrain the impulse to kill before the right time. He’d been tempted, and he’d conquered the temptation. Another affirmation that he did the right thing.

His feet pushed against the asphalt, arms pumped and breath passed in and out of his lungs in a steady whoosh. As he did every day during his run through Central City Park, he counted his strides. Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Left, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Right...

The surge of excitement stirred in his veins. He pushed up the sleeve on his sweatshirt to look at his watch, but he knew what he’d see. He’d passed the thirty minute mark, and he began to experience that blessed runner’s high, the euphoria when endorphin and serotonin release and everything becomes clearer. More focused. More real. He inhaled, pushed it out, inhaled, pushed it out, increased his stride and enjoyed the ability to remember every kill.

Starting with Hannah and her lover, the screams washed over his senses as he progressed through the park. He listened to her voice, begging him to stop, and felt that surge of power from feeling her body grow limp beneath his. Then he killed her lover. He’d whimpered and whined like a toddler, pathetic and weak and useless.

Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Another kill, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Claim the power, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Claim the child, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

By the time he’d progressed to his most recent kills and remembered Cami Talton’s and Vickie Jones’ futile struggles, he’d been running for an hour and felt ecstatic.

Then he saw the car.

He’d noticed it before, but the morning sun had cast a glare on the windshield and hidden the man from view. Now, though, he saw the sole individual perched inside drinking from a Racetrac sixty-four ounce cup, the same kind of cup the car’s occupant drank from every morning.

He passed the vehicle and nodded to the guy inside, then continued around the track once more. On his next pass, he decided to let the runner’s high slide in lieu of gaining information. Slowing, he approached the car and grinned.

Officer Richard Barnes rolled his window down. “Hey, you realize all that exercise ain’t good for your heart.” Then he reached across the seat and lifted a white and green paper bag. “This here’s what you need to get you going. Cream-filled doughnuts. You want one?”

“Nah, I’ll pass. The run gets me going.” He jogged in place and felt his pulse skitter at the sudden change.

“Well, you ain’t no spring chicken anymore. I heard about this fellow once who got so addicted to running and all that mind-numbing stuff it does, he had a stroke on the track and didn’t even realize it. You’re acting like you’re trying to kill yourself out there. You might very well have one of those strokes like I read about.”

Another grin. Nope, he wasn’t trying to kill himself, but he did remember a few kills with every pass. “I think I’ll risk it, and I’ll still pass on the carbs and sugar.”

“Suit yourself.” The cop lifted his Krispy Kreme in mock salute. “But I like my way better.”

“You watching the doctor’s place?”

“Yeah, but half the men out here fit the description.” He pointed to the surplus of individuals roving the park.

“I’ll say.”

Richard Barnes took a big bite of doughnut then used the back of his hand to wipe a dribble of cream from the corner of his mouth. “I told them this was a useless bit, but Pierce insisted. No sweat off my back, though. It’s an easy deal.”

“Yeah.” A long blonde ponytail caught his eye, and he turned toward Dr. Weatherly’s office. “Isn’t that the profiler?”

Richard nodded. “Don’t know what she’s doing here. Nobody told me she was coming, but I figure those government guys have their own agenda, you know? Maybe she’s asking questions, getting specifics about that other woman’s pregnancy.” He shrugged, then took another oversized bite of doughnut.

“I’m sure the Feds have their own plan.” He eyed Agent Jackson.

“The Feds usually do.”

“Well, if I see anybody looking suspicious, I’ll let you know.”

“Do that. But if you ask me, everybody out here looks suspicious. They’re all exercising. That’s crazy enough for me.” He laughed, then grabbed another doughnut. “See ya around.”

“Right.” He jogged away from the cop’s unmarked car, then progressed around the track, all the while keeping one eye on the blonde profiler climbing in her SUV. What was Angel Jackson doing at Dr. Weatherly’s? Why would she need to, since she’d talked with Tucker about the answers he’d already obtained from the doctor. The notable detective would have given her copies of the files he collected and all information the doctor had provided on Vickie Jones.

He jogged around the track a couple more times to cool down and think about Angel Jackson. Sure, she reminded him of his victims, but he wondered if there wasn’t more to it than that. Maybe her intelligence drew him to her, made him feel something of a kinship to the woman. In the four days since she’d arrived in Macon, she’d already produced a profile much more accurate than the last FBI guy’s depiction. Listening to her, he’d have sworn she could see his face in the midst of her notes. But she’d looked right at him, several times. And had been clueless.

He smiled at that. She could come close, but she’d never get close enough. No harm could come to someone setting about to achieve justice. However, he couldn’t deny that Special Agent Angel Jackson had caused the task force to look in the right direction.

A male, forties to mid-fifties.
Correct.

Caucasian.
Correct again.

Someone close to the case. He grinned.
Oh yeah.

But she hadn’t narrowed it down enough to exclude the remaining men involved with the case. And almost every one of them also fit the bill.

“Nice try, Jackson.” He rounded another curve of the track. Squinting in the distance, he watched her black Tahoe pull out of the doctor’s parking lot. She’d go to the police station, where she’d slave over her notes and figures for the remainder of the day, and the remainder of each day until he killed again.

He’d been impressed by her mind, though, when she linked the religious aspect to the crimes. Lexie McCain too, for that matter. It’d taken the two women to realize there had been another kill that first year, and it’d taken the two women to identify each kill occurred forty days apart and always started forty days before Easter. They’d understood the importance of the numbers and the semblance involved with each.

You would think they’d understand that he couldn’t be stopped, that he served a purpose and had to reach his goal. But Angel Jackson and Lexie McCain weren’t
that
smart.

Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Left, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
What’s she doing?
two three, four, five, six, seven.
Need to know
, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

Chapter Eleven

Angel pulled into the police station parking lot, cut the engine and sighed in frustration. Her trip to Dr. Weatherly’s hadn’t netted anything beyond what Tucker had already learned. The doctor had lots of patients, many of whom were blonde, single and pregnant.

Etta Green stepped outside the police station, lit a cigarette, then paced while she smoked. She nodded at Angel and darted occasional glances her way as though waiting for her to exit her vehicle and head toward the building. Angel would, but first she had to call the field office.

Fishing her cell phone out of her purse, she dialed Leon Hawkins and relayed the current status of the investigation, the same status as yesterday. She’d hoped that her visit with the doctor would at least provide a new lead to investigate, but her gut told her that past case history provided the best source of information they had now. Angel hated looking backward. True, studying the killer’s signature and MO helped, but she despised feeling as though the task force was on the defensive. She wanted to take control, turn the case around so that they were the ones that were proactive, rather than the killer. That’s the way cases were solved, like her previous case in Oklahoma City.

She finished her conversation with Leon, dropped the phone back in her bag then jumped when someone tapped on her window.

“You coming in?” Etta’s voice echoed loud enough to be heard through the glass.

Angel nodded, grabbed her things and climbed out of the Tahoe. Etta bristled with anxiety, and Angel assumed whatever the woman had to say had to do with the case. Maybe Angel would learn something new this morning after all. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me.” Etta squinted into the sunlight. Her breath had a hint of recent smoke, combined with peppermint. Angel saw the red and white striped candy pass from one side of Etta’s mouth to the other as the woman dropped her bombshell. “Rumor has it you fit the profile. I figured the best way to find out was to ask. So. Do you?”

Angel blinked.
She
fit the profile? “Our killer is male.” There were several other factors involved with the profile that would eliminate Angel and all other females from the scenario, but the obvious one seemed the best to relay in light of Angel’s shock at the statement. What kind of crazy rumors had been started?

Etta tsked, smacked the candy then waved a bangle-clad hand. “Not the killer’s profile. The profile for victims.”

“I’m not pregnant.” True, she hit two out of three of the killer’s signature criteria, but two out of three—for this type of methodic killer—wasn’t going to cut the mustard.

“That’s what I told him,” Etta shook her head with a frown, “but you’re going to have to get in there and tell them all yourself. See, with the way you tossed your cookies at the crime scene, you know, and then you went to the doctor’s office this morning. And we all know Tucker already checked out the doctor, so you wouldn’t be asking her the same questions, right?”

Angel tried to make sense of the disjointed monologue, while Lou Marker entered the parking area. He parked his patrol car, got out and nodded at them as he strode toward the building. “Nothing new this morning, huh?”

Angel shook her head. “Not yet. Something will turn up.”

He looked doubtful. “Any other news you want to share?”

“No.”

He gave her one of those bobbing head moves that said he thought she was keeping something from him, but before she could say anything else, he walked past them and entered the building.

Etta waited until the station door closed behind Lou. “He’s heard it too. News travels fast in a small town. So, it isn’t true?”

“No.” However, Angel had contemplated a way to start that very rumor and then serve herself up to the killer as bait. Had someone actually helped her accomplish the goal? “Who said I fit the profile?”

“Elijah Lewis.” Etta’s tone rang with distaste. “He pointed out that everyone saw you get sick at the crime scene and that FBI folks should be accustomed to things like that, so you shouldn’t have gotten sick, which does make sense, you’ve gotta admit, though I hadn’t thought about it before. And then he said he saw you this morning going into Dr. Weatherly’s place, and we all know Tucker had checked out the doctor’s information and that he’d already finished with that, so why would you go too...unless maybe you weren’t going for the case?”

“I’m not pregnant.” Angel wondered how many people she’d have to convince before the day ended, thanks to Elijah Lewis. Who had he already told? And in a town the size of Macon, how long until the entire county knew? Not very long. “And for the record, lots of ‘FBI folks’ toss their cookies. We’re still human.” Although Angel had never gotten sick before at a crime scene; however, she attributed her response to the fact that Vickie Jones had been murdered by the same man that killed Angel’s mother.

“Oh well, you’d better get inside then and try to stop the wildfire.”

“Wildfire?”

“Captain Pierce. He said if there’s any way that you fit the victim criteria, he’s demanding they take you off the case.”

Angel’s eyes widened. If the FBI wanted her on the case, she’d be on the case, whether the Captain agreed or not. However, she planned to set the record straight. “I’ll talk to him now, and if you see that nosey photographer before I do, tell him to keep his theories to himself.”

“I’ll tell him, but I don’t see that it’ll do much good now,” Etta said with an apologetic shrug. “The deed has been done. I mean, when people ‘round here grab hold of something juicy, they’ve gotta tell it. And as far as most of them are concerned, a rumor is about the closest thing we get to the gospel truth. Think about it; no matter how many times Tucker tries to tell folks he couldn’t have committed his wife’s murder and how many times the police said he had an airtight alibi, people still whisper behind that sweet man’s back. Ticks me off, but that’s the way it is. If you say you ain’t got a bun in the oven, I’ll believe you, but if Captain Pierce and the other folks in there have already heard it—and they did see you run outside to lose your lunch at the crime scene—something they figure an FBI guy, or gal, wouldn’t do...”

“I told you, FBI guys—and gals—are human. Some toss it at a crime scene.” Though Angel typically didn’t.

Etta held up her palms and her bangles jingled down her forearms. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m telling you the truth. There’s a lot of people who won’t believe you’re not pregnant until several months pass.” She frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t try so hard to fatten you up with my banana nut bread until all of this settles. Wouldn’t want to fuel the fire.”

“Until all of this settles? There’s nothing to settle. I got sick after seeing a woman’s dead body; I went to a doctor’s office after learning her patients were at risk. I’m
not
pregnant. There’s nothing to settle.”

Etta nodded, but her big brown eyes said she didn’t agree. “Well, we’ll see.”

“Just how many people could Elijah have told, anyway? I left the doctor’s office less than an hour ago.”

“Don’t take no time to make a phone call or two, or ten.” Etta laughed. “But like I said, we’ll see. I just thought I should point out that it may not matter whether you talk to the captain; some folks are going to keep an eye on you, and your belly, for a while.”

Angel pressed her flat stomach. Pregnant? She wouldn’t know the first thing about caring for a baby.

They joined a couple of cops and crossed the parking lot, listening to the two men discuss their theories regarding the recent murder. One thought the killer knew both victims; the other wagered he didn’t, that he picked them because they fit the criteria. Angel didn’t comment. One held a door open for Angel and Etta, then the two men continued down the hallway while still discussing their theories. Etta brushed her hands together, muttered “Good luck,” and headed toward the dispatch desk, while Angel turned her thoughts from the killer to her so-called pregnancy. Then she made a beeline for Pierce’s office.

With the door open, Angel stepped inside assuming he’d sense her presence and ask her to sit down.

He didn’t even notice he had a guest. Instead he banged at his keyboard, his face drawn together as though he stared at a killer on the screen.

“Captain Pierce.” She stood her ground when he turned to glare.

“I’m emailing Hawkins. If the rumor is true, there’s no way you should be working on this case.” He stopped typing to look at her. “Well?”

“I’m not pregnant, and I’m surprised you’d even consider emailing Leon before talking to me.”

His mouth dipped at one corner, and he ran a hand across the back of his neck while he grimaced. Then he closed the email window and turned toward Angel. “You didn’t say anything about going to Weatherly’s office this morning, and you said you’d keep us informed of all case proceedings.”

“I decided to follow up with Weatherly on my own. No offense, Captain, but the FBI doesn’t have to inform you of our every move. I tell you what I do as a courtesy, not a requirement. And, for the record, I am not pregnant.”

He sighed. “This case is taking a lot out of all of us. We don’t want five more lives on our hands at the end of this year.”

“It’s ten lives when you count the babies.” Angel knew those babies counted. She
was
one of those babies, after all. The only one that survived his attack. “And trust me, the FBI feels the same way; however, even if I were pregnant they wouldn’t remove me from the case. I’ve done too much work and researched this killer too thoroughly to walk away now, for any reason.”

“But you’re not pregnant. That is what you said.”

“Right, I’m not. No way, no how.” However, in the back of her mind Angel remembered her brief fling with Stan Carlton and realized that there was a slight chance…

“Hold on while I call Marker. All we need is for the paper to get wind that we have a blonde, single and pregnant female working the case.” He twisted in his chair and snatched his phone, then proceeded to tell Lou Marker that their profiler didn’t, as Etta said, have a bun in the oven.

Angel sat in Pierce’s guest chair and waited. Elijah Lewis had wasted no time spreading the word, if Lou Marker had been the one who told the captain. How far had this thing already gone? And would Marker even believe the captain when he told him the truth? She’d seen the way he looked at her in the parking lot, like she had a big, juicy secret. Chances were that some people wouldn’t believe that Angel didn’t fit the killer’s criteria until several months passed and her stomach didn’t hit a full bloom.

Then again…if they did believe the rumor, couldn’t she use that to her advantage? Sure, she could deny it, but even so, some people would still believe it as fact until proven otherwise. Why couldn’t she use their natural instinct to turn this case around? She’d wanted to be proactive. You couldn’t get more proactive than becoming what the killer wants in a victim.

And what if she actually was? No, surely not. She’d only been with Stan once.

Aunt Carol’s words of warning when Angel had been a wild and rebellious teen whispered through her mind once more
.

It only takes once, Angel.

Angel had told her aunt the truth back then; she wouldn’t do anything to get pregnant, because she wouldn’t bring a baby into a world like this. She’d said she never wanted to have kids, and she wouldn’t.

But what if she was now? What if she’d inadvertently become the exact thing their killer wanted? A blonde, single and pregnant female.

She hadn’t told Pierce how the FBI caught the Oklahoma City killer. Her skin still tingled when she recalled entering the restaurant then getting the call that she’d left her lights on. It’d almost been too easy. She called her backup, waited until they were at the ready, then walked outside.

For a split second, she thought she’d messed up. From the previous attacks, she believed he wouldn’t strike until she reached her car. Wrong. She’d barely cleared the entry of the restaurant and started down the tiny tree-covered path leading to the parking area when his body cinched hers against his, the lower arm squeezing her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, while the other hand clasped over mouth and nose.

Thankfully her FBI training kicked in full force. By the time her backup got there, less than five seconds flat, the guy was already sucking wind from her heel to his groin. So much for her fellow profilers saying her flexibility wouldn’t come in handy. She’d bet a year’s salary he hadn’t seen
that
move coming. And because she’d been willing to play bait, Bennie Buzan had established permanent residence in the H Unit of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary.

Angel hoped by the end of this case, the Sunrise Killer found himself in an equally fitting residence. Oklahoma’s H Unit housed the “worst of the worst” inmates in an underground concrete bunker, making the prison escape-proof. Inmates were locked down twenty-three hours of every day with only an hour’s exercise provided in a caged yard. Most H Unit prisoners had minimal contact with other human beings for the duration of their term, which Angel thought perfect for a man like Bennie Buzan, who’d raped and tortured eight women before he’d been caught.

The Sunrise Killer deserved an equally severe punishment. In fact, he deserved worse, much worse. And Angel would love to deliver it. Although she wouldn’t take the law into her own hands, she could help in his capture, in much the same way she’d done with Bennie Buzan’s fate.