Split Second (25 page)

W
ill slammed the front door, rattling its beveled glass. For a brief moment, his anger gave way to concern while he checked to make sure he hadn’t cracked or broken anything. The door looked old but solid. The glass looked custom-made, maybe antique. Not that he would know such things. But he had noticed that Tess McGowan had a taste for antiques. Her small cottage was decorated with an eclectic mix, creating a soothing, comfortable environment. He had felt incredibly warm and cozy waking up and being surrounded by lavender sheets and wallpaper with tiny little violets.

Last night when she invited him in, he had initially been surprised. He would never have guessed that the wild, passionate woman who had shamelessly hustled him at pool while throwing back tequila shooters would surround herself with old lace, hand-carved mahogany and what looked like original watercolors. But after only one night, he knew Tess McGowan’s home was a reflection of a woman who was as passionate and independent as she was sensitive and vulnerable.

It was that unexpected vulnerability that had made it difficult to leave. It had surprised him last night—or was it already early this morning—when he held her in his arms. She had curled into his body as though finding some long-sought-after shelter.

He scraped a sleeve over his face in an attempt to wake up to reality. Christ! Where did he come up with this crap? Vulnerability and finding shelter. He sounded like something out of a fucking chick flick.

He got into his car and immediately glanced up at what he knew to be the bedroom window. Hell, maybe he expected her to be standing there, watching him. But it was easy to see no one was standing behind the sheer curtain.

He felt angry again, used. It was ridiculous. He was the one who had picked her up. His friends had dared him, goaded him into one last fling before his impending wedding. A wedding that at one time seemed far into the future was now suddenly less than a month away.

At first he did it simply to shock his friends. They’d never expect good ole’ Will, the eternal choirboy, to flirt with any woman, let alone a woman like Tess. Geez, maybe he needed some new friends, ones whose maturity levels weren’t stuck back in college. But he couldn’t blame them for his stupidity last night, nor for his going as far as he had. Nor could he say he’d had too much to drink, because unlike Tess, he had known exactly what he was doing from start to finish.

He had never met anyone like Tess McGowan. Even before she shed her conservative black shawl and started shooting pool with the bar’s owner, Will thought she was the sexiest woman he had seen. It wasn’t like she was a knockout or centerfold-sexy. She was definitely attractive, with thick, wavy hair she wore loose and down to her shoulders. And she had a good body, not like some bulimic model, but with plenty of curves and amazing shapely legs. God, he got hot just thinking about her. Just thinking about running his hands over the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.

Back at Louie’s, long before he had up-close-and-personal access, it wasn’t those curves so much as it was the way she moved—it was the way she carried herself that had gotten his attention. His and everyone else’s. And it was like she enjoyed the attention, enjoyed putting on a show, hiking her dress’s skirt up to her thighs to take a shot while straddling the corner of the table. Every time she leaned over her pool cue, the strap of her dress slipped off her shoulder, the silky fabric allowing just a peek at her voluptuous breasts captured behind black lace.

Will shook his head and jammed the key into the ignition. It had been a hell of a night, one of the most passionate, erotic, exciting nights of his life. Instead of being angry, he should be patting himself on the back that Tess McGowan was letting him off with no strings attached. He was a lucky bastard. Hell, he hadn’t been with another woman since he and Melissa had started seeing each other. And four years of sex with Melissa couldn’t come close to one night with Tess.

He glanced up at the bedroom window again, and caught himself hoping Tess would be there. What was it about this woman that made him not want to leave? Was he simply imagining that there had been some connection, some special bond? Or had it just been sex?

He checked his wristwatch. He had a long trip back to Boston. He’d be pushing it to get there in time for dinner with Melissa and her visiting parents. It had been the only reason he had taken off a precious Monday from his brand-new job. And here he was, miles away from Boston and miles away from even thinking about Melissa.

Christ! How would Melissa not see the betrayal in his eyes? How fucking stupid was he to risk throwing away the last four years for one night of passion? So if it was such a mistake, why hadn’t he left already? Why couldn’t he get Tess’s fragrance, the taste of her skin, the sounds of her passion…why couldn’t he erase it all? Why did he want to go back up and do it all over again? That certainly didn’t sound like a remorseful guy. What the hell was wrong with him?

He shifted the car into gear and peeled out of her driveway, letting his frustration squeal the tires. He swerved into the street and almost sideswiped a car parked at the opposite curb. Briefly the man behind the wheel glanced up at him. He wore sunglasses and had a map spread over the dash as though he was looking for directions. Tess’s neighborhood was blocks away from any major thoroughfare. Immediately, Will wondered if the guy had been watching the house. Was it possible this was the owner of the expensive sapphire ring Tess wore on the wrong hand?

Will checked the rearview mirror and took one last look at the car. Then he noticed it had District of Columbia license plates instead of Virginia. Maybe because it was a little odd, maybe because he was a new assistant D.A.—hell, maybe it was just out of curiosity about the type of man who thought he owned Tess McGowan. Whatever the reason, Will committed the license number to memory, then headed back to Boston.

T
he conference room went silent as soon as Maggie walked through the door. Without hesitating she continued to the front, disappointed to find the room arranged for a lecture. Chairs were set side by side, all facing the front of the room instead of at long, narrow tables as she had requested. She preferred more of a business setting where she could scatter crime scene photos in front of the participants. Where they felt more comfortable discussing rather than simply listening. However, the only table in the room was filled with coffee, juice, soft drinks and an assortment of pastries.

She felt her audience’s stares as she pulled up a chair for her briefcase. Then, she began digging through the contents, pretending to search for something she had to have before she could start. Instead, she was waiting for her stomach to settle. She had eaten breakfast hours ago, and never got nauseated anymore before presentations. But her lack of sleep and several additional Scotches in her room last night, long after Turner and Delaney had left her, now punished her with a fuzzy head and a dry mouth. It was definitely not a good way to start a Monday.

“Good morning,” she finally said, buttoning her double-breasted jacket. “I’m Special Agent Margaret O’Dell with the FBI. I’m a criminal profiler with the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico, which some of you may still refer to as the Behavioral Science Unit. This workshop focuses—”

“Wait a minute, ma’am,” a man in the second row interrupted, shuffling uncomfortably in a chair that was too small to accommodate his considerable size. He wore tight trousers, a crisp, short-sleeved button-down shirt that stretched across his swollen belly, and scuffed shoes that refused to look new despite a fresh polish.

“Yes?”

“No disrespect intended, but what happened to the guy who was supposed to give this workshop?”

“Excuse me?”

“The program…” He looked around the room until he seemed to find encouragement from some of his comrades. “It said the guy wasn’t just an FBI profiler, but an expert in tracking serial killers, a forensic psychologist with, like, nine or ten years’ experience.”

“Did the program actually say this person was a man?”

Now he looked puzzled. Someone beside him handed over a copy of the conference’s program.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Maggie said, “but I’m him.”

Most of the men simply stared at her. One woman in the group rolled her eyes in empathy when Maggie looked her way. Maggie recognized two men in the back. She had briefly met the Kansas City detectives Ford and Milhaven last night at the Westport bar and grill. Both men smiled as though they were in on her secret.

“Maybe they should say that in the program,” the man persisted, trying to justify his objection. “They don’t even use your name.”

“Would it matter?”

“Yeah, to me it would’ve. I came here to learn some serious stuff, not listen to some desk jockey.”

Her evening dosage of Scotch must have desensitized her emotions. Instead of feeling angry, his chauvinism simply made her feel more exhausted.

“Look, Officer—”

“Wait a minute. What makes you think I’m an officer? Maybe I’m a detective.” He shot a smug grin to his buddies, giving himself away and reinforcing Maggie’s initial assessment.

“Let me take a shot here,” she said, walking to the center of the room, standing in front of him and crossing her arms. “You’re a street cop in a metropolitan area, but not here in Kansas City. You’re used to wearing a uniform and not business attire, not even business casual. Your wife packed your bag and picked out what you’re wearing now, but you’ve gained some weight since she last bought anything for you. Except the shoes. You insisted on wearing your beat shoes.”

Everyone including the officer shuffled in their chairs to get a look at his shoes. She failed to point out the subtle but permanent indentations in his close-cropped hair from too many hours spent wearing a hat.

“You’re not able to carry your weapon at the conference, but you feel lost without your badge. It’s inside your jacket pocket.” She motioned to the tan jacket hidden by his hefty bulk and draped over the back of the chair. “Your wife also insisted on the jacket, but again you’re not used to wearing one. Not like perhaps a detective might be used to wearing a jacket and tie.”

Everyone waited as if watching a magic act, so the officer reluctantly twisted around, tugged at the jacket and brought out his badge to show them.

“All lucky guesses,” he said to Maggie. “Whatcha expect from a roomful of cops?”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Maggie nodded as eyes came back to her face, still waiting, still testing. “Most of what I said might be seen as obvious. There’s a certain profile that goes along with being a cop. Just like there’s a certain profile that goes along with being a serial killer. If you can pinpoint what those characteristics are and which ones apply—though some of them may seem obvious—you can use that information, that knowledge, as the beginning foundation for a profile.”

Finally she had their attention, and with their minds diverted from what she looked like to what she was saying, her entire body began to relax, to access some auxiliary energy and override her initial fatigue.

“However, the tricky part is looking beyond the obvious, picking apart and examining small tidbits that might seem insignificant. Like, for instance, in this case—I’m sorry, Officer, would you mind telling me your name?”

“What? You mean you can’t guess that?” He smirked, proud of what he considered a quick comeback and drawing a few laughs from the others.

Maggie smiled.

“No, I’m afraid my crystal ball leaves out names.”

“It’s Danzig, Norm Danzig.”

“If I were to examine your profile, Officer Danzig, I’d try to break down everything I did know.”

“Hey, you can examine me all you like.” He continued to play with her, enjoying the attention, while looking at his buddies instead of Maggie.

“I’d wonder,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “why your wife had bought clothes for you that were the wrong size.”

Suddenly Officer Danzig sat still and quiet.

“I’d ask myself if there was a reason.” From the rising color in his face, Maggie knew the reason was one he didn’t care to expose. Her guess was that he and his wife had not shared a bed for some time. Perhaps there had even been a temporary separation, one that included Officer Danzig eating a few more fast-food meals. That could account for the extra pounds his wife hadn’t expected when she purchased his clothes for the conference. Instead of embarrassing him with her theory, she simply said, “I’d guess your wife finally got fed up with you wearing the same outdated navy blue suit that you keep in the back of your closet.”

The others laughed, and Officer Danzig looked around at them, smiling with relief. But when his eyes met Maggie’s, she saw a hint of humbled awareness. His subtle show of appreciation was the slightest shift in his chair, crossing his arms, facing the front of the room as if finally ready to give her his full attention.

“It’s also important not to get bogged down by the stereotypes.” She began her ritual pacing. “There are a handful of stereotypes that seem to be perpetuated with serial killers. We should start by laying some of those to rest. Anyone care to guess what some of those stereotypes are?”

She waited out their silence. They were still summing her up. Finally, a young Hispanic man decided to take a shot.

“How about the idea that they’re all crazy. They’re total mental cases. That’s not necessarily true, right?”

“Right. In fact, many serial killers are intelligent, well educated and as sane as you and I.”

“Excuse me,” a graying detective from the back of the room interrupted. “Son of Sam claiming a Rottweiler made him do it, that’s not mental?”

“Actually it was a black Labrador named Harvey. But even Berkowitz later owned up to the hoax when profiler John Douglas interviewed him.

“I’m not saying some of these killers are not crazy, what I am saying is that it’s a mistake to believe they have to be insane to do the things they do. When, in fact, killing for them is a conscious choice. They are masters of manipulation. Their crimes are all about dominating and controlling their victims. It’s not usually because they hear orders to kill from a three-thousand-year-old demon living inside a black Lab.

“If they were simply nuts, it wouldn’t be possible for them to carry out their elaborate murders over and over again—to perfect their methods and still avoid getting caught for months, sometimes years. It’s important to recognize them not as deranged crazies, but for what they are. What they are is evil.”

She needed to change the subject before she got carried away with a sermon on the effects of evil. How there was a shadow side to everyone’s human nature; a shadow side that was capable of evil. But to discuss it always led to the question of what made some step over the line, while others dared not. After years of examining evil, Maggie hadn’t a clue what that answer was.

“What about motive?” she asked instead. “What are some of the stereotypical motives?”

“Sex,” a young man in the back said loudly, enjoying the sudden attention and laughs that the single word drew. “Don’t most serial killers get some sexual gratification from killing, just like rapists?”

“Hold on,” the one woman challenged. “Rape isn’t about sex.”

“Actually, that’s not a true statement,” Maggie said. “Rape is very much about sex.”

Immediately there were a few sighs, some disgruntled shakes of heads as though they expected this from a woman.

“Rape is very much about sex,” she repeated, ignoring their skepticism. “It’s the one variable that distinguishes rape from any other violent crime. No, that’s not to say that rapists rape simply for sexual gratification, but yes, they do use sex as one of their weapons to achieve their goals. So it’s wrong to say rape isn’t about sex when sex is definitely one of the weapons they use.

“In fact, rapists and serial killers use sex and violence in much the same way. Both are powerful weapons used to degrade the victim and gain control. Some serial killers even start out as serial rapists. But somewhere along the line they decide to take it a step further to achieve their gratification. They might begin by experimenting to reach different levels, starting with torture, working up to strangulation or stabbing. Sometimes that’s not enough, so they begin different rituals with the dead body. That’s when you see cases like the Pied Piper who sliced up his victims, made stew and fed it to his other captives.

She caught several of them grimacing. Skepticism seemed to be replaced by morbid curiosity.

“Or in Albert Stucky’s case,” she continued, “he began to experiment with different rituals of torture, slicing off victims’ clitorises or nipples, just to hear them scream and plead with him.”

She said these things calmly and casually, yet she could feel the tension in her muscles, an involuntary reflex as her body seemed to prepare for flight or fight anytime she thought of Stucky.

“Or you find more solemn rituals,” she said, trying to expel Stucky from her mind. “Last fall in Nebraska, we tracked a killer who gave his young victims their last rites after he strangled and stabbed them to death.”

“Hold on,” Detective Ford interrupted. “Nebraska? You’re the profiler who worked on that case with the dead little boys?”

Maggie cringed at the simplicity of his description.

“Yes, that was me.”

“Morrelli was just telling us about that case last night.”

“Sheriff Nick Morrelli?” An unexpected but pleasant flutter invaded her already tense body.

“Yeah, we all went out for ribs last night. But he’s not Sheriff Morrelli anymore. Turned in his badge for a suit and tie. He’s with the D.A.’s office in Boston.”

Maggie retreated to the front of the room, hoping the distance would shield her and prevent them from witnessing her sudden discomfort. Five months ago, the cocky, small-town sheriff had been a thorn in her side from the day she arrived in Platte City, Nebraska. They had spent exactly one week chasing a killer and sharing an intimacy so palpable, just the thought of it was able to generate heat. Her class was staring at her, waiting. How was it possible for Nick Morrelli to dismantle her entire thought process by simply being in the same city?