The Dark Corners of the Night

by Meg Gardiner

They all wore their game faces. Focused, purposeful, ready to work. Caitlin knew what they’d given up to be here today. Rainey had planned to take her boys to an ice hockey training camp. Emmerich’s daughter Lily was supposed to arrive home from UVA for winter break. Keyes had gone to San Diego to spend the weekend with a friend—or maybe lover—and had caught the Amtrak back to LA.

  Behind his Ray-Bans, Emmerich’s face was flat. He stood beside the Suburban, hands on his hips, seeming to download information about the scene in silent gulps.

  “Blue-collar, aspirational community,” he said.

  “Another safe neighborhood,” Caitlin said.

  Rainey gazed around. “It was.”

  Keyes had on a slouchy gray ski cap, his hair squirreling in curls from beneath it. His black frames provided a sharp counterpoint to his pale skin.

  “Safe is the operative word,” he said. “For everybody.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned in a slow circle. “Working-class neighborhood, ethnically mixed but majority Anglo, low crime rate. Nothing exciting about Bay Rise, but it does have good schools and parks and Vietnamese restaurants where you can get decent pho.” He peered up the street. “Families live here, and they mean to put down roots. It’s not transient.”

  “You’re saying it’s not just residents who feel safe here?” Rainey said.

  “Precisely that. This attack site is the farthest the UNSUB has traveled from the center point of his nearest buffer zone. It’s a definite stretch, in terms of pure mileage. But.”

  He paused to make sure he had their attention—which was unnecessary, given that he was virtually jittering.

  “But remember? When defining an offender’s comfort zone, raw distance from his home base isn’t the only consideration.”

  Emmerich nodded. “Terrain, access to transport, road conditions, all matter.”

  “So does security. An UNSUB is much less likely to attack in areas where he personally feels at risk.” Keyes pointed toward downtown. “Between the Midnight Man’s buffer zone and this little suburban street, the metro is solidly built up. There are no swamps or firepits. But there are parts of town where a white offender—especially a very young one—might be concerned that he’d be noticed and identified.”

  “Compton,” Rainey said. “Watts.”

  “I’m guessing his mental map told him to stick to the 110 freeway and drive straight past cities where he would feel uncertain about being seen on the street alone late at night. Where he might be regarded as suspicious. Maybe he was concerned about his personal safety in communities of color. Maybe he just didn’t want to stand out.”

  Caitlin said, “Huh. White boy been told all his life to stay out of South Central.”

  “Basically.”

  Keyes was practically bouncing on his toes. Caitlin felt his nervous energy leaching into her. Rainey’s lips were pursed. Emmerich was breathing slowly, the way he did at the firing range when sighting on targets. They all felt a sense of urgency.

  “So he’s territorial, but his comfort zone extends farther than we’d thought,” Caitlin said. “And he’s gaining confidence, expanding his range.”

  “Definitely.”

  Emmerich turned toward the Guillorys’ house. “When Hannah scared off the Midnight Man, she likely saved her parents’ lives.” He stopped for a beat, seemingly considering the luck, and bravery, that had taken. “But that’s not all she did. She frustrated the UNSUB. His urge to kill must be intense.”

  “He’s pent up and pissed off,” Caitlin said. “When he lashes out again, it’ll be furious.”

  “It’ll be soon,” Rainey said. “An adolescent won’t control his urges for long.”

  “Days, possibly,” Emmerich said.

  Keyes rocked on his toes. “The two buffer zones in the geographic profile could represent the killer’s home and school. Or, if he’s from a divorced family, mom’s house and dad’s.”

  Relief and validation coursed through Caitlin. The entire team supported her conclusion about the UNSUB’s age.

  At the Guillory house, the curtains on the front window swept open. A woman stood inside, half hidden by the noontime glare, black ponytail, arms hanging at her sides.

  “Hannah’s mom,” Caitlin said. “Let’s say hello. I don’t want her to think we’re surveilling her. And I know what it’s like to be on the other end of an FBI stare.”

  She glanced at Emmerich. She had first seen him standing beside a Bureau SUV at a crime scene, abrading her with his gaze. She’d felt dissected. And at the time, she’d been a cop.

  Keyes said, “I’ll meet you back here in a minute.” He walked up the road toward the T-junction at one end.

  Caitlin crossed the street with Emmerich and Rainey. A cold wind gusted. The woman in the window backed away from the glass. By the time they came up the walk, she stood at the open front door.

  “Just got my little boy down for a nap, so let’s keep our voices low. You are?”

  She wore Uggs and jeans and ten silver rings in her left ear, along with one in her nose. Her face said she was done dealing with this havoc for the foreseeable future.

  Caitlin extended her hand. “Special Agent Hendrix.”

  After a second’s hesitation, the woman shook. “Mina Guillory. You were at the police station.”

  Caitlin introduced Emmerich and Rainey, and said, “We don’t want to intrude further on your day. We do want to assure you of our concern. We’re working to help the police apprehend the suspect.”

  Mina Guillory stepped onto the porch and softly pulled the door shut. “Then why are you here?”

  Emmerich removed his sunglasses. “The more we see firsthand, the more we can infer about the perpetrator. The better the police can target their investigation. The sooner it’ll be over.”

  “You figure why he targeted us, let me know.” She nodded at the door. “Hannah’ll be telling all her friends. They have a kids’ squad gonna keep us all safe.” She lowered her voice even further. “She’s probably in the hall, listening. What I want is for you to figure how to keep him from coming back.”

  “We want this to end ASAP. We’re doing everything we can.”

  Mina raked her gaze up and down him. Maybe she’d noticed he made no promises.

  “Please see everything there is to see. Inspect it with a microscope or a psychic or a Geiger counter. Then do me a favor and drive downtown to discuss it. Because the longer you’re here, the likelier that one of the neighbors will post photos online. Of you. And the house. And us.” She propped a fist on a hip. “And before you know it, we’ve got news choppers overhead and conspiracy theorists shouting that we’re crisis actors making this up, while my four-year-old reverts to sucking his thumb and Hannah hides in her room building serial killer traps out of darts and fishing wire.”

  Emmerich nodded sharply.

  Mina opened the door and stepped back inside. “And thanks for getting Hannah breakfast. She said the cop waffles were good.”

  She shut the door.

  26

  The team walked across the street toward their vehicles. Keyes said, “I need to see more of Bay Rise. We should find the nearest Denny’s.”

  Rainey gave him some side-eye. “That’s an oddly specific piece of information to feed into the algorithm. Even for you.”

  “No. I’m ravenous.”

  They ended up getting deli takeout and carrying it back to their hotel, where the staff opened a conference room for them. Caitlin grabbed coffee and silverware from the restaurant. Gathered around a conference table, they dug into salads and fat sandwiches.

  Emmerich set a pocket notebook on the table, its edges lined up with his knife. “We need to reexamine the profile of the Midnight Man, and we need specialist analysis. Juvenile multiple-murderers are beyond my depth of expertise.”

  He adj
usted the notebook, though Caitlin thought it was already perfectly aligned to North on the compass and perhaps to the center of the galaxy.

  She removed her tablet from her bag. “Let’s get the professional in on the conversation.”

  Dr. Jo Beckett answered the video call within a few seconds. “Happy Saturday, Agent Hendrix.”

  “Got ten minutes to put on the government tab?”

  Jo was in line at a busy San Francisco coffeehouse, surrounded by animated conversation and the clatter of mugs. Behind her a wide window gave a view toward the piers. A cable car rolled past, bell ringing.

  She took in Caitlin’s tone and expression. She put an earbud in. “Shoot.”

  “We suspect that the UNSUB is a juvenile, and perhaps the son of a law enforcement officer.”

  The forensic psychiatrist’s face registered both alarm and rabid curiosity, before she varnished it back to neutral. “Hang on.”

  Taking her coffee, she pushed through the door onto a narrow street. The sky was puffy with white clouds. People passed her, bundled up and ruddy-cheeked. It was the day Caitlin should have been enjoying in the Bay Area herself.

  Jo checked the street for traffic, jogged across, and headed to a pocket-size park. “Fill me in.”

  Caitlin introduced the others, summarized the evidence, and explained how she had come to suspect that the Midnight Man was in his teens. Jo sat down on a park bench in the sunshine, brow furrowed, drinking her coffee.

  “We’re not one hundred percent certain the Midnight Man’s a teenager, but …”

  “Intuition, experience, and circumstantial evidence leads you that way,” Jo said. “What do you need from me?”

  “Tell me if I’ve run off track through a guardrail,” Caitlin said. “And if I haven’t, tell us how being so young would affect the UNSUB’s behavior—and the risk he presents to the public and law enforcement.”

  Jo stared into the distance, thoughtful. Then turned to Caitlin.

  “You’re not off track. Vandalizing police cars with the slingshot and ninja rocks is a classic bit of juvenilia. The fact that the behavior is repeated and enthusiastic suggests that it’s literally childish,” she said. “I work with prisoners. The guys who are down for murder are overwhelmingly young, but they’re men—by the time they reach San Quentin they’ve abandoned those kinds of pranks.”

  “Even murderers in their early twenties don’t behave like this, you’re saying.”

  “Rarely. I think there’s a high probability you’re correct about his age.”

  Emmerich leaned in. “Doctor Beckett, your analysis of the UNSUB’s malignant paranoia guided our development of the profile.”

  “This new information doesn’t change my assessment. That was based on his crime scene behavior. It holds,” Jo said. “And if he’s a juvenile, it doesn’t make him less dangerous. Quite the opposite.”

  “Lack of a lengthy time horizon, immature impulse control, the feeling that all the world is a playground,” Emmerich said.

  “That, mixed with the painstaking care he takes to eliminate forensic evidence and evade detection. He’s not just highly knowledgeable. He’s cagey. Sly. Smart. That makes him a deadly adversary,” she said. “And I need to emphasize a particular aspect of malignant paranoia.”

  “Sadism,” Emmerich said.

  “These people derive pleasure from inflicting pain on others. When they strike out, they’re not merely preempting imagined attacks on themselves.”

  “They enjoy causing suffering and humiliation,” Emmerich said.

  She nodded. “Sadism, of course, isn’t unique to malignant paranoia. And I suspect your next question is about antisocial personality organization.”

  Rainey pulled her chair closer to the screen. “Psychopathy?”

  “That’s the jackpot question, and I can’t officially answer it. Because people under eighteen cannot medically be given that diagnosis.”

  “Semantics,” Rainey said.

  “Sometimes. I’ll get to that. First let’s talk about some differences between antisocial and paranoid personalities.” Jo’s hair whipped in the wind. “They’re both highly concerned with issues of power. But for distinct reasons.”

  Caitlin said, “Exercising power against authority figures bolsters a paranoid’s ego and reduces their feelings of fear. Have I got that right?”

  “Yes. Whereas a sociopath’s entire psychological defense system can be built around exerting command as a way to deny and avoid shame—in the sense that they don’t want ever to reveal what they regard as weaknesses.”

  Rainey said, “I thought psychopaths didn’t feel shame. Have no conscience, so don’t even recognize it.”

  “Lack of conscience manifests in their absence of attachments to other people,” Jo said. “What they want is to influence people—to get over on them. Their greatest desire is to parade their power. Sociopaths will outright brag about their crimes. Scams, con jobs, robberies. You all know that—they can readily confess to homicide if they think it will impress you.”

  “To a shocking degree,” Rainey said.

  “But these same people will lie and conceal comparatively trivial offenses—compulsive masturbation or stealing a couple of bucks from a murder victim’s pocket.”

  “Because they think it makes them look pathetic.”

  Jo nodded. “A sociopath’s primary psychological defense is omnipotent control. Exerting sway, projecting dominance. Above every other aim, wielding power takes precedence. Because it defends their psyche against shame.”

  Emmerich crossed his arms. “And it can present as malignant grandiosity.”

  “In cruel ways. They share sadism with malignant paranoids.”

  “And when somebody’s personality mixes paranoia and sociopathy?” Caitlin said.

  “It’s vital to know whether an offender is primarily paranoid or primarily sociopathic. Communicating with them will be tough in any case, but impossible with someone who’s deeply paranoid,” Jo said. “A sociopath might assume that outreach from you is an attempt to get something from him. He’ll think you’re working an angle—because he is. If you act with absolute honesty, you can sometimes break through and get him to begin a dialogue.”

  She brushed her hair from her eyes. “But paranoids assume from the get-go that you’re planning to betray and attack them. They analyze every word and gesture for hidden motives. They presume you’re lying and sabotaging them. So the more you know about how the Midnight Man’s personality’s organized, the better you’ll be able to predict his behavior. And choose your tactics if you engage him in pursuit. Or, God forbid, if he ends up with hostages.”

  Emmerich’s eyes were sharp. “Juvenile psychopathy.”

  Jo drank her coffee and peered across the park before answering. “That’s a diagnosis no doctor wants to give. It’s a label that’s simply too horrifying to apply to kids. So pediatricians and child psychiatrists don’t. The APA doesn’t recognize it in the DSM-5. Because it’s worse than telling parents their kid has inoperable cancer. It’s a hopeless diagnosis that carries not just a stigma but actual moral horror.”

  “And yet,” Emmerich said.

  “By the time certain young people reach legal adulthood, they’ve been diagnosed in ways that tell the story. Conduct Disorder with Callous Traits, for one. They’ve often been analyzed, drugged, arrested, incarcerated, institutionalized, and fended off with actual sticks by their terrorized families. Sometimes they’ve planned elaborate mass casualty attacks. Think of Eric Harris.”

  Columbine. Keyes rubbed his eyes.

  “Juvenile psychopathy is both tragic and extremely dangerous. It arises from a mix of nature and nurture—brain architecture and the child’s home environment. It’s not insanity. It’s a poverty of compassion that manifests in cold calculation,” Jo said. “It’s incurable. And from everything you
’ve told me, it fits the Midnight Man.”

  Caitlin scraped her knuckles across her forehead. She wasn’t surprised, but felt a strange sense of sorrow mixing with her anger.

  Emmerich spoke pensively. “A juvenile psychopath with paranoid traits. That means there’s almost no way of building trust with the UNSUB. If we try to contact him, he won’t listen to us.”

  “No,” Jo said.

  The wind gusted over her and clouds covered the sun. A storm was blowing into San Francisco.

  “His sadistic tendencies and malignant paranoia have elements of fanaticism,” Jo said. “The way he draws eyes, wanting people to see—he has a message for the world, and he’s not going to back off from it. He’s grandiose and intensely angry.”

  “He’s a piece of work,” Caitlin said.

  “I wouldn’t use that terminology in an official report. But yes.”

  Emmerich spread his hands at the team. None of them had any other questions.

  “You’ve been extremely helpful, doctor. I appreciate your time,” Emmerich said.

  “If you need me, you know how to reach me.”

  “Thanks, Jo,” Caitlin said.

  Jo gave Caitlin a lingering look. “Good luck.” She ended the call.

  The room abruptly felt flat and strangely empty—maybe of hope.

  “Suspicious, violent, sneaky, and smart,” Rainey said.

  Emmerich spoke distantly. “Familiar with counterforensics, and so well-informed about local police procedure that he apparently takes advantage of shift changes and the boundaries between dispatch sectors.”

  “Not just hypervigilant and knowledgeable,” Caitlin said. “Young, strong, quick, and willing to take physical risks like so many teenage boys.”

  Keyes spread his hands on the table. “Say it. He’s a terrifying opponent.”

  Rainey’s expression was veiled. She seemed uncertain and unnerved. “It’s like he’s a freshly made vampire. A creature of the night. He’s wild with bloodlust and has eyes that see in the dark.”

  The table fell silent. Keyes pushed his plate away.

  WFS, Caitlin thought. Weirder Fucking Shit, every day.