The Pawn

by Steven James

  It was perfect. Especially considering the rest of the governor’s schedule for the week—appearances at the Pentagon, National Press Club, and a visit to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. In fact, the governor’s speaking schedule was one of the reasons he’d moved the plans to Monday instead of the original date in November.

  He grazed the scar with his finger one last time. That afternoon with Jessie had been the first time he’d seen just how far someone would go to prove the depth of her beliefs. Of her love.

  But it would not be the last.

  Alexis and Bethanie hadn’t understood that. He’d had to spend another $120,000 to take care of them and to keep the plans alive. But in the end it was worth it.

  Every time he touched his scar, it was as if he were reliving those moments with Jessie, those dreams of youth, all over again. Caressing them.

  Some moments are meant to be caressed forever.

  He smiled, pulled the shirtsleeve back over his wrist, and headed off to the Alexander Bros. Trucking Company to ship the vats of blood to Theodore.

  29

  As we drove higher and higher into the mountains, Lien-hua told me what they’d found out about Jolene overnight—which wasn’t much. I tried to keep the facts of Mindy’s case separate from Jolene. It wasn’t easy, but that’s the nature of this business. Often you need to juggle two, three, five or more cases at a time. I almost never have the luxury of having only one corpse or missing person on my mind.

  I told Lien-hua about how the Illusionist was connecting the crimes for us, and I tried to summarize Tucker’s latitude and longitude theory. She listened quietly, then asked, “How does Agent Tucker know about all that stuff? I mean, the chess notation systems and the touching-the-piece thing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he plays chess.”

  Once again she was quiet, thoughtful.

  Ralph had told her about the phone call I’d received last night from the Illusionist. She asked a few follow-up questions about it and scribbled observations in her notebook as I answered.

  “How does all this fit in with what you know about the offender?” I asked.

  “Most serial killers are sexual predators, but this guy doesn’t seem to be. He cares for the bodies, washes them—and I don’t think he does that just to get rid of physical evidence. He doesn’t rape his victims—either while they’re alive or postmortem. It’s more about power and control than sex. Calling to taunt you on the phone is consistent with that.”

  And now for the big question. “So, could you run through the profile for me?”

  “You actually want to hear the profile?”

  Careful, Pat.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Hmm. OK. Well, I’ve been revising it all morning in light of Jolene’s abduction. It helped me pass the time while I rode back from Charlotte with two very large, very hairy state troopers. I think they were both named Bubba.”

  I smiled.

  “I should mention I don’t like doing verbal profiles. Too many details get lost, forgotten, misunderstood . . .”

  “I promise that whatever you say will not be held against you.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Intimately.”

  Hmm. I’m not sure that came out right.

  Or maybe it did.

  “Give me a few minutes to collect my thoughts.”

  We drove in silence up the winding road toward Arrowhead Mountain. I was anxious to hear what she had to say but forced myself not to bother her. After about twenty minutes Lien-hua looked up from her notes.

  “OK,” she said. “Here we go. Looking at the style of killings and the demographics of crime in this region of the country, I’d say he’s Caucasian. Definitely male. Based on the sophistication of the crimes, the organization displayed, and the intricate way he’s linking the crimes for us, I’d say our offender is older, probably late thirties, early forties. He’s experienced. These aren’t the first crimes he’s committed, but he hasn’t been caught, hasn’t served time. He works alone, no partner.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Our guy is proud of his work, confident, arrogant. As you noted from his phone call, narcissistic. He wouldn’t want to share the limelight with anyone. He works solo. High birth order, possibly an only child.”

  “What about military service?”

  “No, he would look at it as beneath him. Too menial.”

  Hmm. She was pretty good.

  “He’s not trying to hide the identities of the victims in any way. He wants us to know who he killed and even when she died—though I don’t know why yet. His behavior at the scenes is very ritualistic. The posing, the yellow ribbon, the clues from his next victim, and the chess piece are all part of his signature. It’s all very elaborate, very specific. But yet each crime is unique. And everything he’s done, including the phone call, speaks of his need to control others.”

  “Hang on. Back up a minute.”

  “What?”

  “Signature. I’ve read some conflicting research on it. Apparently, it’s not as stable as they used to think.”

  She wavered her head back and forth to show me she wasn’t convinced. “Still inconclusive. Basically, whatever an offender does at a crime scene that he doesn’t need to do in order to commit the crime tells us something about him, about his past or his priorities—his goals. That’s his signature. Does he commit overkill by stabbing the victim more than necessary? That shows rage. Does he mutilate the bodies in a specific way, take a unique souvenir from the victims, or leave clues for the police? That’s all signature. Modus operandi is more the way he commits the crime.”

  “But neither MO nor signature is completely static or consistent,” I said.

  “Right.” She cleared her throat slightly. “So let me give you a little test, Dr. Bowers. Why do MO and signature change?”

  Easy. No problem.

  “Well, in every series of crimes you have escalation and adaptation,” I said. “In addition, sometimes offenders change how they commit a crime and what they do at the crime because of the victim’s reaction. For example, if a woman struggles with a rapist, he might bring a knife to the next crime to threaten his victim, or some kind of restraints to subdue her. Changes in his life situation, personal injuries, traumas, things like that affect killers just like they affect the rest of us. Or he might begin to take steps to destroy or reduce physical evidence after he comes under suspicion or is interviewed or tested for DNA by the police.” I paused, thinking. “OK, how did I do?”

  “I’d give that a B+.”

  “What? Why not an A?”

  I liked the way we’d slipped into bantering with each other. It felt natural, comfortable to be talking with her.

  I aimed the car toward the curve of the road up ahead. A splash of early morning sunlight landed on the windshield.

  “You left out experience,” she said. “Just like in any profession, he gets better with experience.”

  Man, and I knew that one too. “OK,” I said. “You win.”

  She consulted her notes again, smiling slightly. “No blitz attacks, which tells me he’s able to gain the trust of his victims. Probably a smooth talker, very manipulative. He keeps records of the crimes, writes about them. Maybe in a journal or a diary, or even a blog. His need to control women leads me to believe he’s been married and might still be, but if he is, his wife doesn’t know about his double life. He’s addicted to power, domination, and control, but the irony is that even though he prides himself on being in control, he can’t control himself. He can’t stop. He can’t resist showing off.”

  So far, despite my natural tendency to discount profiles, I couldn’t argue with anything she’d said. It all seemed to fit.

  “He’s forensically aware, maybe even served in law enforcement. An observation: apart from the first murder, none of the abduction sites were the same as the murder sites or the dump sites. He might be doing that to confuse u
s, or to show off, I’m not sure yet. His elaborate cat-and-mouse tactics and ability to steal from his future victims and the whole incident at the mall show a high degree of premeditation and versatility—breaking and entering, robbery, stalking, abduction, murder. This man has a high IQ—above average for sure, maybe even genius level. He’s familiar with the area and probably lives nearby, or went to high school or college here at some point.”

  I nodded. “That fits the geographic profile.” The turnoff to the trail was just ahead; I slowed down and eased up the dirt road that led to the trailhead. “The farther a body is from a main road, the more likely it is the offender is local and familiar with the area,” I said. “It’s a pretty stable pattern in geo profiling.”

  “Dr. Bowers, why do you always say derisive things about profiling but then refer to your work as geographic profiling? You’re a profiler too.”

  Ouch. That hurts.

  “No need to get personal,” I said. “After all, I thought we were friends.”

  She cleared her throat. “Based on how he responded to you at the mall, I’d say he works in a job that requires good judgment and quick thinking. And he’s able to compartmentalize this area of his life. His co-workers wouldn’t even have a clue about the killings. He’s been doing it for a long time, Pat, and he’s not going to stop until the day he dies or the day we take him down.”

  Now she was talking my language. I pulled over to the edge of the road and stopped next to a sign announcing that we had arrived at Upper Ridgeline Trail.

  We climbed out of the car, and I grabbed the backpack filled with my climbing gear.

  “You think you’ll need all that?” she asked.

  “Never know,” I said, heaving the pack onto my shoulders. “There are a lot of cliffs in the area; we may need to get a different perspective on the scene. By the way, I’m impressed with your profile. Really. I am. Usually profilers just repeat what we already know about a crime. I think you’ve uncovered some of what this guy is really about.”

  “Why, thank you, Dr. Bowers,” she said politely. “So what’s my grade?”

  “B.”

  “Wait a minute, I gave you a B+.”

  I grinned. “I know. I think you grade on the curve.”

  The sun was blazing through the liquid sky, burning off the lowlying fog and lighting up the patchwork of autumn colors covering the mountain range. A few clouds had found their way into the morning sky and wandered around just east of us. It had rained last night, and the ground smelled damp, pungent. A little musky. All around me the rain-washed brightness of the day seemed solid enough to touch.

  Lien-hua stuffed some Forest Service maps into her pocket, closed the car door, and headed for the woods. “C’mon,” she said. “The trail starts over here.” Then she added, “And that was at least a B+.”

  30

  The Illusionist set down the duffel bag, rang the doorbell, and waited.

  He’d delivered the first package earlier, on the way to work, but had decided to wait with this one, just for fun. Just to make things more interesting.

  He’d kept it in the trunk of his car for the last couple hours, and only now, during his coffee break, was he slipping out to deliver it. Yes, it was a little riskier this way, but he wasn’t worried. Not one bit. Everything was still on schedule. After all, he knew how to plan the perfect crime. He’d done it before. So many times before. And he’d never been caught. Never!

  The door creaked open. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” said the Illusionist. “You can die.” Then he whipped out his Glock and put a bullet through the man’s forehead before the guy could even stop furrowing his eyebrows.

  The Illusionist picked up the duffel bag, entered the house, and closed the door.

  The secret wasn’t to be clever. No, clever criminals get caught all the time.

  He unscrewed the silencer and holstered his weapon.

  The secret lay in misdirection. Make them look at one hand while you hide the coin in the other.

  Misdirection and planning, actually. Because when they see the coin isn’t in your right hand, they’ll immediately look to the left one. So you have to anticipate their reaction and be able to show them that the coin isn’t in that hand either. Aha! That’s the thing. The coin was really in your right hand all along.

  Misdirection. Control. Meticulous planning.

  Leaving the duffel bag at the front entrance, he dragged the dead man’s body down the hallway and into the bedroom closet.

  Where are you going to direct their attention? That’s the question. Where do you want them to look? Just like in a game of chess. All of life is a complex game of strategy; moves, and countermoves, taking and losing pieces, setting up for the final endgame. Landing a new job. Getting a date. Negotiating a contract. Life boils down to studying your opponent and thinking through his moves and then finding a way to position the pieces to your advantage. And that’s what the Illusionist did best!

  After positioning the body, he retrieved the duffel bag and carried it into the bedroom.

  Yet only a fool would think he could figure out the whole game before his opponent has moved. No, instead, the best players are the ones who respond to how the other player moves. The key to winning the game isn’t in how well you can reason, but in how well you can respond. Yes. Because no one can guess every possible future move. Of course not. It isn’t possible to predict the whole game. You have to be able to improvise. To adapt. That’s where most killers fail.

  That’s how the Unabomber got caught. He just couldn’t stay in the shadows, had to show everyone how clever he was. And then he wrote it all out so the whole world could see. So that his brother could see and turn him in. And then the game was up. No, you must not be clever. You must be controlled.

  Anticipation. Calculated response. Self-control.

  That’s how you stay one step ahead of the audience.

  He unzipped the duffel bag and removed the contents. He placed them on the treadmill in the corner of the room and then stepped back to view his handiwork.

  Perfect.

  After Alice, he would be free to move on. No longer under suspicion at all. Not ever again. The game would simply move to a new place, a new board, with a new set of players. Maybe California next time. Yes, he’d always wanted to visit the West Coast. Or Oregon. That might be nice. Follow in the footsteps of Bundy and Ridgeway. Yes, that might be just the place to go. Have his name mentioned in the same breath as theirs.

  No, wait.

  Have theirs mentioned in the same breath as his.

  The Illusionist smiled. It was almost scary to be this good. Almost frightening to be this far ahead in the game.

  He grabbed the empty duffel bag and made his way to the first door. The morning was cool and still. He pressed the door open and waited just inside the entryway for a few moments, scanning the neighborhood.

  The house provided wonderful cover, and he was certain he hadn’t attracted any attention, but it was always better to make sure. To be cautious.

  He slipped outside, walked the three blocks to the place he’d parked his car, started the engine, and headed back to his day job. Misdirection.

  Sleight of hand.

  Watch and be amazed.

  The show was about to begin.

  31

  The 1.5-mile uphill hike from the trailhead to the meadow where we found Mindy would normally take about half an hour, but we were going slowly, carefully. I was trying to imagine the Illusionist walking up this trail with Mindy. Did you really carry her all this way? Or did she walk? If so, why didn’t she fight you? How did you get her to trust you?

  Lien-hua spoke, echoing my thoughts. “She walked with him, didn’t she?”

  “I think so. It’s too far to carry a body uphill.”

  “Did he force her? Restrain her somehow?” she asked.

  “Maybe. There were some bruises on her wrists, but the indentations were shallow. He didn’t drag her. He might have
tied them postmortem.”

  “Then how did he subdue her while he strangled her over and over again?”

  “I don’t know.” I’d started panting a little as we hiked but tried to hide it so Lien-hua wouldn’t notice. I stopped and readjusted my pack. “He might have used threats of violence. She had a younger sister, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah. She’s eight.”

  “Maybe that’s it. He might have threatened to hurt the girl. I don’t know. We may never know.” I started walking again. “We can check on it, though, see what her relationship with her sister was like.”

  Sunlight dangled in between the branches of the trees, dancing across my face. We hiked for a few minutes in silence, and then Lien-hua said, “I found your views on motives very interesting, Dr. Bowers.”

  Ah, the briefing yesterday.

  “So when you say ‘interesting’ do you mean ‘fascinatingly compelling,’ or are you just using the word ‘interesting’ to try and disagree with me politely, the way most people use it?”

  “Hmm. Well, since you put it that way, I choose option number two.”

  “The ‘I don’t agree with you but don’t want to stir up trouble’ usage.”

  “Yes. Honestly, I’m surprised that you believe motives play such a minor role in life.”

  We stepped into a sheltered cove protected by ancient trees, some of which must have been over a hundred years old. I could see by the abundance of younger growth that the rest of the hillside had been logged years ago. These hidden coves up in the mountains must have been too hard for the loggers to reach.

  “Well,” I said, “I think there are only three primary motives, and none of them are very helpful when it comes to solving a crime.” “Just three, huh?” I sensed a bit of amusement in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “And they are?”

  “Desire, anger, and guilt.”

  “That’s it?”