The Pawn pbf-1

by Steven James

  “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 us, 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 be
droom 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?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Just those three?”

  “Yup. Think about it. Take them one at a time. Desire: people want fame or sex or money or power. Even revenge is a form of desire. Think of how many crimes result from lust, greed, envy, jealousy, or ambition. All just different names for desire.”

  “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “OK. And anger I’ll agree with.”

  “Yeah. And of course there’s guilt, which speaks for itself. We all have to find a way to deal with our regrets and our shame, or we implode.”

  She pushed a branch out of the way. “It may surprise you to hear this, but I agree with those three. However, I think you missed the two most important ones.”

  “Oh. Well, I find that very…” I waited until the branch had snapped back into place before following her. “Interesting. And they are?”

  She stopped walking, let her eyes crawl along the trail for a few seconds. At last, she raised them to peer at me, and I could see that they were filled with deep channels of pain. “The first is fear, Dr. Bowers. Sometimes people do terrible things because they’ve been pushed into a corner. Fear can turn us into different people.”

  I didn’t say anything, but the questions rose in my mind, What are you afraid of, Lien-hua? What happened? Did you do something terrible too? “OK,” I said at last. “Fear. I’ll give you that one. What’s the second one?”

  She turned and continued down the trail. “Let’s see if you can guess the most important motive on your own.”

  Before I could even venture a guess, we came to an overlook just north of the crime scene. The trail skirted along the edge of a steep escarpment, the mountain ending abruptly at our feet and dropping hundreds of feet straight down to the river. I hadn’t noticed this overlook on our hike out to the trailhead on Thursday because of the thick fog that had ushered in the storm.

  “Survival?” I asked.

  She shook her head, her attention riveted on the view. “That falls under desire-the desire to live. Now, shh… don’t spoil this. It’s beautiful.”

  I followed her gaze. The valley swept out before us and then rose majestically to become autumn-tinged mountains, endless and alive. The valleys wandered through the mountain range, each with their own unique patchwork of shadows cast by the community of clouds gathering high overhead. A blaze of sunlight ignited each cloud, making them glow even more brightly against the steel blue sky.

  I remembered, years earlier, another wilderness guide telling me that “Appalachian” comes from a Native American word that means “endless
mountains”; and staring out across these mountains I couldn’t help but get the impression that they really did fold back endlessly into space and time. The planet’s ancient origami left over from the days when the continents folded together.

  The breeze was constant here, rising from the valley, washing up and over us; the gentle morning breath of the hills. I wondered what it would feel like to stand here when the wind was still. What kind of solitude that must be to have the day decide its shape all around you, sky and shadow and peak and valley all draped in deep and primal silence.

  “Maybe that’s why he chose it,” I whispered after a few moments.

  “What?” She turned to me.

  “Beauty.”

  “You think he chose this place because of the beauty?”

  “Because of the paradox.” I looked at her. The wind blowing up and over the peak was whispering through her hair, letting it escape from gravity for just a moment, feathering it around her head in slow motion, easy and free. “Humans can’t seem to enjoy beauty without destroying it.” I was transfixed by the sight of her. “This trail, for example, cutting through the forest. It’s the only way to experience the solitude of this peak. But the trail also mars the very thing it allows us to enjoy-the scenery. I think beauty frightens us into destroying the things we admire most.” Our eyes met for a fraction of a second too long, that one tiny piece of time that says more than words can say. “That’s the paradox.”

  She looked away. “The medical examiner placed the time of death right about now.” Her voice had become efficient and professional. She stepped back from the edge of the mountain, and her hair returned to normal. Life returned to normal.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “Let’s go.” And then I followed Lien-hua to the place Mindy died, while thoughts of death and beauty, of Christie’s memory and Lien-hua’s presence, wrestled in my mind.

  32

  We entered the clearing where Mindy Travelca had been found dead beneath a tree two days ago, and I set down my backpack.