by Alex Kava
18
WILL slammed the front door. For a moment, his anger gave way to concern while he checked to make sure he hadn’t broken anything. The glass looked antique. Not that he would know such things. But he had noticed that Tess McGowan had a taste for antiques.
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 shots would surround herself with old lace, carved mahogany and 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 when he held her in his arms. She had curled into his body as though finding some long-sought shelter.
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 glanced up at 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.
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. 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.
Will jammed the key into the ignition. It had been a hell of a night, one of the most passionate, 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 lucky. 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 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 she not see the betrayal in his eyes? How fucking stupid was he to risk throwing away the past four years for one night of passion?
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. 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 number to memory, then headed back to Boston.
19
THE conference room went silent as Maggie walked through the door. “Good morning,” she said, buttoning her jacket. “I’m Special Agent Margaret O’Dell with the FBI. I’m a criminal profiler with the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico. This workshop focuses—”
“Wait a minute, ma’am,” a man in the second row interrupted.
“Yes?”
“No disrespect, 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 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.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Maggie said, “but I’m him.”
“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.”
“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.
“Let me take a shot here,” she said, 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. Your wife 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 shuffled in their chairs to get a look at his shoes. She failed to point out the subtle indentations in his close-cropped hair from too many hours 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 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 tugged at the jacket and brought out his badge.
“All lucky guesses,” he said to Maggie. “Whatcha expect from a roomful of cops?”
“You’re absolutely right.” Maggie nodded as eyes came back to her. “There’s a certain profile that goes with being a cop. Just like there’s a certain profile that goes with being a serial killer. You can use that knowledge as the foundation for a profile.”
Finally she had their attention.
“However, the tricky part is looking beyond the obvious, picking apart and examining tidbits that might seem insignificant. Like, for instance—I’m sorry, Officer, would you mind telling me your name?”
“What? You mean you can’t guess that?” he smirked.
“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.
“I’d wonder,” she continued, “why your wife had bought clothes for you that were the wrong size.”
Suddenly Danzig sat still and quiet.
“I’d ask myself if there was a reason.” From the rising color in his face, her guess was that Danzig and his wife had not shared a bed for some time. Perhaps there had even been a temporary separation, one that included him eating a few more fast-food meals. That could account for the extra pounds. Instead of embarrassing him, she simply said, “I’d guess your wife finally got fed up with the outdated navy suit in the back of your closet.”
The others laughed, and Danzig looked around at them, smiling with relief. But when his eyes met Maggie’s, she saw a hint of humbled awareness.
“It’s also important not to get bogged down by the stereotypes. There are a handful of stereotypes that seem to be perpetuated with serial killers. Anyone care to guess what some of those 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 mental cases. That’s not necess
arily true, right?”
“Right. Many serial killers are intelligent, well educated and as sane as you and I.”
“Excuse me,” a graying detective 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.
“I’m not saying some of these killers aren’t crazy, but it’s a mistake to believe they have to be insane to do the things they do. Killing for them is a conscious choice. Their crimes are all about dominating and controlling their victims. It’s not usually because they hear orders from a three-thousand-year-old demon living inside a dog.
“If they were nuts, it wouldn’t be possible for them to carry out their elaborate murders over and over again—to perfect their methods and 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. “What about motive?” she asked instead. “What are some of the stereotypical motives?”
“Sex,” a young man in the back said loudly, enjoying the laughs that the word drew. “Don’t most serial killers get some sexual gratification from killing, just like rapists?”
“Rapists and serial killers use sex and violence in much the same way,” said Maggie. “Both are powerful weapons used to degrade the victim. Some serial killers even start out as 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 casually, yet she could feel the tension in her muscles, an involuntary reflex 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.”
“Hold on,” a detective 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. He’s with the D.A.’s office in Boston now.”
Maggie retreated to the front of the room, hoping the distance would shield her. Five months ago, the cocky, small-town sheriff had been a thorn in her side from the day she arrived in 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?
20
TULLY was trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes when he heard the tap on his open door.
“Agent Tully, you’re here late.”
Assistant Director Cunningham wore shirtsleeves, but still carefully buttoned at the wrists and collar, whereas Tully’s sleeves were rolled up in uneven folds.
“I was waiting for a phone call from the medical examiner,” Tully explained.
“And?”
The assistant director leaned against the door, and Tully wondered if he should clear off one of the chairs. He sorted through his stack of notes, not wanting to depend on his memory, which at this time of night had shut down like a computer hard drive.
“The girl…the young woman had an incision in her left side that extended to the small of her back about four inches long. Dr. Holmes said it was very precise, almost as if he had performed surgery on her.”
“Sounds like our boy.”
“He removed her spleen.”
“A spleen isn’t very big, is it? It looked like there was much more in that pizza box.”
“Our victim hadn’t eaten much that day, so her spleen was fairly small. Dr. Holmes said that some of the pancreas was also attached.”
“Were there fingerprints found anywhere at the scene?”
“Yes, we got two pretty good ones—a thumb and an index finger. But they’re not matching Stucky’s. It seems as though they were left behind on purpose. The entire rim of the Dumpster was wiped down, and then there are these two fingerprints right smack in the middle. It may end up being a rookie cop’s. If it is, we’ll know in the next twenty-four hours.”
Cunningham frowned. “Double-check Stucky’s file. Make sure the prints haven’t been altered or that there were any computer mistakes. If I remember correctly, Agent O’Dell was finally able to identify him because of a fingerprint Stucky left behind. But it took us a while to identify it at the time. Someone hacked into the county computer system and switched the prints on file.”
“I’ll double-check, sir, but we’re not dealing with a county sheriff’s computer here. We’re checking these against prints on AFIS, taken directly off Stucky.” Automated Fingerprint Identification System was the FBI’s master database. Though it networked with local, state and federal agencies, dozens of precautions were in place against computer hackers.
“You’re probably right,” Cunningham conceded with a fatigue Tully hadn’t witnessed before.
“Sir, I haven’t found anything that would suggest Stucky is trying to send some sort of message by which organ he extracts. I wonder if I’m missing something.”
“No, you’re not missing anything. Stucky does this for shock value,” Cunningham said.
“Did he study to be a surgeon at some point?” Tully flipped through a file Agent O’Dell had put together on Stucky’s past. In many ways it read like a résumé for a Fortune 500 executive.
“His father was a doctor.” Cunningham wiped a hand over his jaw. Tully recognized the gesture as something his boss did when exhausted and trying to retrieve information from his vast memory bank. “If I remember correctly, Stucky and his partner started one of the first online stock-trading companies. Made millions and has it stashed in foreign banks.”
“If we could track some of those accounts, maybe we could track him.”
“The problem is we’ve never been able to find out how many different accounts he has or what names he uses. Stucky’s sharp.”
“Even Albert Stucky makes mistakes.”
“Let’s hope so. Have you found anything on where the victim may have been taken?”
Again, Tully dug out his notes, scrawled on everything from a napkin to a paper towel from the restroom.
“We know she was taken before she finished her route. There were some customers who called complaining they hadn’t received their pizzas. The manager is working on getting me a list of the addresses she was to deliver to.”
“Why is that taking so long?”
“They write down the addresses as the orders are phoned in. The delivery person takes the only copy.”
“Doesn’t seem very efficient.”
“It’s probably never been a problem until now. The lab is trying to raise the addresses from the indentations on the notepad page underneath. Of course, our best bet is if we find the victim’s car. Maybe the lists will have been left behind.”
“Any luck finding the car?”
“Not y
et. I got the make, model and plate number from DMV. Detective Rosen put out an APB. Nothing’s shown up so far.”
“Have Reagan National and Dulles airport security check their long-term parking lots.”
“Good idea.” Tully jotted another note to himself, this time using the cash-register receipt from his lunch.
“He had to take her someplace,” Cunningham said, lost in thought. “Somewhere he could have plenty of uninterrupted time with her. I’m guessing he didn’t go far from where he apprehended her.”
“The thing is, sir, I’ve driven around within a ten-mile radius of where the body was found. The whole area is this picture-book community. We’re not going to find any abandoned warehouses or condemned buildings.”
“It’s also easy to miss the most obvious place. You can bet Stucky will be gambling on us doing just that. What else do you have?” he asked more brusquely now, suddenly in a rush.
“There was a cell phone recovered from the Dumpster. It was reported stolen a few days ago from a local mall. I’m hoping it’ll lead us someplace, depending on what calls were placed.”
“Good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.” Cunningham started to leave. “Now, you need to go home, Agent Tully. Spend some time with your daughter.”
“Sir?”
Cunningham stopped halfway into the hall.
Tully wasn’t sure how to ask. “Should I give Agent O’Dell a call?”
“No.” The answer was brisk and firm.
“But, sir, she might—”
“What part of my answer did you not understand, Agent Tully?”
Again, his manner was firm without raising his voice. Then he turned and left.
21
MAGGIE had never seen two men put away more ribs than her FBI buddies. Their compulsion to compete with each other was ridiculous. Maggie recognized it was no longer for her benefit, but was now extended to their new friends. Detectives Ford and Milhaven encouraged Turner and Delaney like spectators at a major sporting event. Ford had even placed five dollars on the table for the first man who would clean his plate.
