by Leslie Wolfe
“The whiteboard is outdated for the most part,” she started to explain, looking at her scribblings with an uneasy feeling. If she’d known he was able to see it, she would’ve taken a few minutes to update all the information written on it. “Everything else except the victimology matrix is—”
“I believe you’ll agree the personal vendetta scenario is out,” Bill said. “I like your approach to figuring out the unsub’s desired outcome. Let’s not delay this anymore; let’s talk about his motive. Have you decided, Tess? Is he a lust killer? Or power assertive?”
She hesitated a quick moment before replying. If wrong, that apparently simple choice could alter the profile to the point of making it 100 percent incorrect, and lead everyone on a wild goose chase. Yet in her gut, she knew exactly what the Taker wanted.
“Stripping his victims naked and posting their photos online threw me off in the beginning; I believed he was a lust offender evolving to a murderer, probably fueled by impotence and some other stressors in his life. Not anymore,” she added, feeling more confident with each word she spoke. “He’s a malignant narcissist, lusting for power and recognition, who is enraged by anyone getting the public’s attention more than he does.”
“You speak of rage, but he’s calm, organized, thorough, and an effective stalker with unlimited and quick access,” Bill said.
“He is all those things, but he’s also enraged,” Tess replied. “Only he’s figured out that rage won’t work, if he wants to inflict maximum damage. He’s a cold-blooded psychopath, a sadist, although he doesn’t come across as one; his crimes aren’t violent; there hasn’t been a single drop of blood spilled, but there will be, I promise you. Rage is one hell of an emotion to control at length, no matter how organized you might be.”
“You say he’s a sadist,” Fradella intervened, “are you saying there have been other nonviolent sadists?”
“I’m saying this one thrives on his victims’ psychological pain. The agony he inflicts is prolonged, refined. He’s almost… feeding off it somehow. Probably that’s why he maintained active video surveillance in Christina and Estelle’s homes, to witness their pain.”
“Then why kill Deanna?” Fradella asked. “How does that play with his need to cause long-term psychological pain?”
“He’s escalating,” she replied with a slight shrug. “He’s discovering who he is, and in that process, his taste evolves; his rage is nearing the surface, ready to explode in violent bloodshed.”
“I don’t see it,” Fradella said, lowering his gaze for a moment, “I’m sorry. I thought he could very well be a lust offender, one with excellent understanding of forensics, and the self-control to refrain from raping the victims, concerned with a higher risk of getting caught.”
“Have you seen his latex suit?” Tess asked. “Penetration could happen with such a suit; that’s how they’re used in some forms of sexual cosplay. But he’s not touching those girls; that’s not what he’s after.”
“Could he be homosexual?” Fradella asked. “The only time I’ve seen body latex like his was in a gay magazine,” he said, veering his eyes sideways, seemingly uncomfortable with his statement.
“That’s a possibility, yes,” Tess said, and for a moment she explored the thought, trying to ascertain how plausible that scenario was. “It would explain the lack of sexual interest in the victims, his disdain for these young women, his need to diminish their value, his sense of being in competition with them for the love and attention of other men.”
“What is he after, Tess?” Bill asked, and she could hear a hint of pride, of satisfaction in his voice. “What does he really want?”
“He’s out to prove to anyone who will listen how these girls are unworthy of their fame, and he’s the only one who should be followed and adored. There’s something to be said about exposing them for the world to see. It’s almost like he offers them naked for anyone to abuse, at least with their eyes, if not in their minds.”
“Keep going,” Bill said. “You’re on to something.”
“Fame is the key component in this profile. He’s an authentic taker of lives; he seizes their lives and destroys them, even when he allows the victims to survive. He destroys them from all perspectives, so thoroughly and so completely that not even after death they can be respected or cherished.” She stopped for a moment, waiting for questions, but none came. “He deserves his moniker.”
“He’s got a well-defined type,” Fradella said. “If he’s choosing them because of their fame, how do you explain that narrow victimology?”
She grinned. “I don’t explain it; we all do,” she said, and Fradella’s eyebrows shot up. “When we choose the people we like, the actors we love the most, the singers, the models, what do we normally see?”
“You mean, it’s because of the type of people who become famous?”
“I’m saying, if you were to put all famous female entertainers on a matrix, what would be the most common traits?”
“Caucasian, young, fair-skinned, light-colored hair, almost always long and wavy,” Fradella replied. “It kind of makes sense, because white Americans are the racial majority, at more than 73 percent, if I remember correctly.”
“It goes deeper than that,” Tess replied. “The population in the twenty-two or so northern states and Florida can be traced back to German ancestry. It’s possible that with that ancestry, the preference for a certain physiognomy has become engrained in our culture, leading to a higher likelihood of Caucasian blondes to attain social acceptance and professional success, especially in socially driven entertainment like American Idol or beauty pageants.”
“You’d expect more of a Latin influence here, in Florida,” Fradella replied.
“You would, and that influence is starting to show as our society becomes more open to diversity, and so does our culture. It’s a process of transformation.”
“But you still believe the unsub is white?” Fradella asked.
“Most offenders are active within their own racial group; we rarely see cross-racial attacks, so, yes, I believe he is white, despite the fact that white serial killers haven’t been the majority since the eighties. For our current decade, African Americans hold the pole position, with almost sixty percent of all offenders caught.”
“Let’s finalize the profile,” Bill said. “We brought up impotence a number of times, as a potential explanation for the lack of penetration. Do you believe he’s impotent?”
“N—no,” she replied. “In lust-motivated, impotent offenders we see symbolic penetration, most often stabbing of the victim. Stabbing is a penetration substitute, but I thought we agreed he’s not lust-motivated.”
“We agreed,” Bill said, and she heard that smile in his voice again. “I’m going over every aspect of his MO and signature; call it an inventory, if you’d like. I want to make sure these characteristics fit within our categorization as a power-assertive killer.”
“Fair enough,” she replied.
“Do you think he’s jealous of his victims?”
“He might be,” Tess replied, after giving the question a moment of thought. “But I believe he’s after fame himself. In the new world, people will do anything.”
“What do you mean?” Fradella asked.
She stood and grabbed a new bottle of water from the table. She would’ve loved another cup of coffee, but she didn’t have the patience to wait for it to brew. She had a bitter taste in her mouth, leftover from the tortilla chips.
“Let’s face it, crime isn’t what it used to be only a decade or two ago. Crime used to make more sense, used to be personal, primal, and basic. A crime of passion was an easy solve: almost always a rejected lover or spouse. People killed other people for clear, strong motives, not out of boredom or to prove themselves. Random killings have ruined crime-solving rates in the past twenty years. Drive-by shootings, dares between teenagers, gang initiation rites, we’ve all seen those.”
“Yes, but I don’t see how that ties in to
serial homicide,” Bill said, and this time Tess was the one to smile. He was testing her thought processes, while providing a sounding board for her theories.
“We’ve seen people do crazy things to gain followers on social media, regardless of channel. Some injure themselves in the process, or even die. As the devastating effects of social media continue to shape our psychology, we see others try it every day, more and more desperate to gain access to the apparently endless, internet-provided, narcissistic supply of adulation. That’s why I believe the unsub isn’t necessarily jealous of anyone in particular; he just uses these high-profile targets to assert himself, to prove they weren’t worthy, but he is.”
A long moment of silence filled the room.
“I believe you’re ready to release the profile,” Bill said. “Before you call everyone in, tell me, how do we catch someone like that?”
“Donovan is working on the fame aspect of his victims, trying to narrow down a target pool with enough precision to allow us to prevent his next attack and catch him in the act. That won’t be easy though, seeing how effective his surveillance has been thus far. Fradella is working the social media angle, looking for any shred of evidence that could help us explain the access he gains to the victims and their families. Somewhere, someone posted something mentioning a man who appeared in their lives and the ruse he used. As for me, I’ll prod him into making a mistake.”
“How, exactly?”
“I’ll try to jeopardize the one thing he’s killing for: his fame.”
35
Tactical Plans
The conference room was full of people, standing room only, and more had dialed in on the open conference line. Captain Cepeda had spoken with SAC Pearson earlier and took the seasoned FBI investigator’s recommendation to expand the profile release to Broward, Miami-Dade, and even Monroe Counties. The conference line chimed whenever someone new dialed in, and they kept joining. There were a few more minutes until the announced starting time.
Tess gathered her notes and prepared a quick list of items she wanted to cover and a few action points she wanted clearly communicated and thoroughly understood. The Taker of Lives wasn’t an unsub who would let a mistake slide. One screw up, one tiny mishap, and he’d disappear, never to resurface again in their area, or with that same MO.
Right on the hour, Tess cleared her throat discreetly and leaned forward a bit, to be closer to the conference phone.
“Thanks for calling in or attending,” she said. “For those of you who don’t know us, I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI, and we have Supervisory Special Agent Bill McKenzie on the line with us from Quantico.” She paused for a moment, allowing Bill to take over.
“Hello,” Bill said. “It’s late, so we’ll get right into it. We believe we have a serial killer currently operating in South Florida.”
Tess let the subsequent wave of whispers and comments subside. “We’re looking at a highly intelligent, organized, and tech-savvy Caucasian male, five-eight to five-ten. He’s well-integrated into society, holds a good job, is well-liked and respected.”
Another wave of rumblings from the room. Everyone expected serial killers to be long-bearded, one-eyed loners who wore rags and lived deep inside the Everglades somewhere, or on a remote mountain. No one could really stomach the idea of integrated psychopaths walking undetected among church-going folk or drinking water from the banal office cooler, so people, and that included cops, did what people do best when they can’t handle something: they pretend it didn’t happen.
“This unsub gains immediate, unrestricted access to properties occupied by relatively famous young women. He most likely is using an effective ruse and, based on his ability to gain immediate trust and access, must be above-average good-looking. He’s twenty-five to thirty, maybe a little older, but not by much. He’s overly concerned with the image he projects, so his clothes are impeccable, and his vehicle clean, accessorized, new.”
She watched the cops in the room, as they scribbled notes quickly and glanced in her direction every now and then. “There’s a relatively low likelihood this man is a homosexual, but it could happen to be the case.”
A young cop raised his hand, and she nodded in his direction.
“How many women has he killed?”
“Only one that we know of—”
Another wave of murmurs grew, and one woman’s voice rose above it. “Isn’t a serial killer supposed to have killed at least three people before we can call him that?”
“Our latest guidelines allow us to categorize an unsub as a serial killer if we detect certain behavioral clues in his MO and signature. Additionally, this unsub has assaulted two other victims, one of which consequently took her own life. We believe that was his intention with both his earlier victims, to murder them indirectly.”
The room suddenly fell quiet.
“We are confident he will escalate,” Bill’s voice came across the conference system. “He’s a fame-seeker and will stop at nothing to garner the attention he obsessively craves. He’s posting photos or video of his crimes online, and he’s got millions of Dark Web followers.”
“He’s sophisticated and incredibly bold,” Tess added. “He assaults and kills his victims while other family members are sleeping in the house, probably chemically subdued with something as superficial as Rohypnol. After he leaves, no one remembers he’s been there.”
“And how do you suppose we’ll catch this guy?” an older detective from Broward County asked. “You’re describing an everyday, middle-class, white guy who drives a nice car.”
“We won’t catch him by the way he looks; that information is more for elimination purposes,” Tess replied. “We will catch him by organizing the force into ready-to-act groups, located in certain areas of the city, and encrypting communications he’s most likely listening to.”
“Not sure I follow,” a Miami-Dade County sergeant said, tentatively raising her hand at the same time.
“Our analyst is working with Palm Beach County Detective Fradella in identifying a small pool of highly probable subjects who might be the unsub’s next target. We will share those names with you, and to each name we will assign a number. As soon as we have confirmation of a target, we’ll communicate with you by radio, and the respective team will go in.”
“Our main objective is to ensure reduced response time,” Captain Cepeda intervened. “We’ll have teams conducting speed enforcement in the proximity of all the target addresses, all shifts. We will use coded communication, announcing a chemical spill with potentially explosive risk at the TGV chemical plant across town, then we will follow that with a reservoir number. That number corresponds to a name on your list, and that’s where the assigned team will respond.”
“What if TGV really blows up, and none of us respond?” a young uniform asked, grinning crookedly like a real smartass.
“If TGV really blows up,” Cepeda replied, with a deep furrow of his brow, visibly irritated by the man’s insolence, “you won’t hear a reservoir number; instead you’ll hear us say, ‘this is not a drill.’ Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, his grin still lingering.
Another hand in the air, and Tess invited the middle-aged detective to speak.
“How many potential victims are on that list, and when do we start executing this tactical plan?”
“We don’t know yet,” she replied, after a brief hesitation. “Our analyst is still working to refine it. We don’t want the list to be too long, but we don’t want to omit any potential target either.”
“How would you know who he’s after next?”
“The unsub has a well-defined type, young Caucasian women under the age of twenty-seven, who are famous in some way.”
A few subdued comments of disbelief circled the room.
“There are three kinds of people living in Florida,” a Miami-Dade County detective said with a patronizing tone he was trying to pass as humorous. “Drug dealers, famous people
, and retirees.”
“Yeah,” a few others interjected, sprinkling bits of laughter here and there.
“As soon as they can afford to live in paradise, they all come here,” another uniform added.
“Yes, the Sunshine State has the highest prevalence of famous people, right after California,” Tess replied calmly. “We’re well aware of that, but we have methods to filter and identify those most likely to pop on our unsub’s radar. As soon as we have the final list of names, we’ll release it.”
“Is this the Taker of Lives we’re talking about?” came a question from the far side of the room.
Tess frowned, searching for the man who’d asked the question. He was in his late twenties, with a goatee and a bit of an attitude written all over his face. How did he know about the killer’s moniker unless he’d been on his website?
“And you are…?”
“Officer Delacruz, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office,” he replied hesitantly, looking sideways.
“Where have you heard that moniker, Officer?”
“Um, I don’t know,” he replied, then touched his ear in passing. “Around, I guess.” A moment later, he scratched his nose.
The man was lying.
“I hope I don’t have to tell you how important it is to keep this quiet. Don’t speak to anyone about this case,” Tess said. “Don’t post anything online, don’t tell friends or family, don’t speak with the press.”
She looked at a few of them and liked the determination she saw in their eyes. If they kept their mouths shut, they had a decent chance of pulling it off.
That, and if she managed to scorn the Taker so badly he’d come out of the shadows and attack his next victim in real time.
She thanked everyone for attending, ended the conference call, then closed the door behind the last one to leave and sat down with a long sigh. Her phone rang before she could decide whether to eat a few more chips, or just get another cup of coffee going.
