A Profiler's Case for Seduction

by Carla Cassidy

  She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Minutes later as she stood beneath a hot spray of water, she thought about the night before and Mark. The questions he’d had to ask her as part of his job hadn’t really surprised her, although she didn’t like the fact that by mere accident of birth she was now on some sheet of paper in the war room of the courthouse.

  What had surprised her had been Mark’s gentleness, the compassion she’d seen in the depths of his eyes as they talked about the childhood that should never have been. There had been none of the revulsion she’d expected to see, no judgment of her at all.

  Of course, it was easy to feel compassionate for somebody who wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in your life, she told herself as she got out of the shower and dressed for the day.

  He hadn’t run for the hills; rather he’d renewed his desire to spend the homecoming festivities with her. And she wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to the idea.

  Because you’re in love with him, a little voice whispered in the back of her head.

  She grabbed her computer and purse from the table and headed out the door for her early-morning class.

  Her brain rejected the very thought of loving Mark. It would be just another study in heartbreak. It would be a repeat of the heartbreak of Jimmy, and she refused to put herself in a position to care that deeply about a man again.

  She was confident in her own strength, in her ability to walk the path of the rest of her life alone. She would never again allow a man to define her.

  The morning air was unusually brisk for October in Vengeance. A cold front had moved through that made it perfect football weather. Everywhere she looked were signs of the big game and reminders of the bonfire the next night.

  There was a restless energy pulsating, as if even the building and the trees were eagerly anticipating the imminent celebrations of school spirit.

  She saw Ben Craig in the distance and waved to him. He waved back as he scurried in the opposite direction of her. Strange, it used to be Dora never saw him without Amanda by his side. The two assistants had been like conjoined twins whenever they were out. But lately Dora rarely saw them together.

  As she walked up the stairs into the building where the first class of the day took place, she steadfastly refused to think about what Mark had said about his suspicions of Melinda.

  She didn’t know the truth and, thankfully, it wasn’t her job to try to figure it out. She’d leave the investigation to the professionals. There was no way she could guess about Melinda’s innocence or guilt. She could only hope that her sister had nothing to do with her own kidnapping or the murder of the three men. Knowing that there was one sociopath, Samuel, in the family was quite enough.

  Throughout her class she stayed focused on the material, refusing to allow her mind to drift in any other direction.

  If she continued to pursue her career in criminal justice then maybe sometime years from now she’d find herself working with Mark on a case. By that time she hoped he’d be remarried to a wonderful woman who understood his quirks and foibles, a woman who could chase the darkness away from him when necessary.

  He deserved that. He deserved a safe place to fall, next to a warm, loving woman at the end of his long and dark days.

  She would never be that woman, but she wanted that for him.

  By the time she’d finished her second class of the day, the mood of the campus was already half-mad. Students dressed in Gladiator garb and raced after others who wore jaybird feathers in their hair or pinned to their clothes. Laughter rang out from every corner of the campus and she passed several students who already wore the eau-de-beer scent that would prevail from now until Sunday, when those students awoke with sick stomachs and worse headaches.

  She tried not to imagine how different things might have been between her and Mark at the bonfire the next night if the specter of her past wasn’t between them, if he hadn’t learned about her connection to Melinda and if she didn’t know his single goal was to attempt to arrest the sister whom Dora had always looked at as her savior.

  It would be so easy if she could see Mark as the enemy, a man attempting to destroy the sister she loved. But Dora had no real depth of feeling toward Melinda other than gratitude. In the very depths of her heart, she couldn’t get past the fact that while Melinda was kidnapped three men had been murdered, and since her miraculous release from her captives, nobody else had died.

  * * *

  Mark knew that Melinda had an afternoon lecture and that probably her two assistants would be in their usual seats in the front row. That worked fine with him. In fact, he was counting on that very scenario.

  He’d lain awake for half the night, most of his thoughts filled with Dora. His heart had ached for the little girl who’d suffered so much and had sought escape first in the arms of a physical abuser and then with a man who’d emotionally stabbed the last of her life out of her.

  As a profiler, he understood very well the forces that drove people onto different, varying paths of life. It was little wonder that Dora had found solace in the bottle. He had no doubt that her unconscious desire had been to drink herself to death, to disappear from the pain.

  He’d seen her pain the night before, had felt it radiating so strongly from her it had made him almost physically ill. He’d wanted to sweep her into his arms, hold her tight and assure her of her value as a woman, as a person. He wanted to give to her the validation and love she’d never received as a child.

  But he hadn’t. She hadn’t given him any opening to offer solace and in that he’d seen her strength, a strength that would see her well through the rest of her life.

  He probably shouldn’t have asked that they spend the homecoming celebration together. It had been a selfish request. He wasn’t ready to tell her goodbye just yet.

  He’d finally fallen asleep and had immediately drifted into the same nightmare about Melinda. The weight of her on his chest, the laughter of male and female mingling into a sound of horror and the slow cutting off of his air supply, had finally jerked him awake, sweating and cursing.

  It was only then, as he sat up in bed waiting for the nightmare’s hold to release him, that he realized he wanted to get into Melinda Grayson’s office.

  First thing that morning Mark had obtained reluctant permission from the dean of the college to do a search of Melinda’s office, which was deemed to be a public place with no expectancy of privacy.

  However, Mark knew the permission would not include searching any of Melinda’s personal belongings, including any laptop she might possess.

  As he made his way across the campus, he felt the wildness in the air, but for him it wasn’t just the antics of the students winding up for homecoming, it was the thrum of anticipation that something bad was going to happen.

  Whoever had killed those men definitely already had or had instantly acquired a taste for murder. Mark had interviewed too many killers to not know that in most cases a taste of murder quickly became an insatiable appetite.

  He was surprised there hadn’t been any more murders. As he thought of the note that had been left on his windshield, he wondered if he was Melinda and her partner’s next intended victim?

  Amanda certainly hadn’t told him all that she might know about her boss. She hadn’t even admitted that she had been the one to leave the note of warning for him.

  It was probably a simple matter of no opportunity that had kept any more deaths from occurring. Melinda and everyone in her intimate sphere had to know they were under his microscope.

  As he reached the building where Melinda’s next lecture would occur, he sat on the familiar bench outside and checked his watch. He had about ten minutes before he’d feel secure in sneaking into Melinda’s office and trying to find something, anything that might point a finger of guilt in her direction.

  H
e had no idea what he was looking for, but knew he’d recognize anything that might tie into his theory of the case. He also didn’t know what the other agents were assigned to do today, as he’d skipped the morning briefing.

  Patting his jacket pocket, he assured himself that a pair of latex gloves and several evidence bags were still there. Just in case he found something to carry out.

  When he was sure Melinda had begun her lecture, he went into the building and to the second floor where her office was located. He’d taken a chance, not bothering getting a key from the dean. If his instincts were correct about Melinda’s personality, then she wouldn’t bother locking her door because she knew nobody would dare breach her privacy without invitation.

  When he reached her office door he was grateful to find himself alone in the hallway. He grabbed the knob and twisted, a sigh of satisfaction escaping him as it twisted easily beneath his grasp.

  The fact that she didn’t lock her door affirmed the profile of her that had begun to emerge. He found it ironic that she was teaching a class about sociopaths in society, especially given the fact that he believed Melinda was the truest form of a sociopath.

  He eased the door open and slid inside, then quietly closed the door behind him. The corner office was large, with windows on two sides. The furnishings were sleek, black and chrome, cold and impersonal. A large desk faced the door, with a leather chair behind it. Two uncomfortable-looking straight-back chairs faced the desk, set at a distance so as not to invade in any way the professor’s personal space.

  The walls held her degrees and awards she had received in her field of study. There was nothing personal anywhere in the room. A bookcase held only books, no knickknacks or souvenirs that might hint of the person who occupied this space.

  He moved around the desk and looked down at the papers that were strewn across the top. A psychology journal was open to an article on treatment plans for the sociopath; student papers were in a stack, the top one sporting thick red slashes where corrections had been made.

  Sticky notes littered the bare space, detailing the minutia in a life. Pick up dry cleaning. Check with B about pit. Get lettuce and eggs. Pink and yellow notes pinned to the top of the desk by a strip of adhesive. There was nothing here that clenched Mark’s gut or that raised any alarm at all in his head.

  He slid open the top desk drawer to see an array of paperclips and pens. A red pair of scissors was nestled next to a black stapler. He closed the drawer and opened the second one.

  Where the first had held the tools of a teacher, the second contained the tools of a beautiful and vain woman. The drawer held a hand mirror, makeup, a tube of red lipstick and a hairbrush, certainly nothing that would prove or disprove his belief.

  He opened the third drawer, which was deep enough to hang files. Inside were files neatly labeled with colorful plastic tabs. He riffled through them, finding them to contain research on a variety of psychological subjects.

  Aware of the ticking of time, knowing that he only had a total of about forty minutes to search and then get out of the office and away from the building, he was about to close the file drawer when something caught his eye at the very bottom.

  The stack of small cards like those that had been found on the victims was nearly hidden by the files. He quickly yanked on his gloves, his heart beating a rapid response.

  As he picked up the stack held together by a rubber band, he noticed that the first one had writing on it. He straightened and stared at the top card.

  “Failu.” He frowned, his brain working overtime to make sense of the letters. Failu? His heart chilled as he realized he might possibly be looking at the card that had been meant to be left on his dead body.

  Failu...an interruption of the word that had been meant. Failure. Had that been her intention? If that note card had been found on him after his death, it certainly would have been true. It would have meant he’d failed to capture her. He’d failed to avoid his own death.

  Failure.

  The word shuddered through him as he clasped the stack of cards in his gloved fingers. Failure as a profiler, failure as a father...and failure to make his case.... How she must have delighted at finding the perfect word to describe him.

  With trembling hands he quickly removed the rubber band and plucked the card off the top. He riffled through the rest of the cards but saw no more that contained any writing.

  Aware of the passage of time, he quickly placed the “Failu” card into one of his evidence envelopes and then checked his watch again and decided it was time to boogie out of there.

  The card in his pocket legally proved nothing, at least not yet. The team had already asserted that these particular note cards were a popular item for sale in the bookstore. The fact that Melinda had the cards proved nothing. But he was eager to get back to the war room and compare the handwriting to the notes that had been found on the dead men.

  It was possible Melinda’s card would have to be seen by a handwriting analysis.

  It might be nothing, or it might be something that would explode the case wide-open. There was no question in Mark’s mind that the card had been meant for him, that Melinda and her partner had been plotting Mark’s death and this “Failu” card would label him what they believed him to be. However, believing and proving legally were two very different animals.

  While Mark hurried out of the building, he realized that as far as he was concerned there were only two people he believed could be Melinda’s partner. The first was Ben Craig, the assistant who was devoted to her, and the second was Andrew Peterson, who had been besotted with her. Either man could have been manipulated into helping her commit murder.

  At the moment his first goal was to get this note into evidence with the others and find out if they’d all been penned by the same person.

  He couldn’t get to the war room fast enough and when he finally arrived he found Richard the only person there. Richard looked up from his laptop as Mark came flying through the door.

  “You look like you’ve just won the lottery,” Richard said.

  Mark flashed him a grin. “Money never makes me this excited. Potential evidence is what makes a happy dance in my heart.”

  “Potential evidence?” Richard closed his laptop and looked at Mark expectantly.

  “I just finished doing a short search of Melinda’s office here on campus and I found this hidden in the bottom of a drawer.” Mark pulled the plastic evidence bag from his pocket and set in on the table next to Richard.

  Richard stared down at the card with a frown. “‘Failu’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think she was writing failure and got interrupted.” Mark’s heart banged hard against his chest. “I think that card was meant to be left on my dead body.”

  Richard shot him a sharp look. “Why would she think you’re a failure?”

  Mark sat in the chair next to Richard. “Probably for several reasons. I’ve been a profiler without a profile, an agent coming after her but unable to connect all the dots.” He didn’t mention that Melinda could have found out from somebody that he was also a failure as a father figure in Grace’s life and completely stank at being what a woman needed.

  “It makes sense if you remember that I got a warning note on my car that said I was in danger,” Mark continued.

  Richard looked at the card in the plastic bag and then at the board that held photocopies of the notes that had been found on each dead man. Liar. Cheater. Thief.

  Mark studied the notes, as well. Certainly failure worked into the basic theme of the other cards. They were all character flaws defined by a killer.

  “It’s hard to tell just by looking if the writer is the same,” Richard finally said.

  “I’d like this one to be sent to the lab and compared for handwriting analysis. If all four cards are written by the s
ame person, then there’s no question that the person is Melinda.” Mark felt a burst of triumph wing through him. For the first time since they’d arrived in Vengeance, he smelled the end of the case with the guilty party behind bars.

  “What about the fact that there was a man with her when she was kidnapped?”

  “Her partner in crime,” Mark replied without hesitation. “I’ve narrowed it down to two men, either Ben Craig or Andrew Peterson. I think either of those males could have been easily manipulated by Melinda to do whatever she demanded of them.”

  “But Andrew Peterson told us he and Melinda broke up before she disappeared.”

  “He could have lied. The day we spoke to him, despite his protests about reclaiming his love for his wife and children, his obsession with Melinda was still there and burning bright. I think he would have done anything to continue to have her.”

  “But we’ve had no indication of anything going on between them since the murders,” Richard replied, obviously playing devil’s advocate.

  “Melinda’s smart, too smart to tie herself to her partner while we’re still here in town and have our eyes on her.”

  “And yet she hasn’t distanced herself from Ben.”

  “If she did, then it would look equally suspicious,” Mark replied. “He’s her assistant. He has a reason to be in her life. She couldn’t kick him to the curb without answering a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

  “Is your gut telling you which man is guilty?” Richard asked.

  Mark shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. But before we can really try to figure that out, we have to prove that this note and the others were all written by Melinda.”

  Richard frowned thoughtfully. “I’ll have Lori see if she can dig up a couple of student papers that have Melinda’s writing on them and then she can take this card, along with the samples, to Dallas. It will probably take a day or two for us to get a definitive answer.”

  Mark nodded. It would take some time to get information back from Dallas and one of the FBI handwriting specialists.