by Rick Murcer
Her heart picked up the pace. Whoever, or whatever, the team ran into in Vegas was smart, clever, and extremely dangerous: the profile of a perfect psychopath.
For a moment, she almost regretted anything she ever learned or understood about the human mind, especially the sick ones. Even the new job required more of that than she’d hoped, at least so far.
At any rate, Argyle or not, there was no stopping the trepidation attacking her thoughts regarding what was truly happening in Vegas. As good as Manny was, no one was perfectly aware all of the time. But Sophie and Dean, and the rest of the local office would have his back, right? That was all she could hope for. That knowledge, and the occasional text or call, did wonders to keep her nerves from being completely jangled.
Reaching for the switch on the coffee machine, she changed her mind, opened the refrigerator, and poured milk into her waiting cup. Decaf coffee was probably okay for the baby, but she was not going to indulge anymore. It could wait. Besides, cookies dunk much better in milk.
Chloe went to the living room and sat down near the stack of files. One was marked “tips and leads.” She’d opened that file for a short time last night, but was past the time when she’d be able to look at it without nodding off. Not the case this morning. The slight clack of toenails on the hardwood floor told her Sampson was on his way. The big dog made his way around the corner, licked her exposed ankle, and plopped down on the carpet with a grunt.
She couldn’t stop her smile.
Early or not, he was on watch. Somehow, that made her feel better about where Manny was and what he was doing.
Opening the file again, she began sifting through various notes and comments from anonymous calls, or at least folks who believed they were anonymous—the LPD’s caller ID caught most of them. Gavin had done a good job organizing the calls by ID number and name, then categorizing the tips by opinion versus what someone may actually have seen or heard. There seemed to be nothing of significance. Chloe shook her head. Most crimes back then were solved with a break: a witness saw or heard something. Or perhaps a person overheard a conversation. Forensics had put a dent into that practice, but there was still nothing more convicting than an eyewitness.
Only in this case, there was nothing remotely close to that. None of the tidbits of information, at first glance, contributed anything toward a viable clue or killer.
Chloe thought her first course of action might be to go over those tips and the list of suspects again, just to make sure nothing was missed.
“Good luck finding them,” she whispered, understanding that people didn’t stay in one spot so much these days.
Flipping the page, she saw that Gavin had listed other calls to the station by unidentified numbers, which back in the late nineties probably meant pay phones. There were nine calls from three different phones. The first seven calls had conveyed pretty much the same as the other dozens of tips: I may have heard a scream. I was sure I saw a person run through the shrubs. I think the killer was a demon right from hell, look there. That was her favorite. Unfortunately, it came up every time a murder like this one was committed.
Almost ready to turn the page, she looked at the last two calls, then stopped. The first one said that the caller suspected someone who rode a motorcycle because she heard it race away from the park around that same time. There was a little red note beside it, saying that none of the prime suspects owned a motorcycle.
The second call was two days later. The caller stated she was angry that the police were such assholes for not checking out her lead. She knew that the killer rode a motorcycle and that if they didn’t dig further, the murderer would get away with it. She said that God told her so.
There was another word written by Gavin or his partner: CRAZY.
When a caller says “God told me so,” their tip usually becomes an automatic disregard. Chloe understood that.
She thumbed through the rest of the file and saw no evidence of a DMV report being pulled for the young men who may have fit the initial profile. She frowned. That should have been done. It could have led to something.
Flipping back to the page with the pay phone calls, she ran her finger over the one word comment, frowning. The fact that the tipster called twice weighed on her.
CRAZY.
Chloe wasn’t so sure.
CHAPTER-39
“This freaking case, or I should say, these cases, are making me more goofy-ass than normal,” said Sophie, her mouth half full with a large bite from her New York strip.
She was sitting next to Dean as they finished up the meals Manny had ordered from the Casino’s finest restaurant.
Manny glanced down at his plate and was surprised at just how much chicken fettuccini he’d actually eaten. When the waiter, accompanied by two security guards from the resort, had brought in the trays, the enticing aroma had immediately filled the conference room. The scent of steak and pasta had been out of this world. Another reason to like Vegas.
“That may be the idea, Sophie,” answered Manny.
“Great. But I see what you’re saying. You mean like diversions?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. This killer has got a few irons in the fire, including what Dean has given us on the mummy homicide.
Stuffing the last piece of baked potato in her mouth, Sophie raised her hand, finger in the air, telling Manny to wait until she’d finished. She had something to add, he hoped.
Dean pushed his plate away, leaned back, and exhaled.
“While she’s finishing, I just have to say that this filet was one of the best I’ve had. It was distractingly good.”
“No argument from me as far as this fettuccini either,” said Manny.
Sophie swallowed her last bit. “That’s what I was going to say. I just hope it wasn’t our last meal, ya know? I want some of that hot brownie covered with homemade ice cream before we check out.”
No one laughed. He was sure Sophie meant leave the resort to go home, but her somewhat Freudian comment drove home the nervous truth that they’d been, in all reality, summoned to Las Vegas by someone who knew they’d come. That suggested he was ready for them. If Manny were in the killer’s shoes that would entail only one thing: that the BAU wouldn’t be leaving Vegas, at least alive. None of them.
But they’d been in that situation before and things had worked out, right?
His stomach twisted some. Not exactly. Louise had been lost to him and Jen.
That hadn’t worked out.
Damn it, Williams. Not now. Get your head straight or this won’t end well.
“That dessert sounds great, but we’ve got just a few hours before we meet with LVPD and Agent Wilkins’s group. We need to be ready to give them a profile that makes sense. And right now, we need to sort out a few things,” said Manny.
“Deal. Okay. I’ll go back to what we talked about with the diversion idea. One thing you always said is that a serial killer, even as he evolves, will hold on to a semblance of a pattern, right?”
Manny nodded. “That’s right. They may have progressed to take trophies, for instance, or at least some type of keepsake. That trait is usually more prevalent as the killer progresses from one kill to the next. He might also deviate from his behavior, sexually or otherwise, if that type of gratification is the true goal, which, often it is,” said Manny.
“So it’s about what gets him off? I mean, they get comfortable with one way of doing things, they don’t usually change, right? That is, until they aren’t getting their jollies anymore,” said Sophie.
“True. You also have to consider the physical features of the victims. The killer can be fixated on a certain body type or whatever, right?” asked Dean, leaning forward and putting both hands on the mahogany table.
“All of that’s true. Yet, the killers, if they’re bright enough, can throw intentional curves at an investigation to get us to take off in another direction. We saw that three different times since we became part of the BAU. Anna Ruiz and Caleb Corner did a c
ouple things to get us off the trail. But in the end, like we talked regarding that psycho in England who wanted to replicate Jack the Ripper, they will, they must, revert back to what is motivating them. They have no choice. It’s what drives true psychopaths.”
“So what’s the motivation here, Manny? I mean, if Argyle is alive, let’s say, his ultimate goal was to destroy everyone that he felt screwed up his career and caused him grief. Which is basically Gavin and you, Alex and me some, and Josh and Dean even less.”
“That’s true, but he’s also devolved into something more. He enjoyed the killing, any death at his hands, and the mind screws he threw our way. Which, in a sense, was worse than killing each or any of us, in his mind. He took it a step further and wanted us to suffer. And in a way, he was right.”
“But you don’t think he wants that to continue?” asked Dean.
“I’m just not sure, yet.”
Manny scanned the Egyptian’s ancient motif etched into the wall designs of the conference room. Each row of hieroglyphics was evenly spaced and the mural of the bright-blue Nile running serpentine between detailed pyramids was extremely well crafted. He wondered if it had been easier to solve murders in that era. He was pretty sure the mode of justice had been simpler and taken at face value. Guilty or not guilty with no fancy-ass lawyer getting them off with a slap to the wrist.
He was assaulted with a sudden epiphany.
Maybe he’d been approaching these murders, and everything from the circumstances surrounding Argyle’s missing corpse to the unfortunate mummy woman, with the wrong perspective. When one tries to read a book too close to one’s eyes, it’s impossible to see the words clearly.
“I think it’s time to look at these murders as individual cases. We keep trying to tie them together; at least I do, without looking at each one as a single act and not leading to the next. That still could be true. I think the phone found on the last victim here in Vegas bears that out, so what are we missing by jumping to conclusions?” asked Manny, feeling a little excitement ripple through him.
Sophie nodded. Her expression suggested she hadn’t yet arrived aboard his train of thinking, but at least was considering it.
Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned back away from the table, his mind obviously running at full bore.
“Listen. I said when we first started that we couldn’t overlook some copycat situation. And I still believe that. What I didn’t consider, because I was wrapped up in the thought of Argyle being truly alive, is what the evidence actually was saying.”
“You mean like stepping back and seeing what we have versus what we think we know,” said Sophie.
“Exactly. What do we really know about each of these murders, starting with Max Tucker’s in North Carolina and Braxton Smythe’s involvement, to this very moment?”
“Well, they’re all dead and—Wait!” said Sophie, her eyes coming alive. “Tucker, then the guy who stabbed you, and then the couple in the casket were all, I don’t know, like tying up loose ends, right?”
“That’s right. While this killer took the opportunity to send us a message or two with the folks in the casket, and that was effective, he also got rid of someone who could put a finger on him. He had to know that just by the text and the phone call to Gavin, that would be enough to get us on the plane to Vegas,” said Manny.
“So why the murders out here? Are you saying these Vegas murders are part of a setup to get us out here?” asked Dean.
“Let’s back up to the evidence. Remember, while playing mind games is part of the MO for a killer like Argyle, these guys will eventually go back to the reason they’re doing what they do,” answered Manny.
“That’s just it. We don’t have that much data,” said Dean. “We still need video reports from the casino and the intersection where Agent Frost was shot. Plus, I need to get the analysis reports from Lansing and the CSU in Detroit for the rest of the fibers and soil samples we found. Not to mention it’ll be six to eight hours before I get jack shit from the Clark County’s ME office and the forensic units here in Vegas.”
“I get that,” said Manny. “But maybe we have enough. Maybe the killer knows what it takes to process a crime scene so he made it easier for us.”
“Are you talking, you know, the barmaid, Argyle’s empty coffin, and the five whatever kind of jars you call those with putrid smelling organs inside?” said Sophie.
“Yeah. I am. What do all those three things tell us? Never mind potential hairs planted or not. Pay no attention to victim profiles or what they may have in common. Ignore the text message content to Chloe and the phone call to Gavin. Hell, ignore the murder of Agent Frost. Step up and see the overall, and much simpler, profile.”
“All of that information and circumstance is just fluff?” asked Dean, not hiding the doubt in his voice.
Sophie’s eyes were bright, yet puzzled. It wasn’t making sense to her, just yet. He wasn’t quite sure himself if he was right. Only that it felt true. That had been good enough a few times in the past.
Manny exhaled. “Remember that we discussed a million times that serial killers don’t want to be caught, although some psychologists suggest that they do. That some have suppressed emotions somewhere and hate what they do, but are helpless to stop. Maybe we’re—”
His phone rang, interrupting his next words. Agent Wilkins.
“Manny?” Her voice was soft, almost weak.
“Yes.”
“You need to come to the office, now. We’ve had an incident.”
“What kind of incident?” he asked, his stomach clenching tighter.
There was a brief silence. “Your killer visited us. People are dead, and he wanted to make sure I told you what I saw. Just get here.”
The phone went dead.
Standing, he motioned for Sophie and Dean to follow him.
They hurried through the conference door. Sophie caught up to him.
“Who was that?”
“Agent Wilkins. She said our killer showed up at the Vegas office.”
“Shit.”
Bursting through the front doors, they hurried to the SUV and climbed in.
Sophie tore out of the lot, lights and siren blasting a path toward North Vegas. She hammered the accelerator.
Manny felt her glance as he conveyed to her and Dean what Wilkins had said.
She nodded. “This bastard is crazy.”
“It seems so,” said Manny.
Leaning over the seat, Dean touched his shoulder. “What were you going to say in the conference room?”
He started to run his hand through his hair. Instead, he slammed his fist down on the dash, leaving a leather crater the size of a tennis ball.
So easy to look too hard and miss something.
And that’s just what happened, Manny was sure of it. “It fits perfectly, and I’m an asshole for not seeing it. What I was going to say in the conference room was maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this killer is different. Maybe he wants to be caught.”
CHAPTER-40
Patiently, with the scrutiny of an eagle soaring in the blue, he scanned the stage he’d created in the back of the storage building. There could be nothing out of order. Nothing. Not one wire. Not one camera. Not one angle skewed. Any mistake, any miscalculation, could jeopardize everything, given the considerable talents of his target. He’d even had to consider the impact that the rest of the BAU, the LVPD, and the local FBI presence would have on what was next on his very particular agenda and adjust accordingly. He’d thought of everything, yet one couldn’t be too cautious.
The Bureau had much at its disposal. More technology. More research facilities and sources. More access to proper training and procedural policies as they pertained to people like himself. More Manny Williams.
The Lansing-cop-turned-Special-Agent had been somewhat of a credible addition to the Feds, yet, in his entire splendor, he’d not figured out this end game. Nor would he. Not even Manny Williams would be able to fly in this plane. By the time he
could see what was coming around the bend, he’d be far too late to stop it.
“The proverbial day-late-dollar-short scenario,” he muttered as he strolled over to the object that would be the center of his cinematic production.
Placing his hand on the purple crushed velvet material running down the back, he ran his fingers ever so slowly and made the turn around the object. Each step had been wrought with a care and precision that would make the most anal retentive of men envious. His hand never left the sensual feel of the velvet as he reached the front of his creation, stepping over the perfectly placed cables. Moving back, he rested his other hand on the chair and then looked over the other three objects in the display. Each placed in perfect symmetrical relation to the others. A stunning fabrication of deadly beauty.
A sudden, unexpected rise of emotion invaded him. He was proud of what he’d created, and to where it would lead.
Despite what people assumed they knew about men like him, his emotion could run deep. Louise Williams had seen it. Haley Rose had seen it. Lexy Crosby had seen it. And he supposed, in some inexplicable way, Agent Williams had known it, if not seen it firsthand. If nothing else, the Special Agent had a talent for getting into the minds of others.
Rage. Hatred. Joy. Thrills. Were not these states of mind witnesses of his connection to the rest of humanity? His control over them displayed his superiority. As inferior as the rest were, no one could deny that connection, try as they might.
His previous training told him that unreasonable fear grew in people who saw just how close they were to becoming like him. Except they really had no concept of who or what he truly had become. Not really. How could they? Fear ruled them far more than any other emotion.
Many of the other supposed experts on the human mind, and its complex operation, only thought they understood. If he were a betting man, and he was, simply ask Grace Burleson. He’d bet that Agent Williams had wrestled more than once with the concept of just how closely related he was to men like himself. Neither he nor Agent Williams was unfamiliar with the acuity of thinking like a fox to catch a fox.
