Detective Bess Peters nodded to him. Peters’s grim determination to get this killer reminded him of his sister. Having a profile would only deepen her resolve.
Justin surveyed the rest of the faces. Skeptical and suspicious all around. Most cops welcomed high-tech advances, but some considered profiling to be nothing less than voodoo.
On the portable display board, colored flags dotted a map of Maine and New Hampshire. Green for abductions in North Conway, New Hampshire, Fryeburg, Millinocket, Southwest Harbor, and Portland. Red for locations of the bodies in the White Mountains of NH, in the woods near Rangeley in western Maine, and north in Baxter State Park. Blue for two more women who had disappeared, but because no bodies had been found, the police hadn’t tied them to the Hunter.
Over the air conditioner’s hum, Tavani thanked Watson and the others for inviting the Bureau to assist them in stopping the Hunter. “Profiling is not magic.”
More than one detective squirmed in his seat as if fearing Tavani had read his mind. Justin had felt much the same before meeting and working with the agent. Yes, VICAP added computer research to the psychological mumbo jumbo of profiling. But the guy knew how to put details together to highlight patterns no one else perceived. If he inferred patterns in the killer beyond what VICAP spit out, maybe he was on to something. Justin was keeping an open mind.
The agent withdrew the sheet detailing his profile from his briefcase. “This profile has been gleaned from your comprehensive investigation as well as from the statistics on similar killings and knowledge of human psychology.”
“That a disclaimer, Tavani, in case you’re wrong?” The burly Portland detective folded his arms and leaned back in his seat.
“You bet.” Tavani’s expression remained impassive. “But these methods are right more often than wrong. In fact, the start of this profile came from the cops in this room, from your experience and expertise. The CID had an accurate handle on this character before calling in the Bureau." He turned to Justin. “Would you summarize?”
“We inferred from the widespread crime-scene locations that the bad guy has a job, maybe part time, that allows him to range far and wide or he has an income and no job. Since all his abductions and body drops fall in the lower two thirds of the state, it looks like he doesn’t live up north.”
“If I may interrupt for a moment, Detective.” At Justin’s nod, Tavani continued, “The movements of a serial predator like this one closely resemble those of animal predators, like lions on the Serengeti. They prowl more than they actually attack, and they tend to troll near their own home.”
“Or near their workplace,” Justin added. “Because of his frequent phone calls to the Messenger reporter, we speculate he might live in Portland. We’re checking into central and southern-Maine companies whose employees travel to these locations—truckers, salespeople, and the like.” He gestured at the forest of tacks on the map.
“That’s a tall order,” offered a detective.
Justin nodded. “Takes time is all. He probably drives an SUV or a van so he can conceal his victims easily. Also, our unsub knows the woods, is in his late twenties, early thirties. That’s it.” He looked expectantly at Tavani.
“That sketch gave us a solid starting point,” Tavani said. “The last part is the only aspect I disagree with. I’ll get to that in a moment.
“I expect the subject to be between thirty-five and forty-five years old, fit and tanned, at least on his face and hands. Rather than focus on a particular type of woman, the hunt itself seems to be his signature, the ritual that fulfills his need. His careful planning and caution imply he’s intelligent and possibly educated.
“He leaves no clues on the bodies. Use of a condom explains the lack of semen, and removal of his pubic hair might explain why we’ve found no hairs. That’s not unheard of. No footprints or objects left behind except for his little marker.
“In spite of this apparent intelligence and organization, his is an inadequate personality, propped up by the fantasies he lives out by hunting down women.”
“Fantasies, shmantasies. The bastard’s friggin’ crazy,” another detective put in.
“Not in the clinical sense. He’s angry at women, probably because a woman, likely his mother, abused him in the past. He can’t get beyond it, and he kills his tormentor in a displaced manner, over and over again. The Hunter knows exactly what he’s doing and that it’s wrong. Even sick. I expect that he’s not delusional or compelled by urges he can’t control.
“Look at the gaps of months between his victims.” He pointed to the chart showing the dates of the abductions. “The first murder was three years ago in August. The second abduction occurred seven months later. The later ones four months apart. His is not an uncontrollable urge. He’s able to wait until he finds an easy victim, but this sexually based killing is addictive.”
Blowing out a breath, the detective nodded his comprehension.
“His crimes take place during the spring, summer, and fall,” continued the agent. “No winter hunting for our subject.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like to be cold,” suggested another detective.
Tavani shrugged. “Possibly. Or winter weather keeps his victims indoors. Or snow might leave too obvious signs of struggle. He’s able to abstain for months at a time. However, if the last two missing women are his—in June and July—he’s stepped up his pace.”
“Isn’t acceleration an indication of a breakdown in his personality?” Justin asked. “He could start to make mistakes.”
“That’s often the case. I hope it means he’ll make mistakes. Because he’s made none so far.” The agent’s jaw tightened as his gaze locked on the pictures of the murdered young women.
“Go on, please,” Lieutenant Watson said.
Tavani cleared his throat. “The childhood abuse may have involved confinement in a small space. Hence his preference for open spaces. I expect he had an illness or a speech impediment that he overcame or covers with this macho hunter image.
“His approach to the women seems to be devious, conversational, to gain confidence, a con approach that implies physical normality and intelligence. In contrast, a blitz attack is typical of a killer who lacks confidence in interacting with people. Our subject is an opportunist as far as his choices of victims, except that they’ve all been small and unable to give him much resistance. His MO is organized and predictable.”
“Too bad we can’t predict where he’ll strike next,” Bess Peters said.
“If the dates and crime scenes match up to some company’s work schedule, we’ll have a pattern,” the lieutenant answered. “And an ID.”
“But will it be in time to prevent another death?” Peters slapped shut her notepad. Her lips clamped into a grim seam.
Tavani didn’t need to outline the killer’s torture methods, Justin mused. They all knew too well the brutalities inflicted on the victims. Stripped naked, they tried to flee through the woods only to be shot or stabbed to death and then disfigured and sexually molested.
“The only mercy he shows his victims is that he seems to kill them outright before...defiling them,” observed Peters. “Can you explain that?”
“Necrophilia is an indication of his sexual inadequacy. Masturbation doesn’t satisfy, and I expect he can’t perform on living women. The mutilation stems from his hatred of the gender.”
“Good ol’ Mom did quite a number on him,” Watson said.
“Possibly. But don’t let that con you into sympathy for him. In an inadequate personality, the subject’s perception of a slight or indifference or casual cruelty is exaggerated beyond common sense. Whatever happened to him in childhood, he alone is responsible for his actions.”
Eyes hard and mouths tight, the detectives stared at Tavani as if willing him to reveal the killer’s identity.
While they absorbed the implications of the bad guy’s perversions, Tavani turned his profile sheet over.
“Before you continue, I have another que
stion,” Justin said. “About his contact—if it was him—with the reporter at the Messenger.”
“That was your sister, Wylde, wasn’t it?” a detective asked. “Must have freaked her out. Hope she put double locks on her doors. You got surveillance on her?”
“She’s safe,” Justin said. “We don’t know why, but the killer stopped calling. I know these guys sometimes hang out around cops to learn what they know about his case. We haven’t uncovered anyone like that. You have any suggestions?”
“That’s true,” Tavani said. “Maintaining that secret identity and the control of what the public and the police know is part of the thrill. In this case, with murders all over the state, it looks like he chose to contact the reporter who tagged him the Hunter. If he contacts her again, we might arrange a meeting.”
Justin stifled a shudder. Annie’d probably jump at the chance to meet the Hunter face to face. No freakin’ way. The fact that the asshole had stopped phoning her raised hairs on his nape. Maybe he’d use the police radio again to try to raise the canoe party.
“One more thing,” continued the special agent. “His methods have been fully developed from the first killing to the last. The only exception has been the switch to a knife instead of a rifle. I think he needed more of a challenge.”
“Or more...stimulation? Gratification?” the chief asked.
“It fits,” Tavani agreed.
“You said the Hunter’s intelligent. Do you see any significance beyond that in the organized MO?” Justin asked.
“He’s too organized, that’s what. I’ve already got VICAP researching what I suspect.” Tavani tucked his profile sheet back in his briefcase. “These six women aren’t this killer’s first murders. He’s done this before.”
***
Northern Maine woods
At nearly five o’clock, Sam led his canoe group to the sandy shore of the new campsite, a densely wooded spit of land at the outlet of the Eagle River.
The hornet incident had ended without too much damage. Everyone had received a few stings, but Nora and Annie had been the insects’ primary targets. The swelling on Nora’s stings had diminished, but Annie’s arm was still red and puffy. She insisted it was only a minor reaction, and she had an antihistamine cream for it.
While Nora and the others had submerged themselves in the lake, Sam removed the nest with a long stick and tossed it into the woods. The swarm of insects followed their nest.
Blustering like a manager after an umpire’s bad call, Carl demanded an explanation. Everyone looked to Sam, but he’d had no answers. Only questions. How did the hive land in the tent? The flap opening was in front, not on top. Damn, what next?
Annie and Nora set up their tents in a grassy area to one side, leaving the males the other.
Just as well. She was a classy female, a pampered urbanite with a lot on the ball. His life was in the woods. They had nothing in common, and he needed to remember Ben’s caution against mixing business and pleasure. He ought to leave her alone.
But, damn, he liked her feisty attitude, and just looking at her dialed up his lust-o-meter.
After supper, Annie took out her tablet. He caught a glimpse of the word Hunter on the screen. He understood her grief for her friend, but such an obsession could take over a person’s life. He ought to know.
The others sat around the table rehashing the day’s challenges and comparing sore muscles. Ray and Frank were comparing tactics in an electronic game involving amoebas and miniaturized robots. Too techno-gizmo for him.
“We’ll have a change of pace tomorrow, team. We keep heading down the Eagle to the caretaker’s cabin. You’ll get a kick out of Ted Wolfe. He retired from his game warden’s job to oversee this wilderness. He checks on the campsites and watches for poachers.”
They appeared too zombie-tired to do anything but nod. Annie never looked up from her screen. Carl poked at the fire. Ray and Frank went back to their game discussion. Nora didn’t participate, but looked on with approval at her son’s animation.
Sam had planned some stargazing for tonight, but everyone needed a break. Including him. He had to pull himself together, to mull over plans for the rest of the expedition so they had no more days like today. When he thought no one was looking, he slipped away.
Annie watched Sam melt into the trees.
She’d expected him to hassle her about her tent site, but his reticence continued. His whole demeanor changed. No flirting, no double-entendres, no devilment in those burnt-sugar eyes. Whatever ate at his soul sidelined his charm.
Forced retirement from the Major League had hurt deeply. She imagined the headline: Wild Pitch Ends Promising Career. He suffered a loss of identity, a wound more painful than physical injury. So he had to prove himself again. Today’s bushwhack was less than a howling success.
Speaking of headlines, maybe this caretaker they’d see tomorrow would have word of the outside world, even about the Hunter or the MCU’s progress in tracing him. All she could tune in on her tiny radio was static.
She slipped her tablet into her tent and followed Sam.
The path wound through fragrant cedars and came out on the west side of the spit of land. Sitting on a slab of granite, Sam gazed at the river and the green mountains beyond. His slumped shoulders and arms wrapped around his knees reminded her of Frank.
She ought to leave him to brood. Approaching him would send the wrong signals, would make him think she cared. She didn’t care. In spite of his charm and intelligence, he was too macho and too physical. And too bound up in his problems. She should turn around and head back to camp. Still, she’d figured out something he should know.
“You might as well come sit down, princess. Gonna be a great sunset.” Without turning toward her, he patted the flat granite beside him.
“Don’t call me princess.” Her thighs shook like Jell-O as she eased onto the rock beside him. The rays of the lowering sun washed the few clouds with shades of mauve and rose. Odors of campfire smoke and grilled chicken drifted on the air. “How’d you know I was here?”
He laughed, a deep masculine rumble that tingled through her. She clenched her teeth against the attraction. “Your stealth wouldn’t give old Thoreau’s Penobscot scout any competition. Too much noise. How’s the arm?”
“Aches a bit, but the swelling’s going down. Lucky I brought the meds. I’ve learned from a lifetime of Mother Nature’s tricks.”
He stretched out his long legs and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Look at that sky. Makes up for a lousy day.”
“You’re wasting time brooding about that lousy day.” Dam, she liked the feel of his arm around her. She ought to remove it.
“Who’s brooding? Now you’re a mind reader?”
His scowl didn’t fool her. “Goes with the territory. I’m a journalist, remember?” She scooted to the side, shrugging away his arm.
He rubbed his scarred hand. His lack of reaction to her rebuff was one more indication of his dark mood. “Damnation, how did we wander so far off course? Should have practiced more with the compasses. Did I check the calculations? Hell, I don’t know.”
He’d shaved after washing in the river, and his smooth, strong jaw was close enough to touch. One deep dimple was close enough to explore. Sparks zipped over her skin.
Before his clean masculine scent and the sunset’s romance reduced her to his sex slave, she’d better get to why she came. She slipped her bushwhack notes from her pocket. “I know why our navigating put us in foul territory today.”
A grin lit his handsome face. His eyelashes lowered as he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. His mustache tickled her palm. “Mmm, I love it when you talk baseball.”
“Seriously, Sam.” She ought to pull away, but his big, blunt fingers felt too good, scars or no. “See the erasures in these last two compass readings? That 60 should be 100 due east, and the 100 should be 120. Someone changed them.” She pointed to the numbers that had led them to the wrong cove.
; He peered at the paper. “You’re saying—”
She shivered at the cool air replacing his warmth. “Your guiding expertise is not in question.”
The smile beaming from under his sexy mustache licked her with heat. She wanted to test the texture of that mustache some more. So thick, so luxuriant. If he kissed her, would it feel bristly or soft against her face?
“Princess, you’ve saved my day.” His whisky-colored gaze perused her face, settled on her mouth. Had he read her thoughts? He pulled her against the hard wall of his chest and lowered his mouth to hers. “A quick smooch won’t do it.”
She would’ve protested, but his tawny eyes and sun-warmed scent mesmerized her.
His lips met hers with light pressure, warm, moist, tender. The sensations surging within her were anything but tender. She forgot about breathing, about ever breathing again, forgot everything but the heat between them.
He moved against her, the friction coursing ripples of fire through her. He caressed, he stroked, he savored, flicking his tongue across her lips until she opened to him.
“Oh, yeah!” He took the kiss deeper, spearing his big hands through her hair, holding her in his heat.
The silken sweep of his mustache added a new kick to her already hypersensitive senses. He tasted spicier than the barbecued chicken, hotter than the sun’s rays spearing them and more intriguing than any man she’d ever kissed. She reveled in him—languid heat, lean strength, and liquid passion.
As colors swam in her head, she floated inside the sunset. Desire melted her limbs, made her want more, more...
Sam ended the kiss with a soft brush of lips.
She sucked in air, stunned at the sparks tingling through her. Her head wobbled on rubbery neck muscles. When she could finally focus, she saw smug male satisfaction written on his face. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Sure of you.” His voice was husky. “I just hit a double-bagger. I’m in scoring position.”
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