Profiled

by Renee Andrews

  “She may be younger than Carlton, but she’s no rookie. None of our profilers are rookies; you know that. At the bare minimum, they’ve had two years of agent training, additional time as a profiler coordinator in a field office, then served in the Behavior Science division at Quantico. In fact, this woman has surpassed every other profiler in the unit, based on her success rate for recovery.”

  Recovery. Such a deceptive term. It sounded as though she’d found all the victims alive. However, recovery meant the body had been found, didn’t mean it’d been breathing at the time. John almost asked for the details of her success rate, but he didn’t need to rock the boat. Yet.

  “Fine. What does she need and when will she get here?”

  “She’s on her way now.”

  “Our first meeting is scheduled for 6:00. Think she’ll make it?” John glanced at the clock on his computer.

  “I’ll give Angel a call on her cell. She’ll be there.”

  “Angel?”

  “Angel Jackson, the profiler assigned to the Sunrise Killer. She’s topnotch, Tucker. I believe she’ll help you find your man. You won’t have any problems working with Angel.” Leon didn’t have to add, “like you had with Carlton.” It was implied, and John understood.

  “As long as we find him and stop him before he kills again, I’d accept help from anyone, problems or not.”

  “Carlton was just doing his job. He was still green and jumped the gun in pinpointing a suspect. Besides, our unit only provides the profile. It’s up to the cops what they do with it. But Stan did what he thought was best, even if he was a bit overzealous.”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Angel will get the job done right. I’ll call her and make sure she knows about the meeting. She’ll let you know everything she needs from you at that time.”

  “Thanks, Leon.”

  “No problem. And keep me posted on things down there.”

  “As if you won’t know what’s happening before I do.” John hadn’t found one of the killer’s victims yet when the FBI hadn’t stomped on his heels in the pursuit, if they weren’t ahead of him forging the trail.

  “Still, keep me informed.”

  “Will do.” Tucker disconnected as a knock sounded at his door. “It’s open.”

  Lexie McCain entered, and his day brightened. In fact, his day had been a bit brighter ever since he ran into her outside the television station this morning. He noticed her cheeks flush, the same way they did earlier, and he wondered if it were due to nerves, or to him? “You got my message?”

  “I was in Paul Kingsley’s office when the two of you were talking. Guess it was no secret I wanted the story. I appreciate you asking for me.” All business-like and efficient, yet friendly and approachable, what his task force needed for their media link to the public.

  He motioned to a chair and waited while she sat down. She wore a crisp navy pantsuit and navy heels, which gave every impression of her professionalism, but the hint of satin camisole peeking above the top of her suit provided a blatant reminder that Lexie McCain was every ounce a female. As if the loose blonde curls framing big green eyes and pale pink lips didn’t announce the fact to the world.

  John cleared his throat. Now wasn’t the time for observing females. “I didn’t do you any favors, Ms. McCain. I requested you because you’re the best.”

  She smiled, a big bright Julia Roberts smile that claimed her face. “You’re right. I am the best.”

  He laughed at that, grateful for her ability to provide him that luxury today. The calendar might declare the day Good Friday, but before she stepped through his door, there hadn’t been much good about it. However, even though Lexie McCain was a welcome relief from the bulky men who would soon fill up the conference room as part of the task force, he hadn’t requested her for visual appeal.

  She placed her thin leather briefcase on the floor beside her chair then withdrew an overstuffed file from its center. “I brought my notes. After Cami Talton's body was found, I gathered everything I could find on the past murders.” She opened the file, but paused and looked at him. “You haven’t learned anything else about her killer, have you?”

  “Nothing. Everyone who knew the woman has an alibi, and all indications point to the Sunrise Killer.”

  She nodded, and her mouth dipped at both ends. “But we’ll find him. And stop him.”

  “That’s right, we will.” He indicated her file of information. “However, I do need to add some details for you before the remainder of the group meets. As you know, the task force has worked together on the two previous murder series.”

  “In 1999 and 2006.”

  He nodded. “Although they weren’t identified as a task force in ‘99, the same officers were all involved and know the killer’s history. During those times, we didn’t have a reporter onboard, although I can see why the FBI and the District Attorney believe you’ll help us get the word out.”

  “I agree.” She straightened the papers in her file. “And I’ve gathered every scrap of information I could find from the past killings. What details am I missing that the rest of the group has?” Her throat pulsed as she swallowed and she straightened in her chair. Although she tried not to seem anxious, Lexie McCain wanted to know everything about the case. Good. If they were going to catch this madman, she’d prove a key factor in the equation.

  “I’ll give you the current info sheets along with everyone else at our meeting. However, I needed to ask you something before the remainder of the group arrives.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The fourth victim from 1999,” he said and watched her thumb through her notes.

  “Abigail,” she paused, “Tucker.”

  “My wife.”

  She nodded, her awareness evident in those big green eyes.

  “You’ve seen the profiler’s statement released in 1999.”

  “I did.” She peered at Abby’s photo on the front page of the Telegraph. “And that’s the part that didn’t fit you. He thought the first victim would have been someone the killer knew. You never met Molly Taylor, the first victim.”

  “When Abby and I separated, and then she became one of the killer’s victims, Carlton, the profiler, set his sights on me. In his mind, regardless of my non-relationship with the initial victim, the remainder of the profile had been covered, and her death sealed my fate as their best fit.”

  “I’m sorry.” The concern in her voice, in her eyes, made his throat tighten. She’d made the statement before, during that interview last year. He’d never learned how to respond to the appropriate statement concerning his loss, so he remained silent. But most stopped with “I’m sorry.” Lexie McCain didn’t. “I’m sorry about your wife...and your baby.”

  John’s pulse quickened, gut tightened. He swallowed through the physical response and shrugged. And he praised God for the fact that Ms. McCain didn’t know the baby wasn’t his. His main purpose for meeting with her this afternoon was to see if she believed in his innocence. He couldn’t work with her if she didn’t. Her broadcast last year insinuated she believed him, but he had to know that hadn’t been to add emotional appeal to her “local hero” story. Judging from the sincerity in her eyes and her body language as she shifted forward in her seat, she believed Tucker.

  He could handle Stanley Carlton pointing the finger at him. He could even handle an occasional whisper when he ran into certain people around town. But he couldn’t handle Lexie McCain, a woman he admired and respected, and whose opinion mattered to him more than he dared admit, believing he was capable of killing those women. Of killing Abby.

  Her head tilted and she glanced back down at the article detailing Abby’s murder. Then she turned the page and ran her finger down the transcript from the televised news reports covering the case. Each member of the task force had the same information, and each had noted the discrepancy in tone between the newspaper’s coverage and the televised version, the one from WGXA, Lexie’s stati
on. She flipped back and forth, comparing the two.

  John knew her question before she asked. “Paul Kingsley.”

  “What about Paul?”

  “You want to know why the article attempts to crucify me, but the news correspondent didn’t go for blood when a homicide detective was suspected of murdering his wife.”

  She flipped the pages again. “Based on the newspaper’s account, you were the prime suspect when this broadcast aired, yet the context of the televised version implies the police suspected the wrong man.”

  “Paul Kingsley is a friend, a good friend. The two of us hung out together as teens, and he and his ex-wife, Kathleen, were friends of mine and Abby’s. He knew I hadn’t hurt Abby, that I’d never hurt her. There was no way he’d let WGXA insinuate that I did. He ran the truth, the basic facts, and left it at that. In a town this size, even if something isn’t spelled out, everyone knows. Plus, the newspaper reported the truth too, the FBI version.”

  “You’re right. I heard about your suspected involvement when I moved here. But, being a reporter, I’ve learned that you can’t believe everything you hear, and—”

  “—and only half of what you see.”

  She smiled, and again he enjoyed the gesture. Smiles were rare in a homicide detective’s world. “And when I interviewed you, I knew. Even though I’d already read about the evidence clearing you as a suspect, I knew when I talked to you that you weren’t a killer. And you loved your wife. I can see that now when you look at her photograph.”

  He had loved Abby, enough to forgive her. “Journalistic instincts?”

  “I suppose so. Or perhaps it’s the ability to realize when someone isn’t a killer. You aren’t a killer.” She gave him another reassuring smile.

  “You have a side job as a profiler now? Because if so, I’d much rather recommend you to the FBI than the last guy they sent.”

  A small laugh bubbled forward. “Not a profiler. But I can read most people. It’s part of the job.”

  “And it’s the part I’m counting on to help us nail this guy.” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “So, do you have any questions for me, before the task force meets?”

  “Just one.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  She’d asked the one question that’d haunted him for over a decade. Who killed Abby? Who killed all the others? He shook his head and gave her the truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  Angel Jackson crossed the Bibb County line, while Special Agent Stanley Carlton’s voice filled her SUV. She’d memorized the previous profiler’s assessment, but she had waited her entire career for a chance at the Sunrise Killer and wanted every bit of ammunition available. That included all of Carlton’s observations, even if, on some counts, they disagreed.

  She wasn’t about to assume he’d reached all the correct conclusions. Everyone knew he missed the mark when he pegged the detective with the foolproof alibi. But Stan had been too young, too ready, too eager. Angel wouldn’t make the same mistake. She had no doubt Carlton’s error cost him his case. Her case now.

  True, Carlton had been conducting an investigation in Miami when Cami Talton’s body had been found, but the guys at the top knew they were dealing with the Sunrise Killer. And they’d left Carlton in southern Florida.

  That told Angel plenty. They didn’t trust Stanley to get the job done. He tried twice, and both times he failed. Angel’s track record, on the other hand, neared ninety percent. And she wouldn’t let her numbers fall now, not with this killer, the one she wanted more than any other.

  “Therefore,” Stan’s voice continued on the CD, “the rationale for Detective John Tucker as the key murder suspect is due to his direct correlation to the profile detailed earlier and outlined within the case files. Unfortunately, his alibi has been authenticated, so that Detective Tucker could not have committed the crime, at least not in regards to the murder of Abigail Tucker.”

  “Unfortunately? Stan, what did the guy do to you to make you so certain he killed his wife? You sound like you hoped he did it.” Merely a month ago, Angel had fallen prey to the charm of Stan Carlton and had briefly thought she’d fallen for her handsome fellow profiler. Then she’d thought better of the notion and broken ties, telling him they shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. He’d been fine with the break, and then he’d left for Miami. And Angel got the assignment he’d wanted, right here, in Macon. She ejected the CD as she crossed the Macon city limits sign at three minutes past six, while her windshield wipers beat a staccato rhythm against the glass. She never arrived late for anything, but she also never sped in the rain. Too many post-accident photos engrained in her memory kept her from battling the elements for a few extra seconds.

  Thick, gray clouds cloaked the city, making it much darker than she’d expect at this time of day in March. Dark and ominous and foreboding, they were in direct association with the case she’d come to conquer, but she would conquer it. And conquer him.

  “Welcome to Macon,” she whispered, “Ninety-one thousand residents and no telling how many are blonde, single and pregnant. Perfect victims for a hungry killer with a unique appetite.”

  She found the police station, parked her black SUV in a visitor’s spot and eyed the building, while one part of Stanley’s theory kept ringing through her thoughts, the main part they agreed on. The killer would want to be close. Close to the information. Close to the case. Close to, if not part of, the task force.

  “If even half of Stan’s theory is correct, there’s a good chance I’m about to meet the man who killed my mother.” She dropped Carlton’s CDs in her briefcase and gathered her thoughts, while waiting for the rain to slack off.

  Within seconds, the drizzle converted to mist, and FBI Profiler Angel Jackson climbed out of her vehicle and headed inside. Time to meet the good guys. And maybe, the monster.

  Heaven help her if she couldn’t tell the difference.

  Chapter Three

  Angel’s boots slapped a shallow puddle as she darted toward the building. At least she hadn’t worn open-toed sandals. Although she’d been on her own for the past ten of her twenty-eight years, she still followed her aunt’s rules of fashion etiquette. No exposed toes, white pants, or pink lipstick prior to Easter or after Labor Day.

  Two more days until open toes. Which also meant two more days until the Sunrise Killer attempted another strike.

  A large dark-skinned woman, her hair pulled back so tightly her eyes slanted and an exaggerated hairpiece bobbing atop her round face, waited in the entry of the police station and opened the door for Angel. The wind rushed in as well, making the other woman squint even more, while her long green and gold floral skirt whipped around her ankles.

  “You’re the FBI?” The woman eyed Angel’s SUV as though only government personnel would dare bring a black Tahoe into Macon.

  Angel peered through the parking lot and saw no fewer than two additional vehicles identical in color, make and model to her own. “I see you’ve got several FBI folks here today.”

  The woman laughed. “A sense of humor. Good. Folks around here will like that when they’re pulling extra hours over the holiday weekend.”

  Angel had never celebrated the Easter holiday—or anything else involving religion—and she didn’t plan to begin this year.

  The woman yanked the door shut, away from the rain and wind that had, once again, picked up speed. Then she extended a hand. “Etta Green.” Multiple silver bangles jingled and jangled as she pumped Angel’s arm.

  “Nice to meet you, Etta. Angel Jackson, and you pegged me right. I am FBI. Did the jeans give me away?”

  Etta laughed again. “I was just sticking around to glare at the gorgeous creep from last time. Didn’t want him thinking I’d forgotten what he did to Tucker.”

  Angel smiled; she couldn’t help it. Southern loyalty ran thick as sorghum, and this woman had a soft spot for the previously accused detective...and an ax to grind with Stanle
y Carlton. “Stan won’t be making this trip, but in all fairness, he was just doing his job.”

  The woman jerked her hand away, propped it on her rounded hip and cocked a suspicious brow. “That mean you think John did it too?” She frowned. “The man’s been through enough, Ms. Angel, and we don’t take lightly to folks roughing up good men around here, let me tell you. That there is a good man, and I won’t hear no different. It’s taken me a decade to keep folks from whispering and talking and bad-mouthing him everywhere from the grocery store to church on Sunday, but it’s about near stopped. We sure don’t need you coming back and stirring up his misery.” She stopped long enough to inhale. “What we need is someone to catch the real killer.”

  “Which is what I mean to do.”

  The woman looked skeptical, but then smiled again. “Good.” She reached out and touched the butter soft yellow leather of Angel’s jacket. “Ain’t seen one of these before. Looks like something my oldest daughter would love for her birthday coming up next month.”

  “I ordered it online. I can give you all the details later, but right now I need to get to a meeting.”

  “Yeah, the task force. Third hall down, turn right, pass the break room on your left, where a few over-muscled field cops are joking and the overweight desk jockeys are taking their umpteenth Snickers break. Conference room is two doors later on the right.”

  Angel eyed the woman in a whole new light, as a bubbling fountain of knowledge and hearsay, not always a bad thing for a profiler’s investigation. “I didn’t catch your position here.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give it.” Etta broadened her grin and flashed a gold tooth on one side. “Dispatch, the day shift, Monday through Friday.”

  Angel glanced at her watch. “Kind of late for you to still be here, isn’t it?”

  Etta shrugged. “My girls are in high school now and can start supper on their own. I like it better that way. They’re turning out to be decent cooks. Besides, I had to make sure the other guy didn’t come back in here waving his finger and causing another heap of trouble for Tucker.”