Profiled

by Renee Andrews

  IBELIEVE: I’m uncomfortable discussing this here. We don’t want to give any of our number reason to think the Fellowship condones what he’s doing. Let’s end this chat now and spend our time praying that the killer isn’t affiliated in any way whatsoever with us. If he’s from the old school, then let’s leave him there and not let him mar what we’ve worked so hard to obtain.

  LIVE4HIM: I agree. I hadn’t thought about it like that. If it is the Anti, if he is back, then if we talk about him here, we’re giving him what he wants. Plus we’re tying him to the New Fellowship, whether we realize it or not. Like IBELIEVE, I think we should spend our time praying.

  LIVANDLEARN: Agreed. We’ll end this chat session right here and pray that another innocent person doesn’t die.

  The chat room went silent, with the screen names one by one logging out. His disgust rose like bile up his throat. How dare they disregard his efforts? Refusing to acknowledge that he gave them what they wanted deep inside. A pure world. How he wished he could put faces to the cheesy screen names; he’d teach them a thing or two about the one they’d misnamed Anti. He wasn’t the Anti in this; they were. His eyes narrowed as he reread the last post.

  "Innocent?" He glared at the screen. What ungrateful trash they all were, what hypocrites. They knew what had to be done yet they acted oblivious to the truth. His hands clenched into fists. If it were up to him, he'd kill them all. They weren't doing anything for the Fellowship by sitting in their homes and typing their ludicrous assumptions on a screen. Were any of them out in the world, doing the will of the Supreme One? Did they think He accepted their tiny church functions and plays for remembrance? He wanted them battling the enemy, and they were twiddling their thumbs, and all smiles about it. And how dare they "pray" that he be stopped? Who were these people anyway? And PROTECT&SERV hadn’t participated in any of the ignorant interchange. Where was John Tucker?

  Lexie attended the sunrise service at the Community Church. It’d been tiring to get up that early after such a stressful weekend and hardly any sleep, but she’d been so uplifted by the service. Today, on Easter, she could feel God’s comfort in her soul. He helped her now, gave her the strength to face her fears, her increasing trust toward John Tucker a testament to her progress. But deep down she knew she would never be rid of her fears until they caught the Sunrise Killer.

  Did we stop him, Lord? And will You guide our path in our effort to catch him?

  She parked her car at the police station at a quarter till two on Sunday afternoon. Fifteen minutes until the task force reconvened, and no sign of another murder...yet. She felt relieved. All indications from his previous kills depicted him as a nighttime stalker, a man who entered homes late in the evening. When last night came and went with no victims reported this morning, Lexie thought they were in the clear.

  But were they?

  There were still ten hours left in the day, and if he hadn’t made his mark last night, he could strike later. That would still be within the restrictions of his bizarre plan. So even though Lexie felt more at ease, she knew their worries weren’t over until the day had passed and all women fitting his criteria were accounted for.

  Church bells rang in the distance. They’d played all morning in tribute to the religious holiday. Lexie had passed the church of her youth on the way in. Ever since she returned to Macon, she’d attended the Community Church instead of the tiny church where she, her mother and her father had spent many Sundays when she’d been a little girl. She would love to visit the old church and see if it stirred memories of her time before she lost her parents. However, the slight chance someone might put two and two together, and realize the true identity of Macon’s newest television correspondent, even after so many years, kept her away. True, the city saw her on the evening—and currently, the morning—news, but there was something to be said about a face out of context.

  Lots of people could see her and realize the face looked more familiar than other TV personalities, but not be able to put their finger on the reason why. Going back to her old stomping ground, on the other hand, might help them put it all together.

  She wouldn’t take that risk.

  However, she looked nothing at all like she did back then. People change in thirty years. Plus, she had a new name, different hair color, and she hadn’t stepped one foot back in this city since that awful day—until eight months ago, when she became tired of being the victim and ready to be the vindicator.

  She closed her eyes and prayed, Lord, it if be Your will, help us stop him. Help us keep more innocent women and babies from dying at his hand. In Jesus’ name, amen.

  A knock on her car window made her jump. She turned to see John Tucker, tall, dark and handsome standing outside.

  Lexie unfastened her seat buckle and opened the door. “Have you heard anything?” She grabbed her purse and computer bag, then climbed from the car.

  “Nothing yet. You okay? You’ve been sitting there a while.”

  “Just thinking and praying.”

  “Been doing a bit of that myself—thinking, that is—and wondering if we stopped him.” He inhaled, then let it out with a shake of his head and a hint of a frown.

  Lexie resisted the impulse to ask why he wasn’t praying. “What do you think?” They started toward the building.

  “I honestly don’t know. Agent Jackson called me this morning to ask some questions about the last series and to discuss how our killer always commits the murders around the same time of day.”

  “Always at night, usually very late.”

  “Yeah. She’s thinking if it didn’t happen last night, we may have pulled off stopping his pattern. Not many hours of darkness before midnight tonight, but then again, if he’s determined to get a kill in today, that might not be a strong enough deterrent. In fact, I believe if he hasn’t already killed someone, he’ll be even more determined tonight.”

  “That’s what I think too.”

  A gold full-sized conversion van pulled in the parking lot and parked in front of them. They stopped walking and watched Etta Green bustle out, her hands full of dishes.

  “Hold on, I’ll help you.” John moved toward her car.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Etta shooed him away with a twitch of her head, sending big wide curls waving in all directions. Longer than yesterday’s hairpiece, today’s had tiny flowers stuck here and there, undoubtedly for this morning’s Easter service. “I’ve got everything balanced, and all you’ll do is mess with my system. Tell you what, though, you can open the door.” Her orange skirt swished as she trekked across the parking lot, while John and Lexie tried to keep up.

  John opened the door and let her shuffle through.

  “I talked to your profiler a little bit ago. Poor thing has been here most of the night, from what I can tell. I figured she might need a bit of home cooking. The girl’s way too thin, needs some meat on her bones.”

  “You’ve taken a liking to Agent Jackson, haven’t you?” John grinned as Etta continued down the hall.

  Etta stopped walking, turned her head back and gawked at John. “Tucker, you’re the one who should be spoiling her rotten. The last FBI guy wanted to lock you up and throw away the key; she believes you’re half-decent, which you can thank me for, if you want to know. And it ain’t that I like her so much,” she corrected. “I’m just trying to fatten her up so she can’t wear that coat. I think it’s the perfect size for my CiCi.”

  He laughed out loud. “You’re something else, lady, you know that?”

  “And don’t you forget it,” she instructed with a sharp nod, before barreling ahead toward the conference room.

  “You think we should catch the next door for her?” Lexie peered down the hall.

  “Nah, she’ll round someone up from the break room to help. Etta has no problem getting folks to jump through her hoops.”

  “Sounds like she jumped through a few for you.”

  “No doubt about it. My main salvation in this place during ‘99 and 2006 cam
e in the form of Etta Green. She never backed down from her claim that I was innocent.” He shrugged. “I helped her out when her husband died in ‘92. Didn’t do much, but I checked on Etta and the girls. I think it meant a lot to her to know someone cared. He was only forty-four when cancer got the best of him. That’s how old I am now.”

  “I’m sure she appreciated your help.”

  He laughed. “Etta didn’t need any help. She’s about as self-sufficient as they come, but I think it meant a lot to her that I tried. Truth of the matter is, she’s happiest when she’s got someone to take care of, and she took care of me during those last two murder series.” He stopped at the vacant break room and stepped inside. “Guess the guys smelled Etta’s banana nut bread and followed her down the hall.” He tossed four quarters in a soda machine. “You want a Dr. Pepper?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Anyway,” he took a sip of soda from the can, “it looks like Etta has decided Angel Jackson needs her attention now. Leave it to Etta to decide the FBI needs help in the form of good ol’ Southern cooking.”

  “And what do you think about the profiler?” Lexie asked, curious about his take on Angel.

  “Considering the last FBI guy pegged me as the prime suspect, I’d say she’s a definite improvement.” He held up his can in mock tribute to the new profiler then took another drink.

  Lexie laughed, partly because she enjoyed Tucker’s sense of humor, but more because she enjoyed being so at ease around a man, and around this man.

  They left the break area and headed toward the conference room, where three police officers walked out stuffing their faces with big hunks of something that looked like cake and smelled like bananas. One held up half a slice. “You’re too late, Tucker.”

  “Right. As if Etta didn’t bring enough for an army.” John held the door for Lexie, and they walked inside, where Etta distributed nut bread to the group. The smell of bananas and pecans filled the tiny area and made Lexie’s stomach growl. She’d forgotten breakfast and had eaten a plain bagel for lunch. Not much of an Easter dinner, but she hadn’t been in the mood for more. She looked at the end of the table, where Angel eyed her slice, triple the size of everyone else’s.

  “You didn’t have to do this.” She broke off a piece of the steaming bread and popped it in her mouth. After swallowing and rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, she added, “But we’re glad you did. Don’t guess you’d share the recipe?”

  “You give me the information on where to buy that jacket, and I’ll share my granny’s secret recipe.”

  Angel smirked. “Deal.”

  Lexie sat down and took a bite of her bread, added her own praise to Etta’s culinary talents, then watched the lady, beaming, leave the room, while promising to bring more goodies when she came to work tomorrow.

  A new, packed file of information rested on the table in front of each task force member. Lexie flipped hers open. Molly Taylor’s background sheet topped the pages. Lexie examined the pretty girl, then lifted the page and viewed the next victim’s photo.

  “Since we’re still at the wait stage for today, and since we still don’t have the missing persons data from February of ‘85, I thought we’d concentrate on the next best way to determine more about our killer,” Angel tapped her file. “Victimology. We’re going to look at all of the victims to see if they have more in common than the three signature criteria we’ve already noted.”

  “We’ve been through this with each series.” Lou tossed an oversized chunk of bread to the back of his mouth while he flipped through the pages. “It hasn’t changed. The women have nothing in common except they were single, blonde and pregnant. Evidently that’s enough for our killer.”

  “At this point, until we get that missing persons data, victimology is our best resource.”

  Lexie knew Angel well enough to know she wasn’t pleased with Lou’s flippant attitude. They were dealing with a killer, and whether or not he murdered again today, they still needed to find him.

  “Well, if we’re going to look at victims,” Ryan said, “we should be able to look at all of them.”

  “What do you mean?” Captain Pierce fanned the corners of his victim sheets. “We’ve got them all right here.”

  “Not this one.” He lifted a page. “They never gave us much more than her name. But considering the name, I guess they thought that was enough.”

  Lexie’s throat tightened. She’d turned past that page in her own file and had hoped no one noticed she didn’t examine it like the rest. But now, with him holding it up for the group, she found it difficult to control the natural reaction. Angel wasn’t immune to the effects either. The profiler’s mouth flattened, as if she had no response to Ryan’s comment regarding the prominent senator’s daughter, but Lexie knew better. Angel’s teeth were undoubtedly clamped against her inner lip and helping her maintain composure, the method she had always used to mask her pain.

  “I understand they wanted to protect Truman’s family, but all we have here is the same information available on public record. We’ve never found out if the killer selected her because she fit his signature criteria, or if it was more political than that. They never even questioned Truman,” Ryan explained.

  Angel cleared her throat. “According to the information I received, he wasn’t able to answer questions. His heart attack and subsequent mental breakdown left him incapable of helping with the investigation. And all evidence suggests that Beverly Truman had been selected like every other victim, because she fit his criteria, not because she was Nicholas Truman’s daughter.”

  While they continued discussing the most notable victim, Lexie fought to maintain composure. She hated that Angel had to listen to their speculations, their theories, about something so personal, so painful. But Angel Jackson’s professionalism kept her part of the killer’s history private. Then again, Angel hadn’t seen the Sunrise Killer.

  Lexie had.

  She stood from her chair. “Excuse me. I left my tape recorder in the car.” Then she exited the room and put some distance between her and the photo that pierced her heart. But she’d seen the concern in Angel’s eyes before she left the table. Angel wanted to follow her, to make sure Lexie could deal with the past until they caught the killer. But she couldn’t, and Lexie would be even more upset if she did. They’d come too far to let everything fall apart now. It had all started with the two of them, together. And if they caught him now, it would end the same way, with the two of them, together.

  They could do it, Lexie and Angel. They’d help the government put him away for good, but both of them knew the risk they were taking by coming back to his domain. If he learned Lexie’s identity, or Angel’s, before they identified him, they were as good as dead.

  She held her emotions in check as she moved down the hall passing officers and forcing cordial greetings through a throat pinched tight. She exited the building, filled her lungs with thick air and returned to her car. Then she let the tears fall in silence.

  In contrast to yesterday’s rain, the sun beamed, filling the Lexus with warmth and cloaking her pain with heat. The memory fought to be reclaimed, and Lexie fought just as hard to keep it at bay. She couldn’t stop now. She had to find him, had to stop the nightmares.

  Closing her eyes, she decided to wait a few more minutes before returning inside. Let them discuss the prominent senator’s daughter and the way she died without Lexie having to hear. She didn’t need anything to remind her, didn’t need to hear about Senator Truman’s heart attack, didn’t need to remember how his entire world had shattered during the two weeks when he lost his two oldest daughters. And she didn’t want to remember how he’d have made his way to the White House.

  Lexie didn’t want to remember. But she did. In fact, she remembered the sirens, the way they’d blared on that day so long ago. And the screams. If she could only block out the screams...

  Opening her eyes, she saw John Tucker climb in his truck then peel out of the parking lot.
/>   Dear God, what happened?

  She punched the unlock button on her door. Her stomach rolling, she tried to open her door, but she’d hit the wrong button and locked it again. Two black-and-whites sped past, Ryan and Lou in one, Zed and the captain in the other. Lexie pounded the button again and flung her door open, nearly falling to the pavement with her momentum.

  Angel sprinted from the building and hurtled through the parking lot toward her SUV. Her hair unbound now, it billowed behind her as she ran.

  Lexie knew something big had happened. “What is it?”

  “Another murder. No time to explain—follow me.”

  Her heart raced. “He found someone, didn’t he? He got someone else?”

  Angel’s grim face answered Lexie’s question. “Come on!”

  “I’m right behind you.” And then they left, Lexie following Angel, the two of them headed to the scene of his kill. Another single, blonde, pregnant woman was dead. Lexie could feel it. She tightened her hands on the steering wheel. It had happened, the monster had murdered. Again.

  Angel pressed the accelerator and tore through town, her mind repeating the directions Sims had given her before they left. All of the locals knew where they were going, and she hadn’t taken the time to program her GPS, just listened to the turns and, like everyone else, made a beeline toward death. Tucker hadn’t stopped long enough to translate anything, but she hadn’t expected him to. As the homicide detective in charge, he had to get first and foremost to the scene.

  She looked in her rearview mirror and saw Lexie, following so closely Angel couldn’t see the front of her car. Lexie. How would she handle this scene? Simple, Angel thought. She wouldn’t. Even though Lexie McCain had secured a spot on the task force for the investigation, she still counted as media, and no way would the crime scene investigators allow a reporter near the body. Thank goodness. Lexie didn’t need to see someone else who’d been attacked by the Sunrise Killer. Although Angel knew what he was capable of, had seen the crime photos verifying the fact, she’d never seen the victim firsthand. Lexie, on the other hand, had. And viewing the scene this soon after the murder would intensify those memories. Lexie didn’t need to sharpen that image. Remembering the details meant reliving the pain, and no matter how many times Lexie McCain revisited that scene, one detail remained unchanged...