by D. C. Stone
Ugh squared.
“Charlie, you’re up,” he said, his voice and eyes dancing with unhidden laughter.
She nodded and slipped from the chair. Unease skittered along her neck as attention in the room landed on her. She hated these briefings, would rather be out in the field doing what she did best. Facing the three pairs of eyes centered on her, she blew out a breath and tried not to fidget.
“All right, we believe we’ve discovered what his MO is. While he fits the profile of a sexual assault offender, not everything seems to be adding up. It’s unnerving how many different attributes he possesses.”
The chief spoke. “How do you mean?”
Snapping her mouth shut at the interruption, she cursed the trickle of sweat rolling down her back. She glanced at Trent and continued when he nodded. “Well, sexual assault scenes hold different traits depending on the offender. That includes the victim’s blood, possible semen left behind, wound patterns on the victim, torn clothing, or ligature marks from what the subject may have used to bind.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve all been through profiling one-oh-one in the Academy. Get to the point.” The chief sat forward in silent question.
She shifted, again, hating how uncomfortable she was. “While our victims have reported sexual contact to a degree, and our offender seems to be acting in a sexual way, he hasn’t passed the final line.”
Agent Echols piped up. “What does that mean?”
She shifted her gaze to the ASAIC and tried to control her face at being interrupted continuously. “At this point our offender fits more of the traits for a breaking and entering offender, rather than a sexual one. But his crimes seem to be progressing as is evident in the recent days.”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Woolsey lifted a hand. “You mean to tell me that even though this guy,” he spat the word, “has been breaking into homes, stealing underwear, and forcing women to take sexual demeaning photographs, you aren’t classifying him as a sexual deviant?”
“Exactly.” Trent’s one word sent the room into silence. He stood and joined her at the front of the table again. She could have kissed him.
Wait, she already did. Hell…
“Technically,” Trent’s deep voice drew her mind back to the briefing, while he holds those sexual tendencies, he can’t be classified as one until he crosses that line. At the moment, he’s pegged as a B&E subject with a signature in sexual behavior. That behavior shows to be unsatisfying to his psychological and emotional needs. If history serves to repeat itself, we’ll see it only get worse.”
“His what?” Woolsey glanced between Charlie and Trent as if they had sprouted two heads. With her emotions jumping all over the place, she expected if she looked in a mirror, she’d see just that. The case drew her one way, and Trent’s dark and sexy pull yanked her in another.
“His needs. With the progression of his crimes, it seems as though he doesn’t get satisfied and keeps escalating with each attack.” Trent checked an imaginary list from his long fingers. How the hell she found his hands sexy was beyond her. “So far we’ve seen the subject steal female undergarments, which technically is a B&E trait. Also falling under that crime includes ejaculation at the scene. But his attacks are progressing, showing the specific sequences of sexual acts, including binding his victims and personal items taken.” He turned to the supervisors. “Those last three fall under a sexual deviant trait.”
Woolsey frowned, bewilderment crossing his face. Agent Echols sat back with an audible sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What he means, Chief,” Charlie concluded, “is our offender is progressing to rape. It’s not a matter of what he’s going to do, but more so who…and when.”
****
He lay beneath the bed in darkness. Anticipation curled through his veins, wrapping tentacles of adrenaline around his pounding heart. His body ached for release, burned for the moment of pleasure.
The creak of a door drew his attention. Across the room, sleek, muscular legs stumbled in, followed by a man’s shoes.
Shit.
He clenched his jaw as sounds of sucking lips and murmurs of carnality filled the air. His teeth ground together. The need he held turned to anger. He had planned this out, studied the house for days and waited for his moment. Wanted to be under the bed, so when she finally fell into it—preferably by herself—he’d be able to slide out from beneath and surprise her. She lived alone, had a schedule, one she had not deviated from since he laid eyes on her.
Until now.
Fucking shit.
A click and soft light flooded the room. The couple’s bodies shadowed a wall, and he watched as the man hunched over the woman, his lips pressing along the length of her neck. Her hands fumbled with his shirt until twin pieces fell away as cloth skittered to the floor. The sound of a zipper followed and a red dress landed at her feet.
It all happened inches away. He could almost reach out and touch them, burned with the desire to do so. His cock pulsed against the carpeted floor, and he bit back a moan, shifted his hips, and ground himself into the lush flooring.
The bed bounced and groaned as the couple collapsed on it. Her soft laugh littered the air before a sultry cry rushed up. Small sounds like sucking, panting, and creaking continued in a primal song.
He inched forward, a cat on the hunt, slithered his way like a snake until he pulled his body free from the confines of the bed. He rolled to his back and wrinkled his nose in disgust as a pair of black slacks fell from the edge, landing inches from his face.
He drew out the heavy mag light, tested the weight in his palm before shifting and pushing to his knees. His muscles screamed in protest from being immobile for so long. He moved with precise, slow progress, stayed crouched below the rise of the bed, and peeked over.
The couple went at it, so focused on each other they had no idea he was nearby. Their bodies lay in a mass of tangled limbs and exposed skin. The white covers crumpled against their skin, and the pillows at the top of the bed were scattered around.
He crawled to the side and reached their joined legs. Naked hips ground against another. He rose, lifted his hand and smacked the heavy tool to the back of the man’s head. He slumped right away, and his weight rested on her small frame beneath.
He rolled the intruder off. She lifted her blue eyes to his and screamed, the sound raising goose bumps across his arms. His excitement ramped up. The thrill of the chase, the possibility of being caught, soared.
The woman twisted and scrambled across the bed, climbing over her lover as if he were a decorative pillow. Their limbs tangled, making her movements much more of a burden to her. She struggled and he wrapped his hand around her ankle, gave a yank, and drew her naked form back. Her legs fell over the bed, bringing her hips right to his cock, her ass displayed in the finest position. She rolled, kicked away from him and struck him with something she had pulled from the bedside table.
Pain whipped across his head as the lamp smashed to the wall. Warmth slid down his face and his eye throbbed in answer. He reached for her.
“No, please!”
His body answered with a jolt of desire, and he grinned.
****
Finished taking the victim’s statement, Charlie stepped out of the house with a heavy sigh. Blue and red lights filled the surrounding area, making the sky alive like Fourth of July fireworks. A dozen or so officers scattered across the lawn, searching and digging for any kind of trace evidence. If this was anything like the previous cases, the likelihood of them finding anything was nil.
After the briefing earlier, she’d hightailed it out of the station, ignoring Woolsey’s and Trent’s questioning looks, and gone home. Despite exhaustion weighing her limbs down, she needed to burn off restless energy. More so, the sexual tension driving through her veins. She changed into her jogging pants and a light blue jacket and then hit the pavement. After three miles her body started to scream, her muscles turned to jelly, but she pushed herself harder, fast
er, giving it her all until well after sunset.
Dwayne had been waiting, dressed impeccably as ever, his shift starting and dinner waiting. She had shoveled food into her mouth so fast, more to ignore any of her partner’s questioning looks, then escaped to the solitude of her room, ignoring her phone, her laptop, and instead slipping into the bath with a heavy sigh. Hours later, still asleep in water that had gone cold, she’d woken to Dwayne pounding on the door. That had been at midnight, and the department had been trying to get ahold of her for hours.
She sighed and brought herself back to the present. Dwayne broke off from speaking with a neighbor and crossed the lawn in sure, long strides toward her. A familiar shift in tension uncoiled with his presence. He had been her confidante for years, one of her closest friends, and right now she required all the help she could get. She needed to be able to trust someone. Trust someone with more than just what was going on in the town.
“What’s the story, Charlie?”
His dark looks complimented the night, mocha-colored skin and green eyes making him almost too pretty to be a man. He carried himself with a confidence many said bordered the line with cockiness. However, she knew he had the intelligence to back it up. Dark stubble played over a strong jaw and high cheekbones were etched like Adonis.
“Our boy is getting risqué. Tonight he attacked with the date there.”
His brows rose and he glanced up at the house behind. “So I heard. Not a good sign if you ask me.”
“Conked the guy on the head with something heavy, then tied them both up. Besides his ego and a bump, the date’s okay. But I’m echoing your thoughts, this is getting out of control.”
“And the woman?”
She grimaced and stepped aside to allow a medic to pass. “Well, she’s a bit worse for wear. Matches pretty much to the last attack. After he tied them up, he dressed her, took pictures and had a bit of fun with her drawer of toys while her date watched.”
“Penetration?” he asked.
She let out a breath. “No. Thank God. But just as humiliating. Forcing someone to give blow jobs to inanimate objects can be just as traumatizing.”
He nodded. “True that. But, drawer of toys?”
She cast a bland look at Dwayne. “Surely with all the females you’ve dated, you know about the drawer?”
Dwayne stayed silent, but his lips twitched.
She glared. “Christ. Dildos, vibrators.”
A look of amusement shifted across his face. “I just really wanted to hear you say it.” He flashed a grin. “And when I’m there, there isn’t a need for any…” He brought his hands up and made quotation marks. “Drawer of toys.”
“Oh, let’s put that under the too-fucking-much-information file. Anyhow, let’s get the full round going here. Video, photos, sketches, bring in forensics for an analysis, and I want a copy of the medical exam once the ER docs release it. They’ll be taking them in soon to get checked out.”
“Already on it. Was the victim able to give any details about her attacker?”
“No, said he was wearing a mask, all black, and before she could study his features, he blindfolded them.” She pursed her lips. “There was one piece about the victim’s statement that caught me as a little weird.” And brought up extra questions on the why.
“What’s that?”
She shifted her gaze, looked out across the neighborhood and felt a presence. That being watched feeling was back. She searched the shadows, strained to see inside the darkness. “She said the guy was trying to disguise his voice.”
His deep voice held a hint of shock. “Wait…how does she know that? Was it that obvious?”
She shrugged and watched Trent’s form as he stepped from the shadows of the street. Speaking of questions, where in the hell had he been? She’d tried to reach him hours ago and got his voicemail each time. No call back, no messages, nothing but silence from her assigned new partner. Here she was busting her ass, trying to catch this guy, and Trent was off doing God knew what.
Dwayne tapped her nose and she turned to him, her distraction effectively broken. He lifted a brow and she rushed to answer.
“She couldn’t explain it, but said his voice was deep. Almost too deep. Unnatural.”
“Interesting. You thinking it’s an attempt at disguise, too?”
“Yeah, I do,” she answered, distracted, her mind still reeling over Trent’s sudden presence. “Excuse me, I need to take care of something, or rather, deal with someone. Keep me updated and let me know when forensic gets here.”
He glanced over his shoulder to where she was looking and his voice held laughter when he answered. “Sure thing.”
She stepped away and met Trent halfway up the walk. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“Sorry, I came as soon as I heard.”
He stepped into the light, shifted closer, and she gasped. “What happened to your face?” She reached to touch the abrasion littering a rough path down his cheek. It looked fresh, swollen, and deep. Almost as if someone raked his or her nails across it. He flinched and leaned away.
“Careful.” He grimaced as her fingers traced over the wound. “It still hurts.”
He stood still as she studied the scratch, and met his stare. “This doesn’t look so good. How did you get it? What happened?”
He averted his gaze, seeming to search the surrounding areas, looking anywhere but at her. It shouldn’t bother her. He was just some fed from the City. What he did outside of this case was none of her business. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. Didn’t seem to be working when it came to him, though. Instead of heeding to the irrational spurt of hurt at his obvious attempt to hide something from her, the dismissal grated across her ego like salt on a wound. “Long story, I’ll tell you about it later.”
She bristled. “How about you tell me now. What happened?” she barked, allowing the building irritation to boil over. She already had enough of the questions without answers. There was no need to add more.
Dark blue eyes that were almost black snapped to hers. “Drop it. I don’t want to discuss my personal business with you. Catch me up on what happened here.”
She winced and wanted to growl but held it back. Now was not the time. Pushing out a long breath, she studied him as she spoke. Why was he closed off from others? Cops liked their privacy, yeah. But how could he not expect her to be curious when it was obvious something physical had happened between them? She ran through the sequence of events, gave a full brief, but refused to give too many details. She didn’t know why, but something cautioned her to hold back.
He bobbed his head when she finished. “He’s operating in his own fantasy.”
Skeptical, she asked, “meaning?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked at the house. “Meaning it’s all making sense. He is operating in the beginning stages of a sexual offender. His attacks are growing in strength, he’s getting brazen, and now, he’s setting up his own little fantasies, taking pictures, so he can relive the crime again later. He’s familiar with the area and that shows in how he’s choosing single women who have an easy vulnerability.”
“He’s sticking to his own neighborhood,” she said slowly, testing out the theory.
Trent nodded. “Yeah, the problem here is, not only is he acting out his fantasy, but he’s also playing his own game. He’s organized, and that makes it hard to catch him in a mistake. He pre-plans his attacks, chooses his victims carefully, and yet still tries to change his appearance, his voice. He directs the conversations, demands their submission to keep the fantasy and his scene under control.”
“You’ve figured all that out from the victims we’ve had?” she asked with no small amount of incredulity.
His gaze returned to hers and she hated the tumble her stomach did. It was as if a thousand butterflies took flight at once. Damn it, why did she have this reaction to him? “It’s what I do, Charlie. I profile, and I’m good at it.”
“All right, Mr. Profiler. Continue, then.” She didn’t mean for the words to come so sharp, but she was irritated with him, with the secrets he seemed to be holding, with the crimes occurring, and with her reaction to him.
He held her stare, and she refused to look away. Each word he spoke was clear and concise. “Offender is twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. White male, local, comfortable with the area, and possibly either lives or works here. He’s organized, so that leads me to believe he is military or law enforcement. Intelligent. From the attack tonight, he’s shown he has a temper when his fantasy is interrupted. He facilitates the reactions of his victims through restrictions.”
“Huh? Reactions?” She blinked, playing catch up.
“Meaning, he sets the stage and controls his victims through his demands and commands. The details we may pay attention to in a crime scene may not be the same thing he’s concerned with. His main motivation is control, not pleasure. He gets satisfaction only through the absolute domination of his victims.”
Her mind spun with a million thoughts, each of them leading down a path of no return. The case was getting too big, and she worried it was about to get much worse. “What you’re basically saying is we’re fucked. Military or law enforcement and he knows the area?” She pinched the bridge of her nose and a low throb started to pulse behind her temples.
“You’re going to have to step out of the box with your way of thinking on this case.”
She let out a resigned sigh, suddenly very tired, and slapped her hands against her sides. What in the hell was the next step? “How so?”
“You want to catch him? You need to start thinking like a criminal. It’s the only way you’re going to get one-step ahead or match his strides. You can’t keep reacting to these crimes.”
No shit, Sherlock.
She snapped her jaw closed and forced down the smart-ass remark. The couple was being led from the house, and the last thing they needed to see was the lead detective chewing the head off an FBI agent.
Instead, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Then tell me, Agent Rossi.” She ground the words out. “How do you suggest I think like a criminal in a case that makes me want to puke?”
