Profile of Retribution: FBI Profiler Romantic Suspense (Profile Series #3)

by Alexa Grace

  April patted the arm of the young man sitting next to her. “That’s my story. It’s time for you to tell yours, son.”

  Kaitlyn had tried to start a conversation with Tom Engle earlier, but he’d walked away from her, seeming too angry to talk. She got the impression that beneath his calm demeanor lay an edge of fury and frustration. He sat next to a man who looked to be an older version of Tom.

  “I’m Tom, and this is my dad, Thomas Sr. Marie Engle was my ex-wife, but we’d reconciled right before she was murdered. She was sixteen when I married her, and soon after she had our twins, who just turned two. Marie didn’t finish high school, and when she couldn’t find a job, she started stripping at a joint in Indy. Never liked the thought of my wife taking her clothes off for other men, but what could I say? I’d lost my job and she brought home good money that we needed to care for our babies. Marie was a good mom, and every time I think about what happened to her I get pissed. Like Tate, I feel robbed by the deaths of those fucking animals.”

  “I’ll never know all the details of Marie’s death. I want to know. I’ve imagined a thousand times how she died, but I want to know the truth. What was her death like? Was it quick, or was it a slow, agonizing death? How much did she suffer? I want to know, but that means going through the nightmare all over again. Not sure I can do that. Because they’re dead, I won’t see Evan and Devan suffer like Marie did. They won’t be tried and punished by the justice system—or get the lethal injections they deserve. But if I let this anger eat me up, what use am I to my kids, or to Dad?”

  When Margaret asked Thomas Sr. if he’d like to tell his story, he replied, his voice rough with emotion, “My son’s story is my story. I’ve got nothing to add to it, except I hope both Lucas boys are burning in hell.”

  Kaitlyn had met Anthony and Bobbie Cooke the day they buried their only child, Destiny. It had been a tough day for the Chase brothers, as all three had been friends with Destiny and her fiancé, Justin Andrews, and had planned to attend their wedding.

  “My Destiny was beautiful and smart. She was going to marry her childhood sweetheart and should have lived a long and happy life,” said Bobbie Cooke. “The happiest time of our lives became the most horrific. I lay awake at night asking, ‘Why Destiny? Was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Had she been targeted and stalked?’ We’ll never know. What I do know is that she is in God’s hands now, and I cannot move forward until I forgive her killers. I see the way most of you are looking at me with disbelief, and I hope you can someday understand. Losing Destiny created this agonizing pain inside me. It becomes excruciating and I can’t make it stop. If there was a surgery available to remove this ungodly pain, I’d be first in line. But there is no miracle cure, it will be with me until the last day of my life.

  “And then I ask myself what Destiny would have wanted. Would she want her mother to hold on to anger, resentment and thoughts of revenge—or embrace forgiveness and move forward? So I’ve decided to let go and move forward. That doesn’t mean the hurt will entirely go away, it will remain a part of me the rest of my life.

  “I believe forgiving Devan and Evan Lucas will lessen the grip my sorrow has on me. Forgiveness doesn’t mean that you give the person who hurt you a free pass, and it doesn’t minimize or justify the wrong. I’m not excusing the horrific acts they committed. I know Destiny would want her dad and me to go on living our lives. She’d want us to focus on ways to turn this nightmare around, and to help others. That’s what I intend to do.”

  Anthony Cooke, grasping his wife’s hand, did not hesitate to begin speaking. “Destiny was our miracle baby. Bobbie and I were beginning to think we weren’t able to have children. Then she became pregnant with Destiny and my world was happy and complete. Since her death, my world has become a dark and angry place. Unlike her mother, I cannot bring myself to forgive my daughter’s killers. I have this rage that burns inside me. The police think Destiny was abducted from the church parking lot as we sat inside waiting for her arrival. What kind of evil possessed them to abduct and murder a young woman on the eve of her wedding?

  “I cannot get past the anger and resentment I have that those two boys died before paying for what they did to my baby. They got off easy, and they robbed us of discovering exactly what happened to our child. Now all I have are dozens of movies playing in my brain of how she died. Each one is uglier than the last. I keep asking myself why it wasn’t me. Why am I still here? What did I do wrong for this to happen to my Destiny?” Anthony slumped down in his chair and pressed both hands over his eyes as if they burned with weariness.

  Kaitlyn sighed, physically drained by the stories of loss and the endless grief. Her entire body seemed engulfed in tides of weariness and despair.

  Margaret leaned forward in her seat and let her eyes roam around the circle. “I thank each of you for speaking from your heart. It is through telling our stories that we facilitate the healing process. I must caution you about one thing. Don’t try to make sense of homicide. It is a senseless act that will drive you insane if you let it. In your cases, two young men made a conscious choice to take a life, numerous times. There isn’t anything any of you could have done to prevent it. You cannot feel guilty and blame yourself for what happened to your loved ones. In a way, this group is lucky. Few families of homicide victims are able to share their experience with those who truly understand their pain. You have each other. Be there for each other. I hope to see you next month, same time and place. Goodnight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Dinner

  Bradley scanned the living room and decided that Krystle had done an excellent job. He’d called her that morning and asked that she make a dinner for two near the fireplace in the living room. In front of him was a small round table covered with white linen, set with their best china, crystal goblets and silver. A chilled bottle of Tisha’s favorite Cabernet sat on the coffee table. A candle flickered from the table’s center and a fire roared in the fireplace. Romantic? Yes. Enough to warm his wife’s heart? Not sure. But that’s what he was praying for.

  Wandering to the kitchen, he found Krystle lifting a roast with potatoes and carrots in a large baking pan from the oven. Small china bowls filled with tossed salads lay on the island.

  She noticed him and smiled. “I hope everything is okay.”

  “More than okay. It looks perfect. Thank you.”

  “It was fun putting all this together for you and the missus.” Krystle lay a pair of pot holders near the stove and announced, “Dinner is ready to be served.”

  Bradley shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. It was a sad state of affairs when a man was nervous about seeing his own wife. “Where’s Tisha?”

  “She’s in the den, watching the evening news. By the time you fetch her, I’ll have the food wheeled into the living room on a cart. Then I’m heading home so you two can have an evening alone.”

  In the den, Bradley found Tisha standing in front of the television with the remote control in hand, flipping from channel to channel. Wearing a short floral skirt with a pink sweater, she looked as fresh and young as she had in the early days of their marriage. His body ached for her touch. He wished he could throw her over his shoulder fireman-style, carry her to their bedroom, and make sweet, delicious love to her for hours.

  It had been three days since they’d argued, and Tisha had been cold and distant ever since. He was a man who could weather a lot of life’s storms without flinching. His wife’s anger? Not so much. Truth be told, he missed her terribly. They hadn’t talked in days, and hadn’t made love in months. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

  “Hi, honey. Slow news day?”

  Startled by his voice, she spun around to face him. He raised his hands in a “don’t-shoot” pose.

  “I didn’t hear you come home.”

  “No matter. Are you hungry? I’m starving and Krystle has made a delicious dinner for us.” Extending his elbow, he said, “Shall we?”
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  With a questioning glance, Tisha slipped her arm through his and let him lead her down the hall to the living room. Pulling her chair out at the table, he waited for her to sit down, then used a corkscrew to remove the cork from the wine bottle. Pouring two glasses, he returned to the table, where he met her suspicious stare.

  Taking the glass he handed to her, she asked, “What’s the occasion?”

  “Do I have to have a special occasion to want dinner alone with my wife?”

  Tisha shrugged her shoulders. “It’s been a long time, that’s all.”

  “Too long.” Forking a cherry tomato in his salad, he popped it in his mouth and looked at Tisha. She was forty-years-old, didn’t look a day over thirty, and still turned heads when she walked down a street. He hadn’t looked at another woman since he’d met her. God only knew what he’d do if he lost her.

  He’d been thinking about an idea for days, and rehearsing in his mind how he’d present it to his wife. In the end, he just went for it. “Tisha, I have an idea I want to run by you.”

  Again, a questioning glance. “What’s that?”

  Although his heart was in his throat, he swallowed, and tried to appear calm. “Our businesses have done extremely well, and we’ve made good investments. The result is we have more money in the bank than we could possibly spend the rest of our lives.”

  “So?”

  “I’d like to develop a plan where we could donate money to the families of our sons’ victims.”

  Tisha choked, spewing wine all over her dress. “Mother of God, where did you get such an idea? Do you not realize how much they detest us?”

  “They wouldn’t have to know the money was from us. We could find a way to do it anonymously.”

  “What’s your point? To buy them off? Do you really think money will make them feel any better about losing their girls than we feel about losing our sons?”

  “No, I didn’t think this would buy anyone off. I just feel so ashamed and guilty, I wanted to somehow contribute to their lives in a positive way.”

  “So giving our money away is supposed to make us feel less guilty for what our sons did? Not likely, Bradley. It also won’t change who we are. For the rest of our days, we’re going to be known as Bradley and Tisha Lucas, the parents of serial killers. No amount of money is going to change that. Nothing is going to make us less-hated than we are.”

  “Surely people don’t blame us…”

  Tisha cut him off, slapping her napkin on the table. “Are you kidding? Are you really that clueless? People fucking despise us. They blame us for what Evan and Devan did. We are the most hated people in Shawnee County. Hell, the most detested in the state of Indiana, and thanks to Crime Scene Network, the entire world. Casey Anthony’s parents can’t compete with us.”

  The front window exploded as a large object hurtled into the room, sending shattered glass airborne into their hair and clothing. Bradley jumped to his feet and Tisha scrambled back until her shoulder hit the edge of the fireplace mantel. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, Bradley pulled his wife into his arms and did a quick examination. There were tiny, bloody cuts all over her face, neck and arms. Her eyes reflecting pure terror, she clung to him.

  He led her to a chair, handed her his cell phone, and insisted she sit down. “Stay here and call 9-1-1. I’m getting my gun. He may still be out there.”

  “No! You could get hurt. Don’t go, Bradley. Please.”

  Ignoring his wife’s pleas, he raced to his gun case, unlocked it, retrieved his Glock and returned to the front door. Yanking it open, he stepped onto the porch, scanned the yard and cursed himself for not getting a flashlight. Seeing nothing, he headed back inside.

  In the living room, his heart froze when he saw Tisha, standing near the window, trembling as she held a rock dripping with what he initially thought was red paint. Moving closer, he saw the horror in her eyes as she stared down at it.

  “Honey, give it to me.”

  Slowly she handed it to him, then wiped compulsively at her clothing as if the red substance were acid, burning her skin.

  The first thing he noticed as he held the rock was a coppery smell he’d know anywhere. It wasn’t coated with red paint, it was covered in blood, sticky and so slippery, he dropped it onto the carpet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Rock

  It wasn’t the type of call a sergeant normally took, but when Cameron heard the dispatcher say Bradley Lucas’ name, he shot out of the building and gunned his sheriff’s office-issued SUV, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Reaching the Lucas place, he whipped into the long driveway, followed close behind by a squad car. Deputy Gail Sawyer had radioed that she was in the area.

  As Cameron stood on the front porch, pounding on the door, he noticed a jagged gash in the front window glass. He slipped a pair of paper shoe covers on his feet.

  Running to catch up with him, Gail said, “Check out that window.”

  “Noticed.”

  Covering her own shoes, she asked, “Want me to call in for a crime scene tech?”

  “Not yet. Let’s talk to the Lucas couple first.”

  Bradley, holding a white hand towel and a brown plastic bottle, opened the door and invited them inside. They followed him into the living room where Tisha sat near the fireplace. Bradley sat down near her and began dabbing her cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Tisha was pale and looked shaken to her core.

  Cameron and Gail headed to the broken window and noticed a large rock on the carpet, coated with what looked like blood. Cameron looked back at Bradley. “Did you touch this?”

  “I’m afraid we both did.”

  “Where was it before you touched it? Where did it land when it came through the window?”

  Tisha spoke up. “It was on my mother’s antique table there. The rock shattered the crystal vase she gave me before she died.”

  “Did you move the table?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. The table was directly in front of the window as it is now.”

  “I’ll call in a crime scene tech and then I’ll check out the yard,” Gail said over her shoulder as she left the room.

  Bradley pointed to the sofa, indicating him to sit down. “I’m surprised to see you here, Sergeant.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Cameron remained standing. “I was in the neighborhood when I heard the call.” He turned back to look at the table again, wondering how far from the window someone would have to stand outside for the rock to reach the table when thrown.

  “How about starting at the beginning, Bradley.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Tisha and I were talking over dinner, when that rock crashed through the window. I got my gun and checked the front yard and driveway but didn’t see anyone.”

  “Have you had problems with vandalism in the past?”

  Frowning thoughtfully, Bradley slowly shook his head. “No. We’ve lived here close to twenty years and nothing like this has ever happened. One of the reasons we moved here is because it’s far enough outside of town to be private and peaceful. The nearest neighbors are at least a mile away.”

  Cameron glanced at Tisha who seemed complacent, letting Bradley speak for the both of them. This was not the outspoken Tisha Lucas he remembered.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to do something like this?”

  “Not a soul,” Bradley said. “Can’t say I know anyone who’d get his jollies out of breaking my window. Maybe it’s a teenage prank, and the kids got the wrong house. There’s a math teacher who lives down the road. Maybe he flunked the wrong kids and they wanted payback.”

  “Maybe. Seems like someone went to a lot of trouble for a prank or getting back at a teacher.” He eyed the window again.

  “Were the drapes open or closed when it happened?” Cameron aimed his question at Tisha, who quickly averted her eyes and tightened her grip on the white hand towel she was holding. Odd behavior for such a simple question.

  After a moment, she answer
ed. “Open. Just like they are now.”

  The window covered the entire front wall of the room. Cameron wondered how long the man or woman who threw the rock had stood outside the window, watching Bradley and Tisha. Whoever did this knew they were home and knew exactly where they were in the house when he or she threw the rock. Were they targets? If so, what was the motive? They were a quiet couple, so the only motive he could think of was unresolved anger about the murders their sons had committed. But that had been a year ago. If that was a motive, why not take action before now?

  Deputy Sawyer appeared in the doorway and motioned him to join her outside. “Follow me, I have something to show you.”

  With her flashlight illuminating the way, she led him to a small landscaped area of ornate bushes, flowers, and rocks. He nodded to Cheryl Davis, a crime scene technician, who was on her knees, photographing something in the grass.

  Finally Gail pointed to an indentation in the ground, marked by a yellow flag. “That’s where he got the rock.”

  “What about the blood?”

  “Come this way.” Gail led him to the area where Cheryl knelt. A pool of blood lay on the grass, seeping into the ground.

  Cameron ran his fingers through his hair. “So where did he get the blood?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll have to analyze it at the lab to see if it’s human. I’m thinking not.” Cheryl eased the camera from her face. “My theory is he brought the blood with him, maybe in a jar or something. He found the rock, dug it up, and carried it over here. Then he poured the blood on it. See how the yellow flags lead from here to the house. Each flag marks blood we found on plants and grass, which dripped from the rock as he made his way to the window.”

  Gail grasped his arm. “There’s more over here.” Leading him closer to the house, she stopped to the left of the living room window. She aimed her flashlight at the ground below where more yellow flags made a haphazard pattern. “See the footprints. They’re not very distinct, but there are several of them. The same footwear, maybe a work boot, but in different positions as if he shuffled his feet as he stood here. Cheryl said she’ll try to cast one, but didn’t have much hope. She did say she’d take soil samples to match when we get a suspect, if we are lucky enough to find the boots he wore tonight.”