“One other aspect of this case that has become very clear is the unsub’s level of organization. In a fairly short period of time, he has found at least three potential targets—and quite likely more—and researched them to the point that he knows how to apprehend them in a predictable location. He knows enough about their backgrounds that he can choose a kill spot and a killing method related to them. This shows a meticulous, precise organization that will work against us. Organized killers like this are harder to catch because the discipline in their method keeps them grounded, and each successful cycle strengthens that resolve. The best thing we could do is interrupt that process, but until we know who is missing and solve the riddle to intercept him, that’s not going to work reliably. If we can pull that off, if we could strand him with a victim, but no available place to take her, he will be shaken and should start to devolve.”
“Wouldn’t that put the victim at risk?”
“She would possibly be at less risk than from the original plan. A killer like this has a mental picture of how the killing must proceed, and there is usually no wiggle room. It’s like Clue, with this victim, with that method of death, in that location. How it’s supposed to go down is all set in his mind. If we can break his cycle, he’ll be shaken enough that he might not know which steps to take next. But this is a methodical thinker. His first reaction won’t be to slit her throat and throw her body into a ditch. I believe he’d attempt to salvage the situation first.”
“But who do you think he is?” Craig asked from the end of the table. “What’s your feeling on the man himself? We need to zero in on a suspect before we can start to look at his mental abilities.”
“Down to basics, sure. What does all of this tell us about the suspect himself? I believe the unsub is a white male in his late twenties to midthirties, likely an oldest son. He is of above-average intelligence and has been trained for skilled work. He believes he is worthy of great things. He may try for something important and substantial, and likely has, but would fail in the attempt. Being left as an average worker would infuriate him, since he feels he deserves better. He won’t recognize any deficiencies in his own performance—that’s not the mind-set of this kind of unsub. He feels that the world is against him, and it or someone must pay for what are actually his own shortcomings. In this case, it’s clear that the one who needs to pay is Ms. Jennings, although the reasons for this remain unclear at this time. Due to the types of anesthetics used in the crimes, I believe he is or was involved in some aspect of the medical profession, be it human or animal. He could be an orderly in a hospital or he could work as a veterinary technician. In my opinion, he is absolutely not in a position of power, like a vet or a doctor, or he’d use that power to his advantage. He takes the suspects from public places at times when the act could easily be witnessed, which highlights a significant level of bravado, and is indicative of his level of organization and confidence that he can blend in. For Catriona, he knew when she worked at the AIDS hospice, where she parked her car, and positioned himself so she would walk right past him. The van was ready, and he had her subdued and tossed inside within ten to fifteen seconds in broad daylight. It’s a very cocky show of confidence.”
“How do you think he’s doing his research to find his victims?” Brian asked.
“This kind of planning and preparation substantiates the fact that he’s an organized killer. More specifically, he’s what we call a ‘mission killer.’ He kills, or tries to kill, because he sees it as a personal quest, something he gains his own personal satisfaction from as part of his end goal. As far as how he found the women, this is conjecture on my part, but I’d bet social media did a lot of the job for him. These days, everyone documents everything and posts it to Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Use the right filters and put in some time and patience, and you can sort through thousands of faces to narrow it down to a specific look over a wide geographic area. He likely would have zeroed in on a larger pool and then narrowed it down. And people don’t realize how much of their personal information is captured in these places. You think you’re just a name on the Internet, but you give away where you live, what your hobbies are, who your family is, and even sometimes what your day-to-day routine is. But that raises another point. Most organized killers have partners, a spouse or live-in, but my gut says this one is solo. He’s spending way too much time working on this to successfully hide it from a partner.
“Now, serial killers like this have a stressor, an incident that sets them off and transforms what is likely a vibrant fantasy life into reality. I believe the stressor in this case was Meg Jennings’s involvement in the Daniel Mannew case and the notoriety engendered there. Considering the timing, it gave the unsub approximately four weeks to formulate his plan, and select the players and locations. This gives him the freedom now to act quickly, moving from victim to victim with a minimal cooling-off period. By doing so, he shortens our investigative time, making it harder to concentrate on any one victim before the next is taken—and there will be another. McCord’s article shines a very bright spotlight on his failure.”
“Will he see it as a failure?” Meg asked. “Or is losing a round still part of the game to him?”
Rutherford looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re absolutely right there. He does see it as a game. It’s too early for me to predict how he’ll take that. The best indicator of that will be his next note. If it’s business as usual, then he’s willing to concede he lost that round. Which means he’s got a bigger endgame in mind. It’s like playing chess—sacrificing a player on the way to checkmate is often a winning strategy.”
“And if Meg is his endgame?” Brian asked. “His checkmate? If all these women are stand-ins to the fury he seems to feel for Meg, is she a target?”
The gaze Rutherford settled on Meg was cool and slightly detached. She could imagine his only way to distance himself from the hellish minds he had to climb inside was to separate his own psyche from them. Either that or succumb to their terror and darkness. By stepping back, he protected himself. “I think there’s a very good chance of that. For him, that would be the final move in the game. All of this is a warm-up. It’s practice and maneuvering. Ms. Jennings would be the real deal and likely would be his final kill. So we will do everything in our power to ensure that doesn’t happen.” Rutherford flipped the file closed. “That’s all I have for now. As the case progresses, the profile will be amended and expanded upon, and you will all be kept up to date of any changes.”
The door whooshed closed behind Meg and she turned. The back of the room was empty. Peters had disappeared like the shadow he was known to be.
CHAPTER 13
Wet-Plate Photography: Prior to the Civil War, painters often accompanied armies on the battlefield. Photographers like Alexander Gardner and Mathew Brady—who was a student of telegrapher Samuel Morse—developed wet-plate photography, which allowed the unlimited printing of larger pictures. Their artistic vision gave the media access to never-before-seen images of wounded soldiers, battlefield casualties, and an intimate portrait of soldiers’ lives.
Thursday, May 25, 7:15 PM
Jennings residence
Arlington, Virginia
Meg opened the door to find Webb standing on the doorstep. “Why is it every time we try to make plans, I get in the way of them?”
“Because you have an unpredictable job. My job is unpredictable too, just on a predictable schedule. But thank you for trusting me with some of what you’re going through. I realize you’re taking a chance doing it. As I said on the phone, nothing goes past me. And if I can help in any way . . .”
“We’ll start with tonight and see where it goes.” She shut the door behind him and turned to find him holding out a brown-paper-wrapped bundle. “What’s that?”
“Some guys try to win women over with flowers. I’m a bit different.”
She opened the brown paper bag to find three nylon dog bones with sturdy center-wrapped ridges. “Are those Ny-labone
s?”
“The one and only.”
She continued to stare into the bag unblinkingly. “You brought my dog a bone. You brought all the dogs their own bones.”
“Don’t want them fighting over just one bone. That’s no fun.”
She studied him for a moment; then she pushed up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I like your different approach.”
He simply grinned back at her.
A bark interrupted them.
Meg leaned around Webb to stare into the living-room doorway in befuddlement. “Blink?”
The greyhound was standing in the doorway, tail wagging, his eyes fixed on Webb. Webb crouched down, patting his thighs. “Come here, buddy.”
Blink pranced over, his body shaking with excitement to be met with praise and strokes.
Meg stared at them, her brows drawn together and her jaw hanging slack, until Webb finally looked up.
He glanced from her to the dog and then back again. “What?”
“He likes you.”
“And . . . ?”
“He not only likes you, he’s comfortable with you. That never happens.”
“We had lots of time to get to know each other on Monday night, when we were waiting for you to get back. He was a little standoffish at first, but kept inching closer and closer until he finally introduced himself. Didn’t you, buddy?” Blink’s answer was a long tongue slurp over Webb’s cheek, followed by Webb’s rolling laugh. He stood up and reached into the bag in Meg’s hands, pulling out a bone. Blink went stock-still, his gaze laser-focused on the toy.
“We train them to wait until they are released to take a treat or a toy, so he won’t go for it until you give him permission. Hold it down in front of him.” Meg waited as Webb positioned the bone in front of the quivering greyhound. “Now use his name and tell him to take it.”
“Blink, take it. Take the bone.”
Blink reached out and took one end of the bone gently from Webb’s fingers and turned around and trotted through the doorway into the living room.
“That was really nice of you. Thank you.”
“The way to a girl’s heart is through her dog?”
Meg laughed, feeling lighter at that moment than she had all day. “You may have stumbled onto something. Come on in. Let’s go treat the other dogs too.”
After Hawk and Saki received their bones, the three dogs settled down in a happy group by the open screen door, where the mild evening breeze spilled into the house.
Meg sat down on the couch. “You’re sure you don’t mind staying in this evening?”
Webb settled beside her, casually laying one arm over the top of the sofa and crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “Not at all. It sounds like you need to sit down and try to figure a few things out.”
Cara walked into the living room, her head bent over a large scrapbook. “God bless Mom, I found it. Haven’t seen this thing in years.” She turned a page. “I wonder if she’s still doing this.” She looked up and stopped dead, seeing Webb on the couch. “Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t know you were already here.”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“He brought bones for the dogs. So they’ll be busy with them for a while and won’t be underfoot.”
“You’re a prince among men.” Cara patted him on the shoulder as she walked behind the couch, and then threw herself down into the overstuffed armchair, laying the book down on the ottoman.
“What’s that?” Webb asked.
“It’s a scrapbook. Mom kept a record of every time we made the news, in print or online. She’d cut it out, or print it out, and put it in our scrapbook. When it was full, she gave it to us. That one is Meg’s, and I have one to match.”
“She’s probably working on the next one,” Meg said. “We should ask her about that. But I thought going back to look through this might be a good idea while we try to make up a list of who I might have pissed off so much, they have to kill other people who look like me to make me pay for it.” Meg could hear the bitterness in her own words, but made no effort to tone it down.
Webb didn’t say anything; he simply took her hand and squeezed it in silent sympathy.
“We met with the profiler today,” Meg continued. “It’s early still, but this is their current working theory.” She reviewed the suspect characteristics outlined in the BAU profile. “So how far back does that scrapbook go?” Meg asked. “I don’t think we need to go back to high school or anything like that. That’s too far back. And the university years.” Closing her eyes, Meg thought back to her years at the University of Virginia. “Honestly, I can’t think of any one there. I was in with a group of kids who all wanted to study and do well. There was no significant conflict.”
“You got a degree before going to the police academy?”
“Yes. You don’t have to have one, but you can’t get into the academy until you’re twenty-one or older, so it’s like they’re making time for you to get one. Also, if you want to move up the ranks, you have to have one.”
“So you got a criminal justice degree?”
“Actually, no. They like to see other backgrounds to make their officers more diverse. You’ll be immersed in criminal justice while you’re on the force, so they like to see other skills brought to the table. My B.A. is in cognitive science—a little cognitive psychology, some computer skills, some philosophy, linguistics, and neuroscience. I thought it was a good mix, and understanding psychology has been invaluable when dealing with perps, many of whom are on the mental health spectrum. Anyway, I was with a bunch of mostly geeks through my university days. No one there stands out at all, but the police academy . . .”
“Female firefighters have been known to have a hard time in training,” Webb stated. “I assume it’s a similar hard row to hoe for female cops?”
“Probably not as bad as it was twenty or thirty years ago, but there are still guys who consider us the weaker sex and believe we have no place on any force.”
Cara held out the book. “Your academy graduation picture is there. Anyone stand out? Let’s start thinking of names and I’ll get a list going.”
Meg took the spiral-bound scrapbook, laying it across her lap. Webb leaned in over her shoulder to study the rows of students in the graduation photo. She tapped on the face of the only other woman in the class: a shorter, blond-haired woman, with a wide smile. “That’s Valerie Dunning. Val and I were the only women in the twenty-three-person basic recruit class that session. Most of the guys were okay, but there were a couple who definitely tried to give us a hard time.” She tapped her index finger beside the head of a man on the end of the second row. “That’s Tony Waters. If anyone in the class didn’t like me, it was Tony. Didn’t start out that way. He started off trying to come on to me. But when it became clear I didn’t welcome his advances—to the tune of my knee in his balls when he tried to pin me against the wall in an attempt to convince me—he turned on me full blast. There wasn’t an activity I did where he didn’t try to make me look bad.”
“I remember,” Cara said. “You were royally pissed at him. He knew you were single, so the fact you turned him down for no one dented his fragile male ego.” She grinned sheepishly at Webb. “Sorry. Present company’s ego excepted.”
Webb quirked a brow. “Many thanks on behalf of my ego.”
“Definitely put Tony down on the list. He was a thorn in my side for the entire class. When we graduated, we were assigned to different precincts. And I always wondered if the head instructor, who knew a little of what was going on—because how could you miss it?—made a recommendation to keep us apart. Then I didn’t stay on patrol very long before making the move over to K-9. And from that point on, I almost never saw him.”
Cara looked up from jotting his name down. “Was he the only student who gave you trouble in the academy?”
“The main one. Some of the other guys gave Val and me kind of a hard time at first, but we won them over by working twice as hard as they did and show
ing some of them up. That won their grudging respect. Sometimes I’d run into those guys on cases when Deuce and I got called in, but they were always friendly. When you go through boot camp with someone, you have a connection with them forever after.”
“Trial by fire.” Webb nodded his understanding. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”
“For you guys, it was literal fire. We, at least, were spared that.” Meg turned the page in the scrapbook. “But . . . I guess I can’t just look at the students. There was one instructor who was a throwback to earlier times and he didn’t like women in his class.”
“What one was that?”
Before It's Too Late Page 12
