Profile of Terror: Book Two of Profile Series

by Alexa Grace

  "Cameron filled me in on your homicide," Wayne began. "I won't argue with you. The M.O. is different from the prostitute murders we're working. But the fact is — the shoe found on your body was identified by our fifth victim's mother as belonging to her daughter, Sara Cassity."

  "Go on," prompted Brody.

  "We've had five prostitutes murdered in a year. It seems nobody cares if a working girl gets knocked off, except their families. We hear from most of them every day. Not much empathy from the public, though. Most think the girls deserved what they got."

  "Unfortunately," Carly began. "Blaming women working in high-risk occupations for the violence done to them is too common. What most people don't realize is that many girls enter the sex trade because they're on the street after running away from physical and sexual abuse in their own homes. A lot of them are homeless. They put themselves in so much danger selling sex to strangers."

  The detective nodded in agreement, and then continued. "When Cameron agreed to let me discuss our murders with all of you, I jumped at the chance." Wayne took out five photographs. "Let me introduce you to each of our five victims, and then I'll go through a list of similarities between their murders and Abby Reece's slaying. You can tell me if you see a stronger connection between our cases than just the shoe."

  He tapped on the first photograph, slid it to the center of the table, and said, "This is Darla Green. She was a meth head who was seventeen-years- old when she died. A known prostitute, Darla had no police record — at least not yet."

  "She looks older than seventeen." Brody studied the photo before he passed it to Gabe.

  "Working the streets will do that to a person," Wayne replied dryly.

  Pointing to the second photo, which was a mug shot, the detective said, "Meet Sharon Maud. Sharon's mother reported her missing two days before we found her body. She was nineteen-years-old, and had been arrested for solicitation and drugs."

  "Was Sharon close to her mother?" asked Carly.

  "Yes, they saw each other or talked by phone every day. Her three kids live with her mother."

  "What about the others? Did they have a mother or friends close to them, who they might have shared their activities and whereabouts?"

  "No, not really. The majority of these girls were loners."

  "The next picture is of Val Staley. She was a runaway from Chicago who lived in the Indianapolis area for six months prior to her murder. No arrest records. She was only fifteen."

  Wayne referred to the fourth photo. "Marie Engle was an eighteen-year-old stripper who trolled the area truck stops, offering sex for extra money to support her two kids."

  "Our last victim is Sara Cassity, also age eighteen. She used to work around Tenth Street, but friends say she moved to the truck stops because she thought it would be more lucrative. Like Darla and Sharon, Sara had a drug problem she was feeding."

  Brody spoke up. "So far I'm not seeing much in the way of similarities by comparing your murders to ours. Our victim was in her twenties, and an attractive university student. She wasn't involved in drugs, or a high-risk trade like prostitution."

  "Let me continue. I think you'll find my team's analysis of the murders interesting," Wayne said. "Our victims were all prostitutes who worked the area truck stops selling sex from cab-to-cab as the trucks lined up for rest or fuel breaks."

  Gabe turned his open laptop around to show the others an online news headline. "Are these killings referred to by the media as the 'Truck Stop Murders'?'"

  "Yeah. All of the victims were hitting the area truck stops to sell sex to the truckers."

  "What time frame are we talking about?" asked Cameron.

  "We started finding bodies last January. The latest victim, Sara Cassity, was found in June," said Wayne.

  "And then Abby Reece was found this month," Brody noted.

  "Do you think you have one killer?" Gabe asked.

  "There's a possibility there are two. We tried to track down a white bakery van seen on a couple of the truck stops' surveillance tapes. It turned out to be a dead end because the bakery listed on the sign had one of their magnetic van signs stolen, and we couldn't make out the license plate in the tape. We did talk to a clerk who remembers two men got out of the van wearing baker's uniforms underneath black hoodies. They came inside and bought Cokes. He didn't offer much of an I.D. He only got a quick look at one of the men. He said the one who paid for their items looked young, maybe even a teenager."

  "Gabe spotted a white van on one of our surveillance tapes." Cameron said.

  "Was it a white 2012 Chevrolet 1500 utility van?" Wayne asked Gabe.

  "Yes." Gabe nodded.

  "That's the problem," Wayne remarked, scratching his head. "Do you realize how many white utility vans there are in the Indianapolis area alone? It will take forever to track them all down."

  "Where were your bodies found?" asked Brody.

  "The bodies were found dumped in rural areas. We found one on a creek bed, another in a ravine, and the rest in wooded areas not far from a road. Every one of them was naked. No personal belongings to be found."

  "Since you found them near a road, it sounds like your killer wanted the bodies to be found sooner rather than later," said Carly. "This may go back to the killers' need for recognition." She paused for a moment, then went on. "However, your killers didn't want you to identify the victims right away. That's why they stripped each of their belongings."

  Cameron spoke up. "No rural dump site for our victim. Her body was found in an alley near a local bar. Her body was posed, not just dumped."

  Carly shrugged her shoulders. "Cam, there is still our killers' craving for recognition that may be escalating, since now they are notifying the press."

  "That's true, Carly." He turned to the Indy detective. "What was the cause of death? Were the five women killed in the same way?"

  "One of our victims was severely beaten, but like the rest, the cause of death was suffocation. Each was found with a plastic bag secured around her neck. No fingerprints. No DNA from the doer."

  Brody leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Interesting. Abby Reece had a plastic bag over her head that her killers used to smother her. However, she was not beaten."

  "Don't forget the shoe Abby Reece was wearing," the detective said. "Except for Darla Green, our victims were nude, and wearing a piece of jewelry, shoe or another personal item that belonged to one of the other victims."

  "Seriously? Now we're getting into similarities!" Gabe said.

  Carly paused a moment before speaking. Glancing at Brody, then at Wayne, she said, "I think the murders are connected, and our killers have purposely changed their mode of operation. They've even changed their victim preference by moving from prostitutes to a coed. That's unusual for serial killers, but I think that is exactly what they are doing. They placed Sara Cassity's shoe on Abby Reece's foot to make sure they got credit for killing the five prostitutes in Indianapolis. They want us to know they've killed before. They're proud of the fact the Indy police haven't caught them, but on the other hand, they crave recognition."

  <><><>

  Destiny Cooke parked her new crimson pearl Honda Civic outside the First Baptist Church on U.S. Route 136, south of Morel city limits. Scanning the parking lot, she spotted her parents' Lincoln and Justin's Indiana State Police car. This was the second best day of her life. The first best day was when Justin asked her to marry him; the second was tonight's rehearsal and dinner, and the third would be their wedding day on Saturday. She was the luckiest girl in the entire universe, and she'd gladly debate anyone who thought differently.

  Pulling down the visor to check her look in the mirror, she applied some lip gloss and powdered her nose. After all, she had to look her best for her fiancé, who was the hottest and most handsome man she'd ever laid eyes on. Destiny made that decision the first time she saw him sitting on her school bus her freshman year. By her sophomore year, they only had eyes for each other, and despite her parents' objecti
ons, they were going steady. It wasn't just that he was white and she was African-American. They said she was too young to be focused on just one boy. But they didn't know Justin like she did. He was her soul mate in every way.

  The two became engaged their junior year at college. By then, her parents had come around and rejoiced as much as she did. In three short days, she and Justin would be married, just like she'd dreamed every day since she met him. He'd just finished his probationary period for the State Police, and she'd accepted a job at Purdue University where she would graduate. Everything was working out so perfectly.

  Destiny had gotten out of her car, locked it, and was walking toward the church when a white van pulled into the parking lot. A young man in a baker's uniform called out his window, "Hey, are you Destiny Cooke?"

  She eyed him warily until she spotted the "Grand Events Catering" magnetic sign on the side of the van. "Yes, I'm Destiny."

  "Well, congratulations, Ms. Cooke," he said as he hopped out of the van. "We're the caterers for your rehearsal dinner tonight. And may I say we've cooked and baked up quite a feast. I think you will agree."

  "I'm sure everything will be wonderful." Destiny turned to head to the church.

  "Ms. Cooke, if I could have just a minute of your time, there's something very special I need to show you before you go inside."

  "Couldn't it wait? I don't want to be late for the rehearsal."

  "It's really important or I wouldn't ask. My boss says he'll fire me if I don't get your signed approval on this special cake we baked for tonight." When she hesitated, he added, "Please, Ms. Cooke. I need my job."

  "Well, okay. As long as it doesn't take much time."

  He crossed his heart with his index finger. "Cross my heart. I promise. Just a second. That's all."

  Leading Destiny around the van to the back, he grasped her arm as he opened the double door. Another man, wearing a baker's uniform, jumped out. A hypodermic needle was in his hand.

  Jerking her arm away from the first man, she made a break for the church, but only got as far as the front of the van when she was grabbed from behind. Stomping on his instep as hard as she could, she broke away from him as he bent, howling with pain. Destiny had gotten close to the church and to help when the second man reached her, slamming his stun gun against her neck until she collapsed.

  Devan picked up Destiny's limp body, shoved her into the back of the van, and then raced to the driver's seat, while Evan, retrieved the syringe of Rohypnol.

  <><><>

  At her second interview with him, Carly pushed the map of Shawnee, along with surrounding counties, across the table to Ryder, who glanced at it and said, "This looks just like the map Sheriff Shitface tried to show me the other day."

  "You will refer to him with respect and call him Sheriff Chase. And yes, this is the same map."

  "I am not surprised Sheriff Chase shared his map with you. He's sharing a lot of things with you these days, isn't he? Like his bedroom, his bed."

  "Stop it."

  "What's the matter? Don't your fellow agents who are watching and listening to this interview via closed-circuit television know that Special Agent Stone is living with Sheriff Chase, and shares his bed on a nightly basis?"

  Furious, Carly pushed her chair back and headed for the door. She had her hand on the door knob when she heard Ryder whisper something.

  Stopping at the door, she looked back and asked, "What did you say?"

  "Gamers. Is that name familiar to you?"

  Returning to the table, she sat down. "Let's get back to the map. Let's talk about additional victims and where you buried them."

  "I'm bored with those questions. Let's talk about the Gamers," he said with a smirk. "You need me more than I need you, so I'm changing the subject to the case you're working."

  "What case?"

  "You know I'm talking about that Purdue coed murder. What was her name? Abby something. Perhaps I can help with that."

  "Let's make something very clear. This is not Silence of the Lambs. You are not Hannibal Lecter, and I am not Clarice Starling. We definitely don't need your help to solve a murder case."

  "What would you say if I told you I received a note from the Gamers?"

  "I'd say that you were lying. Agents turned your cell upside down and there was no note."

  "But there was a note. I used to be a cop. Do you really think I didn't know my cell would be searched?"

  "If the note exists, where is it?"

  "I ate it, and it wasn't all that tasty."

  "No more games, Ryder," Carly seethed. "Additional victims? Where are they buried?"

  "They attended my trial."

  "Who?"

  "The Gamers. Well, at least one of them did. According to the note, I'm one of their heroes, and they intend to take up where I left off. What better way to impress me than a murder the good sheriff and team are chasing their tails trying to solve?"

  "You're a sick, vile excuse of a human being, Ryder."

  The now-familiar knock at the door signaled the end of the interview.

  Ryder's grin was decidedly nasty. "And that is why I am so interesting to you."

  Carly entered the observation room where Special Agent in Charge Sam Isley, Dr. Anderson, Susan Black, and Brody sat around the conference table.

  "Before you ask, yes, he is telling the truth about whoever he is referring to as the Gamers," Susan Black said to Carly.

  "I'm confused," said Sam Isley. "Who are the Gamers, and what the hell is Ryder talking about?"

  Brody spoke up. "Recently a Purdue University coed was murdered. Her body was found naked and posed in an alley beside a seedy bar in Morel. The Gamers — whoever they are — took credit for the killing and promised more."

  "Do you think they really contacted Ryder?"

  "Yes, I'm sure of it," said Susan Brown.

  "If I have profiled them correctly, they are the type of men who crave recognition, possibly even from someone like Ryder. Heaven help us if Ryder is their role model," Carly stated, her expression troubled.

  "There's another thing of which I'm sure," Susan Brown began. "You should go back in there and show Ryder the victims' photos. Get him to tell us where they're buried."

  Sam and Dr. Anderson nodded in agreement, so Carly returned to the interview room.

  "You're back again, and so soon." Ryder sneered at her.

  Laying a folder on the table, Carly eased herself down and met Ryder's eyes head-on. "I'm going to show you some photos of girls who have disappeared. Each of them communicated with you online. I want you to tell me their names, and where you buried them."

  Ryder smirked. "I'd be more interested in some photos of you, preferably without clothes."

  Ignoring his remark, Carly pulled a stack of 5" by 7" photos from the folder. She held up the first one. "What is her name?"

  "I don't know."

  "I think you do know her. You and she communicated on Teen Chat for six months before she agreed to join you in Morel."

  "Like that's a good clue. Are you kidding me?"

  "She's from Battle Lake, Minnesota. We have a copy of her bus ticket to Morel. She arrived in December, three years ago. Ring a bell?"

  "Oh, yeah, that's Leeann something? Can't remember her last name."

  "Leeann Stetler was her name." Unfolding the Shawnee County map, she pushed it across the table to him. "Where did you bury her?"

  "I might have buried her in my back yard."

  "Hear that sound, Ryder? That's my bullshit alarm going off. Don't make the mistake of lying to me. I was there the day the Shawnee County deputies excavated your yard, front and back. No bodies were found."

  Shifting in his seat, he stared at the map. "We'll have to come back to that one. I recall having a damn good time with her, but I can't remember where I put her. Doesn't mean I won't remember. I just don't right now. Give me time to think about it."

  Carly pushed Leeann's photo into the folder, then picked up another from the stack.
"Who's this girl?"

  Squinting as he considered the girl in the photo, Ryder said, "That one really looks familiar. Let me think."

  "Here's a couple of hints. She was only fourteen when this school photo was taken —"

  "Wait!" Ryder held up his hand. "That's Delores Fulton. She called herself 'Dee.' I remember her because Erin got sick and couldn't meet her at the bus station. I had to go instead. I was scared shitless that someone would recognize me and ask me what I was doing there. Luckily, it was before any surveillance cameras were installed. Her bus was ninety minutes late, and then she made a fuss about not getting in my truck because she didn't know me. I finally persuaded her that I was Anthony's father and that he was meeting us at the house."