The Profiler

by Chris Taylor

  He concentrated on the noise from the street, fifteen stories below him. His lips turned up into a wry grin. Already, it had become a faint murmur, a background noise that barely disturbed the weariness of his thoughts. He took another swig from his beer and relished the malty taste on his lips.

  DNA tests had confirmed their suspicions. He’d gone with Ellie to see Jacqueline Caruso. The memory of the woman’s face, crumpling with grief and devastation would stay with him forever. Even though she’d known her daughter was dead, to have it hammered home all over again by two police officers coming to confirm they’d found some more of her must have been unbearable.

  His jaw tightened. Frustration surged through him. They needed a breakthrough. Something, anything that would bring them closer to capturing Angelina’s killer.

  It would be days, weeks even before the lab would have results on the material under her nails and even longer to identify the killer’s DNA—if they were lucky enough to find any, and if they did, that it matched someone in the database.

  Panic nipped at his gut. He tamped it down. Now wasn’t the time to lose control. What he needed was a cool, calm head. To do what he did best. To put the pieces they did know into an organized framework and slowly but surely build a picture of the killer.

  A pile of old case files lay spread across his bed. He’d requested them from the records department, had specifically asked for cases involving violent assaults and homicides that featured female victims. Though he’d spent the best part of the evening making notes on them he was still not completely convinced he was on the right track.

  Then there was the art professor. Stewart Boston was definitely still on his radar. Now that they’d established both of the missing girls and Angelina had attended the university, interviewing the professor had taken on a greater urgency. What was more, the man fit the evolving profile.

  He was a person people would trust—especially his students. A man who wouldn’t look out of place on the campus or on a suburban street. A man Josie Ward would have willingly accepted a ride from.

  After numerous frustrating manpower hours trying to track Boston down, they’d at last discovered he’d left the country for Fiji. According to his flight details, he was due to touch back down in Sydney in two days. Clayton chafed at the delay, but knew he had no choice but to wait it out.

  The plan was to follow the man home from the airport in the hope that if he were involved, he’d lead them somewhere significant. It wasn’t uncommon for a psychopath to return often to the scene of his crimes. Even if it didn’t work out that way, they’d ambush him anyway. A surprise interrogation was far more effective than one when the interviewee had a chance to prepare. Clayton relished the idea of confronting the professor. When they’d put the plan together, he’d insisted he would ride with Ellie when it was conducted.

  Unbidden, images of Ellie swam before him. Her spicy, vanilla perfume teased his nostrils. Her hazel-green eyes, alight with intelligence and good humor seemed to mock him at the same time her generous lips curved into an inviting smile.

  His body tightened in response, even though he knew this attraction was crazy. Who was he kidding? She’d never looked at him invitingly. Besides, he was still in love with Lisa. His wife. The love of his life.

  Wasn’t he?

  Of course he was. With an impatient shake of his head, he pulled himself upright and stood. Finishing the last of his beer, he dropped the empty bottle into the trash can near the sink and went to his briefcase lying where he’d left it on the table. He reached for the photo album that went everywhere with him.

  The worn, black leather showed signs of age, but it was something he’d never part with. It had been a graduation gift from his wife. Given to him three days after their first anniversary.

  They’d always planned to wait until after they’d finished university to get married, but Mother Nature had other plans. Well, that and Lisa’s forgetting to take the pill when they went away together for the summer break.

  They’d gotten married right away, of course. Not out of any sense of duty, although he’d certainly felt that. But it was Lisa, his Lisa. The girl he’d loved and adored since the first moment he’d caught sight of her across the loud and noisy university courtyard during orientation week.

  So what if they were only twenty-two? So what if things were happening a little ahead of time? They’d only had a year left of their studies. They’d already decided to get married straight after graduation.

  She was going to be a teacher. She loved everything about kids. She used to giggle and wink at him and say she couldn’t wait to have a tribe of her own.

  He was studying forensic science. With his father a District Court Judge and all four of his brothers in the police force, the law was in his blood.

  Clayton took a seat at the small round table in the far corner of the room and opened the leather-bound album. His heart tripped over like it always did when he saw the photo.

  With tender fingers, he caressed the white parchment of the funeral card, touching the soft features of his first-born child, forever captured on its cover.

  Dominic Clayton Munro

  21st October, 2006—23rd October, 2006

  He’d lived for two days. Two whole days. Born early at twenty-three weeks and weighing just four hundred and fifty grams, the doctors had told them there was little hope.

  Still, he’d sat by his son’s high-tech hospital crib and had watched and prayed for every second of those forty-eight hours. He’d seen the tubes and electrical devices and monitors and equipment of every description going into and out of his son’s tiny body and still he’d prayed he would make it.

  But he hadn’t.

  Lisa had been inconsolable. Clayton had felt the loss like a physical blow, but he’d buried his pain, along with his son, and had helped his wife look forward to the future. Less than a year later, they’d had Olivia.

  Olivia. The thought of his precocious four-year-old brought a smile to his lips. He checked his watch and closed the album with a sigh. Olivia would be going to bed soon and he still hadn’t called her.

  Pulling his laptop toward him, he connected to Skype and saw that she was already online. With a click of the mouse, the call went through. Anticipation built as he saw a fuzzy image of her face materialize on the screen before him. His heart lightened.

  “Hey, baby, how was preschool? Are you being good for Grandma?”

  * * *

  Rick Shadlow drew a tortured breath deep into his lungs and wished he was dead. Curled up in a ball on the cold tiles of the filthy bathroom in his apartment, he hugged himself and willed the pain away.

  She was gone. And it was all his fault. He should never have said the things he did. He should never have sent her away. They’d had fights before, but not like this. Never like this.

  A low keening wail started from the pit of his belly, his muscles cramping and twisting and flinching as the howl made its way up his windpipe and out through his clenched teeth. The pain in it hurt his ears and his hands came up around his head in an effort to block out the noise.

  “Sally…Sally…Sally... Why?”

  He’d loved her with everything that he was. He’d have given her the world. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. He hadn’t meant any of it.

  But now she’d disappeared. The cops had been there. They’d told him so.

  He howled again and swiped at the snot hanging from his nose. Tears had soaked into his T-shirt, turning the dirt that streaked it a muddy gray. His hair hung lank and unwashed around his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. Not since Sally had gone, that was for sure.

  Taking another deep breath, he pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the bag of white powder that sat on the lid of the toilet. He picked up the belt and tightened it around his arm with a hand that shook. It took him four attempts to make his lighter work, but finally, he held the bluish-orange flame to the blackened, old teaspoon.

&
nbsp; With the fingers of one hand, he drew the drug up into his last syringe, careful to drain every last drop. Crazed with need, he sank the sharp tip into his vein and pushed the dispenser home.

  Relief surged through him. Oblivion was only seconds away.

  * * *

  Ellie strode into the squad room and came to a halt in front of Clayton. He glanced up from the file spread across his desk.

  Her normally arrow-straight hair looked mussed and untidy as it curled riotously around her face. She grabbed at the wayward strands and tucked them impatiently behind her ears, a frown marring the smooth skin of her forehead.

  He busied himself shuffling papers around on his desk while he brought his traitorous pulse rate under control. She leaned toward him, peering at the file opened on his desk.

  “What have you got there?” she asked.

  “Good morning to you, too, Detective Cooper.” He leaned back in his chair and stacked his hands behind his head. The movement took him further away from her and he sighed under his breath, unsure if he felt disappointment or relief.

  She blushed and glanced down at her feet. “Yeah, well, good morning, Fed.”

  He let that go. “It’s the old file on Wayne Peterson. I’m sure you remember him? He got released about three months ago.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think that piece of scum could be responsible for our girls?”

  Shaking his head, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Who knows? Maybe. It’s just something I’m looking into. After all, the bastard’s just done ten years for violent assault and rape—perhaps he’s upped the ante?”

  “Yeah, well they usually learn how to hone their skills inside, don’t they? Not many, the likes of Collins, come out better off.” She propped her hip on his desk. “What made you finger him? I thought you liked the professor?”

  “Yeah, I did. I still do, but I’m just canvassing all angles. I think it’s worth checking Peterson out.” With a grimace, he leaned over and picked up the file. “Where do you want me to start?” He flipped over the first couple of pages and began reading.

  “First arrest, twelve years old. Stealing women’s underwear off clotheslines.” He looked up at her. Ellie raised an eyebrow. He shrugged unapologetically. “I got hold of his juvie record.”

  “What else?”

  “Next arrest was when he was fourteen. A bit more serious that time. Caught setting fire to a neighbor’s cat. He was let off with a good behaviour bond. A string of arrests for assault—all before he turned sixteen. He finally landed in juvie just before his seventeenth birthday. He put a bloke in hospital for a month after a fight over a girl. Seems like he wasn’t happy with the way the victim looked at her.”

  Ellie’s lips thinned. “And the rest of it, as they say, is history.”

  “You got it in one.” He consulted the file again. “Got into drugs while he was in detention—just grass, by the look of it, but by the time he’d hit the big time, he was hooked on some pretty heavy stuff.”

  With a sound of disgust, he closed the file and threw it onto his desk. “At least, that’s what his barrister tried to argue at his trial for the rape of that nineteen-year-old. The one he tied up and raped so many times she nearly bled out internally.”

  Ellie’s eyes darkened with anger. “Let me guess. Now he’s out on the streets again?”

  “Yep. He was let out of Long Bay in April. Out on parole and free to come and go as he pleases. The address he gave to his parole officer is in Penrith. That’s what got my antennae up.”

  A frown creased her forehead as she picked up the file and opened it. “Is that where he’s from?”

  “Somewhere around there. I think his parents lived at Cranebrook. Seems like they disowned him years ago.”

  “They should have drowned him at birth and done us all a favor.”

  “You won’t get any arguments from me, babe.”

  She tensed and her eyes widened on his momentarily before she looked away. A faint blush stole into her cheeks.

  His heart accelerated and he cleared his throat, casting around for something to say. “Are you up for paying Peterson a visit this afternoon?”

  Suddenly, she turned on him. “I want to hear your take on all this. After all, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To give us some idea about who this monster is?”

  Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came fast. Clayton looked away and gave her time to compose herself.

  “I take it you don’t think Peterson could have done it?” he murmured.

  Frustration rolled off her in waves. “How the hell do I know? You’re the expert. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

  Clayton forced himself to remain calm. The tone of his voice belied his inner turmoil when he said, “You’re right. And I wouldn’t want you to think you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

  He ignored the narrowing of her eyes and the glare she shot his way. She was gorgeous when she was all fired up. Hell, she was gorgeous anytime.

  “Does Peterson fit the profile?”

  “Yes.”

  Temper flared in her eyes. “So, you’ve put something together and haven’t even bothered sharing it with the rest of us.”

  Anger seared through him at her inference. “You think I care more about my ego than I do about putting away an animal that doesn’t even deserve to share the oxygen on this planet? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  She had the grace to look embarrassed and lowered her eyes to concentrate on the stapler that sat on the end of his desk. “I’m sorry; I was out of line,” she mumbled.

  Clayton tugged loose his tie, frustration making his fingers clumsy. “The truth is, I have prepared a profile—well, a rough one, anyway. I haven’t shared it with anyone because I only put it together late last night. You’ve only just arrived for the day. I thought you’d be upset if I started without you.”

  Her cheeks flushed crimson. A spurt of satisfaction pulsed through him, but he didn’t persist. Instead, he continued with his explanation.

  “While I chewed my way through Chinese take-away left over from the night before, I decided to pull any file relating to ex-cons with similar MOs. I didn’t find an exact match, but there were three I found that were pretty interesting.”

  “Three?” She sounded surprised. “But you only said—”

  “Yeah, I know. Peterson was one. Then there’s a bloke by the name of Bobby Cutmore who’s been in and out of the slammer for years for rape and some pretty violent assaults. The third one’s a serial rapist by the name of Duncan Brown.”

  “But you don’t think either of them did this?”

  He shook his head. Seeing she was about to argue, he cut her off. “They’re both in the big house.”

  Ellie deflated. “How long?”

  He picked up two other files from a crowded corner of his desk. Opening the first one, he flipped over a few pages and read aloud.

  “Duncan was put away a couple of years ago for a particularly vicious rape. He still has three years to run on his sentence.” He opened the second file. “Cutmore’s due for release next month.”

  A sigh escaped her lips. Okay, Peterson it is.” She leaned back against his desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me about your profile.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “What, without the others? Ben’s on the phone and Luke’s gone out for coffee. You really want me to start before they get back? Because that would be kind of rude, you know.”

  Ellie grinned. “Okay, okay. I get it, but I still don’t care. I want to hear it. Now.”

  Clayton’s lips twitched and he made a production of pushing back his chair and sighing before he stood and wove his way through the clutter of largely vacant desks to the whiteboard that retained the information Ben had written on it nearly a month ago.

  Picking up a marker, he spoke, making notes as he went. “Okay, based on what we know, here’s what I think. We’re looking for a white male, somewhere between tw
enty-five and forty. Not too young—a young guy might not appear trustworthy enough for a young girl to climb into their car—but maybe even a bit older. He’s someone so ordinary, nobody even notices him. I also think it’s safe to assume the guy’s a local to the Penrith area. It’s his territory. He’s familiar enough with the area that he feels comfortable. So comfortable, he can pick up young women off the street and make them disappear and nobody even notices.”

  He paced around the cluttered confines of the squad room. “He’s invisible to most of us. He goes about his daily excursions without raising the least suspicion. He’s someone any one of us could pass by on the street and not even notice. He’s someone Josie Ward would trust.”

  Ellie shuddered. Images of a smiling Ted Bundy flitted through her mind. Dread prickled her scalp. “So, he’s like a cop or someone like that?”

  “Yeah, possibly. Although Josie Ward went missing fairly late at night. It would be unusual to see a copper on his own doing a patrol that late. They’re usually out in pairs. It would be a risky move for him. People would probably remember something like that.”

  Her frown was fierce. “That’s if Josie’s one of his victims. We don’t know that yet.”

  Clayton opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

  “Okay, okay; what else?”

  He let that pass. It was true, they didn’t have proof Josie was a victim of their killer, but in his gut he knew things weren’t looking good for her.

  He turned back to the whiteboard. “Well, we know he likes to use a saw. So some kind of handyman—a builder or a carpenter—or even just someone who likes to play with timber in his spare time.”

  “Gee, that really narrows it down.”

  Her voice was as dry as over-cooked steak. Clayton ignored it and continued to write points on the whiteboard. “If we work on the theory that the missing girls are connected to Angelina’s killer, he’s either unemployed or has flexible working hours. He might even be a shift-worker.” He turned around and held her gaze. “There doesn’t seem to be a consistent time when any of the girls disappeared.”