by AK Leigh
It’s a natural reaction to physical beauty and lack of sex. Nothing more.
He closed the book and laid it on the floor beside him. If all went to plan, he would get the Farris sisters’ help. It was a long shot, but he’d run out of options years ago. They were his only hope. He’d come all this way, moved towns, changed jobs. Laid it all on the line. For this moment. It had to amount to something. Either way, he would find out in two days. When he made a special visit to Elizabeth Farris.
Chapter 3
In the quiet of her unit later that night, Lizzie strolled to the sideboard where she kept a variety of Aboriginal artefacts. To one side was a simple black photo-frame. She smiled and touched the aged black-and-white photo inside it.
The picture showed a young, moustached, white man, dressed in a fashionable suit of the period, standing behind a wooden chair. His features were obviously pale, with light-coloured hair. The way a typical blue-eyed blond German man would have looked at the time, she imagined.
On the chair was a woman, with an obvious dark hue to her skin colour. She wore a floral dress that was irregular for the late 1800s. It wasn’t what the average Djabugay Aboriginal woman would have worn, but it wasn’t a long corset dress either. It was modest enough to suit English sensibilities at the time, and loose enough to allow freedom of movement. Something between a modern kaftan and maxi-dress.
Despite the bigoted conventions of the time that held official interracial relationships as taboo, her three-times great-grandfather had fallen in love with, and insisted on marrying, their three-times great-grandmother. The scandal that ensued had been bigger than it would normally have been because of one particular detail. Apparently their ancestress was the product of an illicit affair between her mother and the high-profile white Cairns businessman who owned the coffee plantation she worked—if near slavery could be called that—and lived on.
It had always given her and her sisters a sense of pride to know that rebelliousness, social justice, and a unique mixture of blood—indigenous, German, French, Swiss, and who knew what else?—ran through their veins.
She turned from the sideboard and made her way to the kitchen, where she switched the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil, her thoughts went to the comments her sisters had made about her love-life. She wasn’t picky. She wasn’t. She just knew what she wanted.
Everything.
How long had it been since she’d felt close to having that in a relationship? The giddiness of wanting to know another completely; the euphoric thump of her heart; the tingles that told her soul they had a special connection.
An unexpected frown came. The more she thought about it, the more she realised she’d never had that with a man. Had her sisters? Sure, there’d been mutual physical attraction, and great sex, but the deeper something she was talking about … that had been missing from all of them.
Her frown deepened. Perhaps her sisters were right? Maybe she was too idealistic and romantic for her own good? What if there was no such thing as The One? Was physical attraction and great sex the best that anyone could hope for? In the modern age, when ‘hump them and dump them’ seemed to be as romantic as many people could manage, was true love nothing more than an impossible fairytale or forgotten dream?
She sighed, ‘God, I hope not.’ A moment later, she thought to add, ‘Who knows, maybe Prince Charming is just around the corner?’
She didn’t know whether to laugh, smile, or roll her eyes at the comment. But her heart did. Despite herself, she felt it spread warmth over her entire chest.
Chapter 4
Lizzie scanned the fresh-faced students before her. This was her second year teaching in the mid-November summer semester at Cairns University, and there was a noticeable increase in enrolments in her class—Criminal Profiling 101—from the year before.
Was there a growing need for profilers or were more people interested in this as a career path due to the popularity of crime shows? She wrinkled her nose. Some of the crime-show fans would be there thinking it might be an ‘easy A’. Watching CSI does not make you an expert in criminology. She would need to weed those clueless pupils out right now.
Straightening her shoulders, she said, ‘Some of you may have come to this class believing criminal profiling to be an easy pass. Let me assure you that it is an area of psychology and crime that takes a lot of time, care, and dedication … as well as long hours of study.’ She made sure to emphasise that point. ‘So if any of you think you are going to breeze through because you’ve watched every season of CSI, please leave now so you don’t waste any more of my time. Or yours.’
Two students hopped up and, with red faces, exited the room faster than the roadrunner fuelled by an energy drink.
Another motivation for the increase in numbers struck her: the fame of the Farris sisters, and the novelty of having a teacher who was an identical triplet.
She added, ‘Anybody who is here to obtain gossip about myself or my sisters can also leave. I warn you now, if any inappropriate remarks, jokes, or behaviour related to my sisters or myself occurs, you will receive an automatic fail. I have a zero-tolerance policy in that regard.’ A soft groan filtered through the class. ‘Of course, if you don’t agree with those terms, you are free to leave.’
Nobody moved.
‘Good. Now the preliminaries are out of the way, let’s begin. I assume you have all finished the pre-course readings?’
The look on the faces of at least a quarter of the class told her they hadn’t. Wonderful. She would need to keep an eye on them. Like the men she dated, she had no time for students who weren’t going anywhere.
‘Those of you who haven’t will have to catch up in your own time.’ She lifted a pile of papers from her desk and handed them to the students in the front row, ‘I will need everyone to fill in one of these and leave it on my desk before you leave today. It’s an assessment that helps me determine the level you are at.’ There was a collective grumble, which she silenced with, ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’
When the last pupil had a sheet, Lizzie continued, ‘Okay. Let’s get started, shall we?’
Nobody responded, which she took to mean ‘yes’.
She faced the whiteboard behind her. ‘There are three main steps that need to be carried out before you can even think about creating a criminal profile. Do not think that you can skip one of these steps and jump straight into the profile. You can’t. You need to do the work. It will help you make an accurate profile. Do not think you are too clever for these steps. You aren’t. I have been doing this since I was a child—’ She’d people-watched and made up stories about them and their backgrounds for as long as she could remember. ‘—and I still follow the steps. Every. Single. Time. Do not think you are wasting time by following the steps. You aren’t. You are ensuring time is utilised efficiently. It will take more hours in the long run if you give investigators a rushed profile.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘My point is what, class?’
In a droning tone, the students repeated, ‘Follow the steps.’
‘That’s right.’ She pointed at the board, ‘I have listed them here for you. The first is assimilation, also known as inputs. Then we have classification. The final step is crime assessment. After that, you formulate the profile and hand it in to the investigative team. Any questions so far?’
Silence filled the room. She couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad sign.
‘All right then. Let’s begin with step one: assimilation. Does anyone know what that means?’
If they’d read the pre-course text, all of them should know.
She didn’t bother to hide her displeasure when only one student put her hand up. ‘Yes?’
The girl lowered her hand. In a confident voice, she answered, ‘Assimilation is another way of saying “information gathering”. This is the stage where you gather evidence related to the crime scene, victim’s background, any available forensic information, photos and so forth. You assimilate the evidence
.’
‘Very good. Can anyone else think of something to add?’
Another female put her hand up. Lizzie grinned. When she’d started university fourteen years ago, there hadn’t been many females studying criminal profiling. Now, they filled her class, making up at least seventy per cent.
She nodded at the girl, ‘Yes?’
‘What about police reports and autopsies … and witness statements?’
‘Fantastic. All of these things will help you with the initial stage of developing your profile. Does anyone have questions so far?’ Nobody answered. ‘Okay. Let’s move onto step two: classification. Who can tell me what this entails?’
A male put up his hand.
Lizzie pointed at him. ‘Yes?’
‘That is when you use the evidence you gathered during the assimilation stage and use it to make judgements such as whether the crime was organised or disorganised.’
An organised criminal planned, disorganised ones seized opportunities.
‘Excellent. What else? Just shout things out at me.’
A female voice toward the back of the room said, ‘Homicide type and style.’
‘Correct. Keep going.’
The first girl who’d given her an answer, called out, ‘Primary intent?’
‘Yes. All of those go under the classification heading. Once you have all of that information, you can move onto the final step: crime assessment. This step can be the most interesting as well as the most disturbing part of the job. It will teach you many things about human behaviour that you will wish you didn’t know—’
A male, seated in the middle row, interrupted, ‘So why do it?’
She thought for a moment. This question always made her pause. The answer she gave depended on the audience. Those she knew well and felt comfortable with were given the complete story, including the details of her parents’ murder and how that had gotten herself and her sisters involved in solving cold cases.
These were teenagers, new to the subject, whose names she didn’t know yet.
She decided on a simple response, ‘The way you feel after you have helped to successfully apprehend a criminal; the gratitude you receive from survivors and their families; the closure you can offer someone; justice; getting a dangerous criminal off the streets. That is why.’
The same male continued, ‘But doesn’t it make you a little …’
She guessed what he was going to say, ‘Jaded?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It can.’ It had certainly added to Carrie’s pessimism regarding love, and human nature in general. ‘That is why now is the time to decide whether this is the right course for you. You will learn about the ugliest side of humanity, not only during this course but in the field, and not everyone can handle it on a daily basis.’
Sometimes even her natural optimism surrounding humanity was shaken. Especially when it involved kids, like their last case. She shuddered at the memories.
A marked silence filled the room. Hmm. Had she turned everybody off with her macabre talk? If so, it was better they knew the truth of what they were going to encounter if they chose profiling as a career. It was not as cushy as some people thought. It took a deep emotional toll. You had to be mentally tough to carry on, and idealistic to continue to believe in people. She was grateful she had both personality traits in her favour.
To change the mood, she said, ‘Okay. Back to it. Crime assessment involves reconstruction of the crime scene. You will also attempt to pinpoint the motivation and modus operandi—the way they operate—of the criminal. If any of you have watched the television show Dexter, this is the part where he dons white clothes and splatters fake blood against walls.’
‘Cool! I didn’t know we get to do that.’
She faced the male student who’d interrupted, ‘You don’t. That’s for the blood spatter analyst.’
Like the character Dexter is. Did none of them pay attention while watching police and crime shows?
‘Oh.’ He frowned, clearly disappointed.
‘You will liaise with a number of other professionals in your role as a criminal profiler: DNA experts, forensic scientists, scenes of crime officers, psychologists, forensic anthropologists, blood spatter analysts; the list goes on. If you want to be Dexter, well … you need to be seeing a psychiatrist, not sitting here in my class.’
Most of her students chuckled, showing clear understanding of the homicidal nature of the character she was referring to. Good. She wasn’t too out of touch yet.
Time to get back on topic.
‘Once you have completed those three steps, you have all the basic information you need to do what?’
The class answered together, ‘Make a profile.’
She smiled, ‘Precisely.’
Perhaps there was hope for these students after all?
***
Gabe walked down a set of sandstone steps at Cairns University and smiled. His teaching responsibilities for his first day at his new job were complete. Now he could track down Ms Farris. From what he’d already researched, she taught criminal profiling there. He’d taken it as a positive sign from the universe that he’d been transferred to the same university as her, though with only three major universities in North Queensland, the odds had been in his favour.
He took the final step and stopped a passing male student, ‘Excuse me? Would you be able to point me to the criminology department, please?’
The student pointed opposite them. ‘Take a right after that building, then it’s the second on the left.’
Gabe repeated, ‘Right. Second on left?’
‘You got it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not a problem.’
As he made his way to the building where he would, hopefully, soon meet Elizabeth Farris, Gabe’s mind looped the same questions that had come numerous times already: would she agree to help? What if she said no? Had he come all this way for nothing? What would his next step be if she declined?
He stopped and looked up at the building that housed the only woman who could answer those questions.
Two male students walked by. They distracted him with the tail end of their conversation. ‘I wonder what the other Farris sisters are like?’
‘The only thing I care about is whether any of them are single.’
‘Oh man. Can you imagine …?’
The two men burst out laughing and continued past him.
Gabe frowned. The way they were talking about Elizabeth sent a crawl of discomfort over his skin. He shook the sensation away and refocused. At least he knew he had the right building. He sucked in a confidence-building breath and entered. On the wall to his left was an information board. He scanned until he found ‘Ms Elizabeth Farris. Criminal Profiling 101. Building 5. Room 6’.
That meant he was looking for room 506. Glancing up, he noted the numbers 501 above the door to his left. On the right was room 502. Two doors on his right would have to be 506.
He approached the door. It was open. He stopped a footstep from it and peeked around, into the opening. Inside the room was the real-life version of the woman he’d spent months staring at in a newspaper photo and the woman he’d met by chance the day before.
Before he was ready, she looked up.
Oh shit. She was just as breathtaking as she had been the previous day. Literally. As he struggled to remind himself how to inhale, something else occurred to him. What would she say when he explained the reason he wanted to talk to her? Would she think he was a creep? A stalker? Would she be angry? They had a strict no-contact policy, after all. Would she feel like her privacy had been invaded? Her sisters’ privacy? It was made very clear in everything he could find about them that the Farris triplets valued their privacy. A wave of self-consciousness and doubt flooded him. Had he just made a huge mistake?
***
‘Can I help you?’
The man standing to the side of her doorway hesitated, then took a hesitant step inside the room. She saw him
swallow. Then he mumbled, ‘Hi, um, you’re Elizabeth Farris.’
He said it in a way that showed he already knew the answer.
Jesus Christ. Not another one. Looked like the six-month hiatus from being harassed had given her a false sense of security. She had to force herself not to roll her eyes. Sure, they were only doing their job, but that didn’t mean they could barge into her personal life whenever they wanted. This was her workplace for goodness sake.
She made herself sound calm when she replied, ‘I’m not interested in doing an interview.’
‘Oh. I’m not a reporter … although I am a journalism teacher here … but I’m not here for a story.’
He was mumbling. His stance was a touch awkward. He wasn’t making eye contact. That, coupled with the jumbled speech, meant one thing. Nerves.
Why was he nervous?
Her criminal profiler brain went into action. He was Caucasian, taller than her by about an inch, thirty-something, with almost black hair, and penetrating blue eyes. Her attention lingered on that. Those eyes …
‘Didn’t I see you at Café au Lait yesterday?’
Was he following her?
He glanced at the floor, ‘I, uh. Yes. I was there.’
She felt her forehead wrinkle with irritation. ‘Are you following me?’
His gaze shot up, ‘No. That was a coincidence yesterday. But I meant to track you down today.’
That comment didn’t help her growing mistrust of the man. It didn’t matter how physically gorgeous she thought he was. A creep was a creep.
She kept her tone harsh and demanding when she asked, ‘Why did you want to “track me down”?’
‘Okay, that probably wasn’t the right way to say it.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
He edged a step closer. ‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’ As if he sensed what she was about to say, he held up his palms in a ‘wait’ gesture, and added, ‘Off the record and not for a story. I promise.’
Her intuition hummed. Despite what he was saying, he was hiding something. The way his eyes darted away any time she tried to meet his eyes fuelled her suspicion. Normally that would have caused her brain to shoot off warning signals to stay away from him—not to mention the fact he was trying to convince her he was a journalism teacher who was not after a story. Could she believe him? And how could she know for sure he hadn’t followed her the previous day? He could be a psychopath. All of that should have shut the conversation down. She was surprised when her heart softened and she found herself believing his words.
