Coffee in hand, I go through the case notes and photos again. I’ve only got about two hours to finalize the profile. Much less time than I’d like. Once again Jean and Teresa crystallize in my mind and through them I get a shadowy image of the killer. Next I review the material to date on Susan Young. I pick up a photo of her from the crime scene, naked, eyes open, flowers all around her. I wonder if the killer liked the beauty that was surrounding her.
I go back to Jean, assimilating the facts in my head. I know he likes to watch his victims. I know Jean went out clubbing. Did they meet? How would it have been?
The five W’s and the H come to mind: Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? These are the questions we try to answer in a profile. We follow the mantra that journalists follow. Just as they tell a story, we try to find the story and retell it. Who were the victims and who is the perp? What happened—cause of death, anything unusual? When did the crime occur and is there anything unusual or significant about that time or date? Where did it all go down? How was the crime committed—MO, signature, etc.? And finally why? In some cases the why, the motive, gives you the who. If it was for money, who would benefit? If it was for revenge, who had a grudge? But in the case of serial killers the why is usually about the ritual and its significance to the killer.
I close my eyes, ready to reenact the scene as it might have taken place. I let my imagination take over, just as I do when coming up with any profile…
Jean’s at a nightclub, dancing. He’s watching her. He’s been watching her for days now. He sidles up to her, moving his hips in time with hers. He smells her skin, her scent, and breathes it in deeply, enjoying the smell that she emanates. Then he moves away, preferring their time together to be private. He shrinks back into the walls, absorbing their dull, plain white features. He is nameless and faceless again. He leaves the nightclub and goes straight to Jean’s place.
He runs his fingers through his hair, hard, removing any loose strands. Then he places a hairnet firmly on his head, followed by a hat. Next he pulls his black leather gloves down over his hands. He enters her apartment through the front door, easily. He’s been to the apartment before. He walks through the rooms as though they are his—her apartment is his domain. Everything she owns is his, just as she’ll be his. He rummages around the kitchen and examines the contents of her fridge. There are things past their use-by date, and he throws them in the trash can. His eyes settle on a bottle of red wine on the counter. He pops the cork and pours himself a generous serving. He stands in the stark white of her kitchen and drinks his glass of wine, slowly. Twenty minutes later there is one tiny drop of wine left in his glass. Instead of taking the glass to his lips and letting the wine sink down his throat, he slowly tilts the glass and watches as the dark, rich-red drop hits the white, tiled floor. He smiles broadly, transfixed by the red droplet. He methodically cleans his glass and stoppers the bottle. He takes his place in her hall closet.
An hour later Jean enters the apartment. She notices the bottle of wine on the counter, takes a wineglass down and pours herself half a glass. She doesn’t notice the sink. She sits on her couch, watching TV. He can see her now. Later she moves to her bedroom, stripping her clothes off as she goes.
Half an hour later, he emerges from the closet and walks softly down the corridor to her room. He watches the sleeping form of Jean. But he is patient. He creeps back to the corridor before letting himself out.
At 4:00 a.m. he reappears. He buzzes her apartment, and speaks into the intercom. He walks up the stairs and flashes identification at Jean, who is disheveled, still half-asleep. He tells her something and she hurriedly dresses and grabs her purse. He takes her down the stairs, carefully looking around to make sure no one is watching. She gets into his car, not noticing that the streetlight above the car is out, or that the inside car light doesn’t illuminate when the doors open.
Suddenly the location has changed. Jean lies spreadeagle, tied to a metal gurney. The killer stands over her with a knife in his hand. He draws the knife along Jean’s body and she flails her legs, but they hardly move, restricted by her bonds. Each tug is cut short as the minute amount of slack in the rope tightens in response to her jerky reactions. He smiles, undoes his fly and climbs on top of her. She moves against him but he does not notice.
I open my eyes and try to distance myself from the rape. I down the rest of my coffee. It’s not as hot as I’d like, but the caramel sticks to my lips and for an instant I focus on the deliciously sweet sensation and not the killer.
I go back through some of the photos of Jean’s apartment and notice the kitchen floor does indeed have a small drop of red on it. It looks like blood, but it’s not. Did I see that photo before I pictured the crime scene or has my crime-scene reenactment drawn on my psychic abilities? I’ll never know. The photo also reveals some jars, half-full, in the trash can beside her fridge.
I pick up the photo of her dumped body. I imagine Jean on the gurney. A gurney? That would tie in well with the lividity evidence—a totally smooth surface—and it would put the killer at the right angle for the stab wounds too.
I imagine her dead, on a gurney. The killer cleaned up his handiwork. He washed her cuts and scrubbed her down hard, ensuring that any traces of him were removed. He is thorough, so thorough that he even scrubbed at her fingernails and toenails and then cut them back. Sam’s notion that he’s got medical training comes to mind. Or perhaps it’s his law-enforcement training—knowing that a single pubic hair on Jean’s body could convict him. I wonder if his DNA is on our files, part of VICAP. Perhaps he’s been caught before and wants to avoid a return trip to prison.
I move on to Teresa and, once more, I imagine that I’m in the scene.
The killer watches her, following her daily movements. She has regular routines: gym, work, self-defense classes. The regularity is perfect. And just like with Jean, habitual visits to her apartment are part of his routine. He feels powerful roaming freely in his victim’s apartment, just as though he really was her boyfriend. He can do anything. Anything he wants.
She leaves work late, 9:00 p.m., and he’s waiting for her in the building parking garage. It’s deserted. She walks from the elevator to her Mercedes, her high heels keeping a regular beat on the concrete floor. He watches her in his rearview mirror and when she’s close enough he opens the door and gets out of his van. He’s parked right next to Teresa. He reaches inside his shirt pocket and brings out his ID.
He spins his story and she becomes upset. He tells her that something has happened to her sister. But then he slips up. She backs away from him and runs to her car. But it’s too late. Just as she clicks the automatic locking system and pulls on the door handle of her car, he lunges at her, grappling her in a bear hug. Her briefcase and handbag go flying in different directions. She screams and he moves his hand to her mouth, pinching her nose at the same time. Her scream is stifled before it has time to reach its crescendo. She brings her heel down hard on his foot, elbows him in the stomach, and then goes to hit him in the groin.
It’s a standard self-defense move. But Teresa misses her mark. He is too fast for her. He has her up and in the back of his van in less than thirty seconds. He climbs in the back with her and secures her gag and bindings, tying her hands to a railing in the back of the van. She’s his.
I pick up the photo of Teresa the way she was found, dumped in Cedarville State Forest. I imagine him taking her there, a silhouette lowering the body carefully to the ground. He positioned her with her knees up and falling to one side, her arms fanned outward to waist height, and then her head turned a notch. This positioning is his signature. Every body was found in the same posture, even Jean who was in the back seat of the stolen car. But what does it mean? They look as though they’re sleeping. Perhaps it’s related to the notion of the women as his girlfriends. This way, he hasn’t killed them, they’re just asleep—dormant in his life because he’s finished with them and ready to move on to the next girlfriend. Yet he doesn’t close their eyes…people don’t sleep with their eyes open. I glance at my watch and realize time is passing fast. I must look at Susan’s file—perhaps I can find some answers there. I try to imagine her abduction and reenact it in my mind.
Susan is walking to her car, just like Teresa. Again the killer is parked next to her. He comes toward her, flashing his ID. He spins his story again. Something about one of her employees gone missing. Susan accepts the story—after all, he is a cop—and jumps in his car. Just like Jean he drives Susan to his location.
Strapped to his table, Susan breaks early. Earlier than the others. She begs for her life, begs for release. She does not hope to negotiate or escape. He has complete control over her and only he has the power to release her. For better or worse, this means she is dead sooner than the others. She only lasts three days. She cries and begs for her life and he gags her to stop her incessant whining. His patience is stripped bare. He’s already started staking out his next victim, Sam, so it’s easy for him to kill Susan. It takes him one step closer to Sam, just what he wants. He slashes Susan’s throat—he’s done with her. His special place is silent once more.
I notice from the police reports that many of Susan’s friends and colleagues commented on how she came across hard and tough but was really a pussycat. The killer didn’t get what he’d bargained for.
I look at my watch—it’s 4:30 p.m. and I haven’t really got any further, except for confirming he does use a badge. On a scrap piece of paper I write down some additional information.
Either is, or poses as cop or other law-enforcement official
Took Jean and Susan away of their own free will under false pretenses
Teresa was suspicious of his cover story—there was evidence of a struggle
Follow up body positioning
Follow up breaking-and-entering evidence (Was he in their apartments?)
Follow up video footage from parking lot
Then I write underneath in large letters and circle it— What if Sam doesn’t break? What will he do???
I close my eyes for a moment. I think about Sam. Where is she? What’s he doing to her? To date, my visions have been random, but I need to control them. I’ve got to at least try to induce an image. I slow my breathing down and clear my mind. I’m rewarded by an onslaught of images.
She’s on the killer’s gurney, tied up. She has her head turned to the side, as far as it will go. Her eyes are tightly closed and tears run down her cheeks. Her arms are taut, struggling against the ties. Then the image zooms out and I see him, on top of her. He wears a balaclava and his pelvis moves up and down.
I jerk my eyes open and the image disappears.
“Oh God!” I take a deep breath but no air reaches my lungs. I run from the project room to the toilets, just making it in time for the bowl to catch the contents of my stomach. The smell of bile, milk and vomit rises and I lurch again, bringing up the rest of the caramel macchiato and my morning’s fruit salad. I haven’t been able to eat anything else today. Not since I found out about Sam.
I sink to my knees and a whimper escapes my lips and then turns into silent yet guttural crying. A few quick in-breaths are the only sounds that give away my grief. Tears stream down my face. I let the sobs come, yet they give me no relief, no sense of emotional release.
I try to reassure myself. It might not be a vision, even though I was trying to induce one. It might be me reenacting my worst fears. Then again, it might not be. Bile rises again, but I have nothing left in my stomach.
We have to find him. We have to get this bastard. I grit my teeth, all I can think about is revenge. I want to kill the bastard, or better yet, make him suffer. I shake with rage. I need to get myself together. I have to focus on the case. The clock is ticking. I swallow my tears, grief and anger, pushing them down inside me. Control. It’s about control. I’ve got to get myself together before the team returns.
In the project room ten minutes later I hope I look the model of composure. I study my list and feel slightly discouraged. It’s not really any more than what Sam came up with.
I rest my head in my hands and close my eyes. A few minutes later I look up to see Josh hovering over me. Yet again he entered a room without a sound.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Fine. Sorry, I was just thinking. About the profile.”
“Did you come up with anything?”
“A few little bits. What about you?”
“The VICAP stuff looks really good. We’ve definitely got a few matches, including some in Arizona.”
My phone rings. “Agent Anderson.”
“Hi, Sophie, it’s Janet.”
“Hi, Janet. What’s up?”
“I’ve got your appointment with Dr. Rosen set up. You’re seeing her at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Surely this can wait until we find Sam.”
“Rivers told me you’d say that. I’m sorry, Sophie, but you have to keep the appointment, no matter what. Rivers and Pike are both insisting that everyone in the unit is assessed because of Sam’s disappearance. Even I’ve got to see Amanda.”
“But Janet—”
“I’m sorry, Sophie. They’re not accepting any buts.”
“Fine… Fine. Bye.” I try not to take it out on Janet.
“What’s up?” Josh asks.
“I’ve got my appointment with Amanda tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “Me too. I’m up for two in the afternoon. When’s yours?”
“Ten tomorrow morning.” I shake my head. “Finding Sam is a hell of a lot more important than going to see some shrink,” I say. “Even if it is Amanda.”
Josh strokes my hair and then puts his arm around me, giving me a squeeze. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting him, or any man, to touch me. Not when all I can think about is what that bastard is doing to Sam.