Body Count (13 page)

The forensic linguist has noted that the writer has misspelled the word
delighted
but believes it's inconsistent with the writing in the rest of the letter. The misspelling is a deliberate attempt to disguise his education level. In particular, the linguist notes his near-perfect use of punctuation as good evidence of university-level education. This tracks with our profile. The linguist has also been able to pinpoint a South, Southwest background.

After less than ten minutes, O'Donnell summarizes it. “So we're looking at South, Southwest origin, maybe Arizona, New Mexico or Texas. However, there are some inconsistencies that make the forensic linguist think our guy moved around a bit. He's highly educated and our expert doesn't think the killer rehearsed the note much or at all, and attempts to disguise the handwriting are in the form of the caps and the one misspelling.”

“Confident son of a bitch,” Krip says, leaning back farther in his chair but still staring out the window.

“Well, at this stage he's got reason to be,” I say. “We've got no physical evidence and no real leads.”

“What about Wright's place, Couples? Anything there?” O'Donnell asks.

“Not yet. There were prints all over the place. I'm in contact with the FBI lab and they're still running them all against Sam's, Sophie's and the cleaner's.”

“How long will it take?”

“Marty Tyrone said they'll be working it around the clock, but it'll be at least another twenty hours or so
before they've checked everything, isolated the prints and run them all.”

O'Donnell nods and then runs his fingers underneath the frames of his glasses and squeezes the bridge of his nose.

Working to a tight time frame is never easy. These things always take time, and that's the one thing we don't have.

“'Course, we might get an unidentified print in ten minutes' time,” Couples says.

“We have to assume there'll be no prints,” Josh says, holding his pen up and clicking it twice, rapidly.

“I agree. The guy's never left one before. Why start now?” I say. “Except perhaps on the profile.”

“The profile?”

“Yeah. I can imagine our guy wanting to establish a physical connection with the words Sam wrote about him. He may have even taken his gloves off.”

“Good thinking. Sandra, organize to have the profile checked out as a priority,” O'Donnell says.

“Sure. It's being checked, but I'll get it stepped up in terms of priority.”

“I'm interested in the files too. I've been wondering if he took something, evidence of his handiwork, or even if he left an extra photo,” I say.

“I've got a list here of exactly what we sent through to your unit,” Flynn says, flicking through some pages in his file and digging out a loose page.

Couples nods and flips her cell phone open. “Marty, it's Sandra Couples. Anything?… Get your guys to focus on the files and photos that were on Sam's dining-room table, and especially the printout of the
Slasher profile. Yep… Uh, huh… Good,” Sandra says. “I'll fax through the inventory too—get someone to check it, will you.” She hangs up. “Done.” She takes the sheet of paper from Flynn. “I'll fax this through when we're finished.”

“What else have we got?” O'Donnell asks.

I stand up to pace.

Josh double-clicks his pen. “The pendant.”

“You entered that in as evidence, didn't you, Anderson?” Flynn says.

“Yeah, it's definitely not Sam's.”

“It's already been checked for prints and DNA.” Sandra looks around the table and then looks up at me. “Nothing, I'm afraid.”

I twist the ring on my little finger.

“What if it belongs to one of the other victims?” Krip says, moving forward in his chair for the first time.

I'm surprised it's Krip who makes this contribution. I stop twisting my ring. “I like it. But I don't think it's one of his D.C. victims.”

Jones nods. “Yeah, Sam's profile indicates he's not a first-timer.”

“No. Everything's too perfect,” I say.

“Well, we know our guy takes trophies,” Flynn says. “He took a bracelet from Jean, Teresa's ring, and we just got word from Susan's mom—she thinks a necklace is missing.”

Jones looks up at Flynn but keeps doodling. “Not our necklace?”

“No, I described it to Mrs. Young. It's not it.”

I take a seat at the table again. “So let's assume it is another victim's necklace.”

Josh turns to me. “Or maybe even a girlfriend or relative of the perp.”

“We'll have to wait and see what VICAP turns up.”

We pause. What haven't we covered?

“Any luck with the neighbors?” Jones pauses his doodling and looks at Couples.

“No one we've spoken to so far heard anything. But I'm hopeful about the apartment directly below Sam. We're chasing down the couple that live there. We should find them in the next hour or so. If not, I've got someone going over there at five to wait for them to get home from work.”

“Excellent. It would be good to pinpoint the abduction time,” O'Donnell says.

“What about entry points?” I ask Couples. “How'd he get in?”

“Had to be through the bedroom window. There are definitely no signs of forced entry.”

I shake my head. I still don't buy it.

“Anything else?” O'Donnell raises both eyebrows and looks around the table.

Silence.

“There must be something,” I say.

“Forensics would have found it if there was. You know that,” Josh says quietly.

“We're waiting on everything.” I flop backward in the seat, my elbows leaning on the armrests.

Josh reaches his hand out to me and then pulls it back, covering the attempt at an intimate gesture by tapping on the table. “Yes.” He forces a smile. “But look what we might have by six tonight.”

“True.” By six we should know if anything's missing
from the Slasher files, if there are any fingerprints on the profile, and when exactly Sam was abducted. It's not a bad start, but I was hoping for more.

“And the call?” Josh says.

Krip, who has resumed his semireclined position, answers. “Made from her cell phone. Doesn't tell us much.”

“Krip, go to the cell-phone company and find out what area the call was routed through,” O'Donnell says.

Of course. All cell-phone calls are picked up by a tower, usually the nearest one, and we'll be able to get a rough location from it.

Krip nods.

“Sophie, Sam ordered a blowup of Jean's thigh. Any idea why?” Flynn says.

“Yeah, we thought we could see some sort of marking on it.” It's not an absolute lie. I'm just not telling him how I saw the marking.

“Here you go.” Flynn pushes the photo across the table.

I snatch it up, eagerly examining the top of Jean's thigh. What a mess, there are cuts everywhere. But there's no tattoo. Still, the image must have something to do with the Slasher because not only was the marking in my dream and waking premonition, now there's the pendant too.

“Mind if I keep this?” I ask.

“No problem.”

O'Donnell hands us completed case files. “I suggest we use the next few hours to go through the case. Familiarize ourselves with everything.”

“I might see if I can add to the profile,” I say.

“I'll go back to Quantico and sit on the VICAP guys.

Make sure we get that report,” Josh says. He clicks his pen, puts it in his folder and flips the folder closed.

“Let's meet back here at five. Then we'll have the VICAP info and hopefully something from Sam's neighbors. What about the third D.C. victim? Anything more on her?” O'Donnell says.

“Coroner's finished his report.” Flynn shakes his head. “Nothing interesting, I'm afraid.” He flicks through a pile of papers and brings one to the top. “This one had thirty-two cuts, including the throat wound, which was the cause of death. Time of death has been verified as between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. Her fingernails were clean, recently cut back in fact, and there were no foreign fibers, hairs or anything else.”

I slump in my chair. “Lividity?”

Flynn focuses his blue eyes, in their soft mode, on me. “Same as the others. She died on a flat surface and must have been transported in something pretty flat too.”

“A van.”

Jones looks up. “Wouldn't that show ridges, though?”

He's right.

“Maybe something flat in the back of the van?” Josh says.

This guy's good.

“And forensics?” O'Donnell asks.

Josh leans forward. “I spoke to Marty just before I left Quantico. There was blood near the scene but it turned out to be the victim's. Must have got there during transportation. Broken branches showed us his route but no footprints.”

“He raked over his tracks,” I add.

O'Donnell raises his eyebrows.

Josh continues. “Rake indentations didn't give us anything. A standard model that golf courses use for sand bunkers.”

O'Donnell shakes his head.

Flynn adds, “This guy is thorough.”

“Very.” O'Donnell starts to gather his papers into one pile.

We all follow suit.

“Have you got somewhere quiet I can go, O'Donnell?” I ask.

“Stay in this room if you like.”

“Fine.” I put the case files back onto the desk. “And your nearest coffee place?”

“There's a Starbucks one block away—turn right as you go out of the building.”

I take a few bills out of my wallet as the meeting room empties and then jog to Starbucks. I order a grande caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso. Caffeine and sugar may be the only things that get me through the next few days.

Sophie seemed upset today. She'll need me soon.

I fill a bucket with warm, soapy water and a sponge. It's time for Sam's sponge bath. She really is beautiful. And she's got me the attention I deserve.

I look at her naked, petite body and gently cleanse away the dirt and grime.

“Does that feel nice?” I ask.

Her response is muffled by the duct tape.

“If I take it off, do you promise to be good?”

She nods.

“Do you promise not to scream?

She nods again.

I pull the tape off her mouth with a quick, sharp movement—I don't want to cause her more pain than necessary.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You're welcome.” I'm happy for her manners.

We're both silent and I sponge her breasts, her stomach, her legs and finally her groin.

“There. Does that feel better?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think Sophie's taking your disappearance very well.”

“You son of a bitch, you stay away from her!” she screams, her mood suddenly changing.

For an instant my temper wells up inside me, ready to burst, but then it quickly recedes. Control.

“That's very sweet of you. To be thinking about your friend,” I say, moving around the table as I speak. I move in close to her ear and whisper, “But don't
forget, you're the one on the table, honey.” I emphasize the word
honey.
Sam loves using that word. “Sophie's safe…until I'm finished with you, that is.”

She's silent and I presume her smart mind is trying to find a way out of the situation. But I can't see her eyes to be sure of this—I still have them covered.

“My name is Samantha Wright. I was born in a small town in Texas called—”

I interrupt her with a loud laugh. How ridiculous to try that one on me!

“Sam, my darling,” I say, “surely you can do better than that. That's first-year criminal psychology, isn't it? Personalize yourself for the perpetrator. Make him feel you're a real person so he'll let you go. You really have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?”

“Tell me. Tell me about you,” she says.

“I thought you knew all about me. No?”

She shakes her head.

“You can learn more about me later.”

With her body freshly washed I run my fingers along her velvety skin. I murmur endearments in her ear and then we make love.

C
offee 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 spread
eagle, 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.

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.

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.”