Dead River (11 page)

“Don’t call me that,” David said. His face burned with anger.

“Why not? You are chubby. You’re the fattest person in sixth grade. In fact, you’re the fattest person I ever seen.”

“The Bible says I should turn the other cheek,” David said, rubbing the side of his jaw where the first blow had landed.

Barnes stared at David for a moment, then held his stomach with both hands as he bent forward, laughing uncontrollably.

By now seven kids had formed a circle around the two. Four were Barnes’s followers. David tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Barnes looked around at the crowd. “Can you believe this asshole?” He turned and sneered, staring into David’s eyes. “You kill me, Sikes. You’re not only fat, you’re a total dipshit. Turn the other cheek. Go ahead, I’ll just hit you again.”

Suddenly Barnes’s right fist seemed to come out of nowhere and crashed into the left side of David’s face. Pain exploded in his head, and all he could see were flashes of light against blackness. He fell, still unable to see, but felt Barnes trounce on his chest, his knees pinning David’s arms.

The first thing David saw when his vision cleared was Barnes’s right fist, high in the sky, ready to strike again. “Okay, shithead, turn your other cheek again. This one’s for tryin’ to run over me with your bike.”

At that moment David decided once was enough for turning the other cheek. Flat on his back, he drew both knees up and heaved his body to the left. Barnes flew off and landed on his back, a stunned look on his face. David immediately pounced on his chest, and now it was David’s knees pinning Barnes’s arms to the ground. Barnes squirmed under the weight but couldn’t twist loose.

“You fat asshole, let me up,” Barnes demanded.

David said nothing. He was stunned as well, staring into the eyes of his nemesis, now lying helpless beneath him.

“I said let me up, asshole.”

Barnes’s four buddies took a step forward. They were directly in front of David. Before they could take another step, David’s right hand grabbed Barnes’s throat, squeezing with as much force as he could muster. He looked up at the four, silent and pointing at them with his left hand.

Barnes’s face was now cherry-red. He gasped for air but still managed to croak, “Your mother’s a whore, you asshole.”

David released the grip he had on Barnes’s throat.

The four boys must have seen the look of rage on David’s face because they each took a step backward. Barnes wheezed and coughed. David continued pointing toward the four boys, but now he looked down at his prey. Suddenly he dug his thumb into Barnes’s left eye.

Barnes shrieked, and blood immediately gushed from his eye. David looked up. Four of the boys screamed and ran off. Only three of Barnes’s gang remained, but they were slowly stepping back. All of them wore looks of disbelief. David glared at them momentarily before leaning forward and applying more pressure. Suddenly Barnes’s eye popped from its socket, hanging from a bloody piece of something that looked like string. The rest of the boys turned and ran.

That night at home, David’s mother received a phone call from the police station, and shortly after that David received a lashing with the brown leather belt. Kyle Barnes’s eye was placed back in its socket with a full recovery expected. David was placed on one year of juvenile probation.

David often sat in his room and thought about what he had done. It made him smile.

 20

ADAM PULLED OPEN the front door. Detectives Averly and Wilkerson stepped into the foyer followed by three men Adam didn’t recognize. Averly’s face was an even deeper red than before. He’s definitely a drinker, Adam thought.

“Mr. Riley,” Averly said. “This is FBI Special Agent—”

Averly stopped, and all eyes followed his as a short baldheaded man walked into the foyer.

“Ah, let me start by introducing Detective Peter Carillo,” Averly said, motioning Carillo to his side and continuing with the introductions. “This is FBI Special Agent Douglas Goldman, Special Agent Sidney Harrington, and Agent Eddie Neilson. And you both know Detective Wilkerson.”

The men shook hands.

“Mr. Neilson heads the Brevard County FBI office,” Averly continued. “Special Agent Harrington is the supervisor at the FBI branch in Orlando.” Averly paused and, with a faint grunt, unbuttoned his tightly drawn sport coat. “And Special Agent Goldman’s with the FBI Investigative Support Unit in Quantico, Virginia.”

Adam felt his attention drawn to Special Agent Goldman, who seemed to dominate the group in the foyer. Goldman was larger than Averly and had thinning brown hair slicked back on a round head with a wide, square jaw. His tan suit appeared to be tailor-made and was accented by a solid-gold necktie.

“Let’s get going,” Goldman growled. “I’ve got a lot to cover.”

They all moved into the living room and tried to find seats, except Goldman who stood in the center of the room like a preacher ready to evangelize to the masses.

“I want to start by asking Dawn what her thoughts are.”

Adam’s jaw dropped as he reached for Dawn’s hand. She seemed shocked, staring at Goldman.

“That’s okay, Dawn,” Goldman said, with a quick, fractional smile. “Take your time, collect your thoughts. Tell me what comes to mind when you think about what’s happened to your sister. Tell me what you think about the person that’s abducted Sara Ann.”

Dawn finally spoke. She flicked her long, light-brown hair off both shoulders and leaned forward. “Well—uh—I really didn’t know what was going on when my father first told me that my sister was missing. I was sort of in shock. Then later I got scared, after the first time the man called our house.”

“Why were you scared?” Goldman asked.

“I mean I got scared for my sister, not for me. Like something bad was going to happen to her. But then I remembered my mother telling me the man said she would be returned to us, so I figured he was going to take care of her.”

“Do you still think he’s taking care of her?” Goldman asked.

Dawn wiggled around on the couch and then folded her arms over her chest like she was chilled. “I—I’m not sure, especially after what he said the second phone call.”

“What was that?”

“My father told me he—uh—he said that—Sara Ann was part of him physically and spiritually.”

“Jesus Christ, I heard Goldman’s methods were a little different, but this is unbelievable,” Carillo whispered to Averly.

Adam looked up at Averly and Carillo standing together near where he sat on the couch.

“Shh,” Averly breathed.

“What do you think that means, Dawn?” Goldman asked.

Valerie jumped up from beside Adam. “Enough! Stop this right now!”

“Mrs. Riley, if we are going to get Sara Ann back, I need as much information as I can get.”

“By badgering my daughter? What good is that?”

“My wife’s right,” Adam objected. “This is pointless.”

“It’s not. It helps me piece together a puzzle. Every bit of information is important.”

Adam finally pulled on Valerie’s arm, signaling her to sit beside him.

“I don’t want Dawn put through an interrogation,” Valerie snapped.

Goldman turned to Dawn once again. “So what do you think Sara Ann being part of him physically and spiritually means?”

“I think it means she’s—”

“What?” Goldman probed.

Dawn’s blue-green eyes filled with tears. “I—I don’t know,” she sobbed.

“Stop!” Valerie shouted as she bounced off the couch.

 21

ADAM STOOD BESIDE VALERIE and took her arm. “I’ll have no more of this!” she screamed.

“That’s enough,” Adam said to Goldman. He sat back down on the couch, lowering Valerie beside him.

“I’ll now present my personality profile of the subject,” Goldman said, his voice deep and entrancing. “But first I’ll explain personality profiling and what I look for.”

Dawn said nothing, but Adam sensed she was relieved the grilling was over. Adam looked around the room—all eyes were fixed on Goldman.

“It’s necessary to understand the thought patterns of criminals in order to make sense of the victim information and the crime scene evidence,” Goldman explained. “I actually try to think like the person to uncover his motives. But first I’m after the signature elements of the perpetrator. Considering this a distinct element from modus operandi will lead to the critical question of motive.”

“So what makes this guy tick?” Averly asked. Adam sensed impatience in Averly’s voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Goldman snapped. “I’ve spent over twenty years digging into the sick minds and emotions of killers, rapists, child molesters, bombers, and arsonists. Using this data, I have developed what’s referred to as behavioral profiling, the examination of every aspect of a crime to reveal particular behavioral patterns. With that as a basis, what emerges is a profile describing the type of person a particular criminal will most likely be.”

“Agent Goldman has interviewed some of the most notorious criminals in America,” Harrington chimed in.

“That’s right,” Goldman agreed. “Like Richard Speck, David Berkowitz or, as some referred to him, Son of Sam, Ed Kemper, and Charles Manson, to name a few.”

Adam watched Averly lean toward Carillo and whisper something, but he couldn’t make it out. Goldman heard it too and shot a stern look in their direction, lifting his thick eyebrows.

Valerie tugged Adam’s arm. “I’ve heard enough,” she said.

“Agent Goldman,” Adam interrupted.

“Yes.”

“My wife doesn’t want to hear this. I’m taking her upstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Goldman checked his watch. “Okay, but hurry.”

Adam returned in five minutes, and Goldman continued.

“I have read the transcripts of the two phone calls and listened several times to the tapes made of Sara Ann’s abductor,” Goldman said. “And I’ve pored over the various reports. I now have a twenty-two point profile of the suspect that I will present.” He cleared his throat. “I believe the abductor is a white male in his late twenties or early thirties, and possesses above average intelligence. He’s probably a blue-collar worker, most likely an electrician or electronics technician. He has to be mobile, so he has a driver’s license and a reliable car.”

“How can you tell all that from the reports and the audio tapes?” Wilkerson asked.

Goldman turned to face Wilkerson. “He’s probably white because these people usually attack victims of the same race. Not always, but very often so. An exception that I recall is Cleophus Prince, Jr., a black man whose victims were white females. The age because, mid to late twenties is when these sick bastards usually surface.”

“But you said he could even be in his late thirties,” Wilkerson said.

“I know I did, and the reason is I don’t think this is his first abduction. And from what I’ve seen so far, quite frankly he’s good at what he does. He may very well have been at this for quite a while.”

“How about him being an electrician or electronics technician? Maybe because he’s electronically distorting his voice?” Wilkerson asked.

“That’s correct. And I believe he lives locally.”

“In Cocoa Beach?” Adam asked.

“Maybe. At least in the area. See, these scumbags like to work initially in familiar territory. Gives them a sense of security. He may even own a large power dog, like a German shepherd or Doberman, also for security. But then they venture out, seeking opportunities in other areas as they gain confidence.”

“But you said he may have done this before,” Wilkerson said. “So he may not live locally.”

“I did say that, but I didn’t get to a related point.”

“What’s that?” Wilkerson asked.

“He may have moved into the area from somewhere else. I have a hunch he’s from out of state. Maybe lived here for a couple of years. He may even have a criminal record in another state, probably something related to assaultive behavior. But he’s no doubt checked out the area and his potential victims. He’s too damn good to be a beginner.”

Adam listened and thought about what this slick, experienced FBI profiler was saying. From what he could determine, Agent Goldman wasn’t giving a personality profile of just a kidnapper. Oh God no, this man could be a serial killer! I don’t know that. Just listen. Listen to what he has to say. Adam drifted back.