Sense of Evil (2 page)

“Maybe he pulled a Bundy and claimed to need their help.”

“Could be. Although I still say that would have worked loads better if they knew who was asking. This guy isn’t killing strangers. I think the profilers got that one right, Chief.”

With a sigh, Rafe said, “Yeah, me too. I hate like hell the idea that this bastard is local rather than some insane stranger passing through town, but I don’t see any other way to explain how he’s getting these women to go with him.”

“Unless he’s some kind of authority figure they’d be inclined to trust and obey on sight. Like a cop.”

“Oh, hell, don’t even suggest that,” Rafe responded so instantly that Mallory knew the possibility had already been in his mind.

She studied him unobtrusively as he scowled down at the body of Tricia Kane. At thirty-six, he was the youngest chief of police ever in Hastings, but with a solid background in law enforcement both in training and experience, nobody doubted Rafe Sullivan’s qualifications for the job.

Except maybe Rafe himself, who was a lot smarter than he realized.

Mallory had wondered more than once if his tendency to doubt himself and his hunches had anything to do with his looks. He wasn’t exactly ugly—but she had to admit that his self-described label of “thug” pretty much fit. He had a harsh face, with very sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes so dark they tended to make people uncomfortable. His nose had been broken at least twice, he had a sharp jaw with a stubborn jut to it, and his high cheekbones marked him indelibly with his Celtic ancestry.

He was also a very big man, several inches over six feet tall and unmistakably powerful. The kind of guy you wanted on your side no matter what the fight was about. So he definitely looked the part of a cop, in or out of uniform—and it was mostly out, since he disliked uniforms as a rule and seldom wore his. But anyone, Mallory had long ago discovered, who had him pegged as all brawn and no brain or who expected the stereotypical dense, cud-chewing Southern cop was in for a surprise, sooner or later.

Probably sooner. He didn’t suffer fools gladly.

“That’s three murders in barely three weeks,” he was saying, dark eyes still fixed on the body at their feet. “And we’re no closer to catching the bastard. Worse, we’ve now officially got a serial killer on our hands.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s time we yelled for help.”

Mallory sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Quantico

Isabel Adams made her voice as persuasive as she possibly could, and her well-rehearsed arguments sounded damned impressive if she did say so herself, but when she finally fell silent she wasn’t surprised that Bishop didn’t respond right away.

He stood at the window gazing out, only his profile visible to Isabel. In deference to the fact that he was actually on FBI territory, he was dressed more formally than was usual, and the dark suit set off his dark good looks and powerful build admirably. Isabel looked at Miranda, who was sitting on Bishop’s desk, idly swinging one foot. Even more of a maverick than her husband and far less deferential to the FBI in any sense, she was wearing her usual jeans and sweater, the casual outfit doing nothing to disguise startling beauty and a centerfold body that turned heads wherever she went.

She gazed at Bishop now, seemingly waiting as Isabel waited for his answer, but her electric-blue eyes were very intent, and Isabel knew there was communication between the two of them on a level that didn’t require speaking aloud. Whatever Bishop’s decision turned out to be, he would arrive at it only after Miranda’s views and recommendations were added to his own; although Bishop had far greater seniority in the Bureau and in the unit he had created and led, no one doubted that his partnership with Miranda was equal in every possible sense of the word.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said finally.

Isabel said, “I know all the arguments against my going.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve gone over all the material that police chief sent when he requested a profile after the second murder. I even got on-line and read the local newspaper articles. I think I’ve got a very good feel for the town, for what’s happening down there.”

Miranda said, “Your basic powder keg, just waiting for a match.”

Isabel nodded. “Small town on the teetering edge of panic. They seem to have a lot of faith in their police, especially the chief, and pretty fair medical and forensics facilities for a small town, but this latest murder has everybody jumping at shadows and investing in security systems. And guns.”

She paused, then added, “Three murders makes this a serial killer in Hastings. And he’s showing no signs of stopping now. Chief Sullivan just officially requested the FBI’s help, and he’s asking for more than an updated profile. Bishop, I want to go down there.”

Bishop turned at last to face them, though instead of returning to his desk he leaned back against the high windowsill. The scar on his left cheek was visible now, and Isabel had been with the unit long enough to recognize, in its whitened appearance, that he was disturbed.

“I know what I’m asking,” she said, more quietly than she might otherwise have spoken.

Bishop glanced at Miranda, who immediately looked at Isabel and said, “From all indications, this is the sort of killer that local law enforcement can handle with very little outside help. Maybe a bit more manpower to ask questions, but it’ll be inside knowledge that catches this animal, not an outsider’s expertise. The profile marks him as nothing out of the ordinary. He’s local, he’s killing local women he knows, and he’s bound to make a mistake sooner rather than later.”

“But it wasn’t an SCU profile,” Isabel pointed out. “None of us developed it.”

“Special Crimes Unit can’t develop all the requested profiles,” Bishop reminded her patiently. “We barely have the manpower to handle the cases we do get.”

“We didn’t get the call on this one because this killer is so seemingly ordinary, I know that. Around a hundred serial killers active in this country on average at any time, and he’s one of them. Nothing raised a red flag to indicate that our special abilities are needed in the investigation. But I’m telling you—there’s more to the case than the official profile picked up on. A lot more.” She paused, then added, “All I’m asking is that you take a look at the material for yourselves, both of you. Then tell me I’m wrong.”

Bishop exchanged another glance with Miranda, then said, “And if you’re right? Isabel, even if the SCU took on this investigation, given the circumstances in Hastings you’re the last agent I’d want to send down there.”

Isabel smiled. “Which is why I have to be the agent you send. I’ll go get the file.”

She left without waiting for a reply, and as Bishop returned to his desk and sat down, he muttered, “Goddammit.”

“She’s right,” Miranda said. “At least about being the one who has to go.”

“Yeah. I know.”

We can’t protect her.

No. But if this is what I think it is . . . she’ll need help.

“Then,” Miranda said calmly, “we’ll make sure she has help. Whether she likes it or not.”

Thursday, June 12, 2:00 PM

“Chief, are you saying we
don’t
have a serial killer?” Alan Moore, reporter for the Hastings
Chronicle,
had plenty of practice in making his voice carry without shouting, and his question cut through the noise in the crowded room, silencing everyone else. More than thirty pairs of expectant eyes fixed on Rafe.

Who could cheerfully have strangled his boyhood chum. With no particular inflection in his voice, Rafe answered simply, “We don’t know what we have as yet, except for three murdered women. Which is why I’m asking you ladies and gentlemen of the press not to add unnecessarily to the natural anxiety of our citizens.”

“In this situation, don’t you think they should be anxious?” Alan glanced around to make certain all attention was on him, then added, “Hey, I’m blond, and even I’m nervous. If I were a twenty-something blond
woman,
I’d be totally freaked out.”

“If you were a twenty-something blond woman we’d all be freaked out,” Rafe said dryly. He waited for the laughter to subside, fully aware of the fact that it was as much nervous as amused. He was good at taking the pulse of his town, but it didn’t take any particular skill to feel the tension in this room. In the town.

Everybody was scared.

“Look,” he said, “I know very well that the women here in Hastings are worried—whether they’re blond, brunette, redhead, or any shade in between—and I don’t blame them a bit. I know the men in their lives are worried. But I also know that uncontrolled speculation in the newspaper and on the radio and other media will only feed the panic.”

“Uncontrolled?”

“Don’t start yelling censorship, Alan. I’m not telling you what to print. Or what not to print. I’m asking you to be responsible, because there is a very fine line between warning people to be concerned and take precautions, and yelling fire in a crowded theater.”

“Do we have a serial killer?” Alan demanded.

Rafe didn’t hesitate. “We have three murders we believe were committed by the same person, fitting the established criteria for a serial killer.”

“In other words, we have a lunatic in Hastings,” somebody he didn’t recognize muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Rafe responded to that as well, still calm. “By definition a serial killer is judged conventionally if not clinically to be insane, yes. That doesn’t mean he’ll be visibly any different from you or me. And they seldom wear horns or a tail.”

The reporter who’d made the lunatic comment grimaced. “Okay, point taken. Nobody is above suspicion and let’s all freak out.” She was blond.

“Let’s all take care, not freak out,” Rafe corrected. “Obviously, we would advise blond women in their mid to late twenties to take special care, but we have no way of knowing for certain if age and hair color are factors or merely a coincidence.”

“I say err on the side of factor,” she offered wryly.

“And I can’t say I’d blame you for that. Just keep in mind that at this point there is very little we can be sure of—except that we have a serious problem in Hastings. Now, since a small-town police department is hardly trained or equipped to deal with this type of crime, we have requested the involvement of the FBI.”

“Have they provided a profile?” This question came from Paige Gilbert, a reporter with one of the local radio stations. She was more brisk and matter-of-fact than some of the other women in the room had been, less visibly uneasy, possibly because she was brunette.

“Preliminary. And before you ask, Alan, we won’t be sharing the details of that profile unless and until the knowledge can help our citizens. At this stage of the investigation, all we can realistically do is advise them to take sensible precautions.”

“That’s not much, Rafe,” Alan complained.

“It’s all we’ve got. For now.”

“So what’s the FBI bringing to the table?”

“Expertise: the Special Crimes Unit is sending agents trained and experienced in tracking and capturing serial killers. Information: we will have access to FBI databases. Technical support: medical and forensics experts will study and evaluate evidence we gather.”

“Who’ll be in charge of the investigation?” Alan asked. “Doesn’t the FBI usually take over?”

“I’ll continue to head the investigation. The FBI’s role is assistance and support, no more. So I don’t want to read or hear any BS about federal officials superceding states’ rights, Alan. Clear?”

Alan grimaced slightly. He was a good reporter and tended to be both fair and even-handed, but he was close to phobic about governmental “interference,” especially from the federal level, and was always loud in protest whenever he suspected it.

Rafe took a few more questions from the assembled reporters, resigned rather than surprised to find that several of the people were from TV stations in nearby Columbia. If the investigation was getting major state coverage now, it was only a matter of time before it went national.

Great. That was just great. The last thing he wanted was to have the national press looking over his shoulder and second-guessing every decision he made.

Bad enough he had Alan.

“Chief, do you believe this killer is local?”

“Chief, has anything else turned up linking the victims?”

“Chief . . .”

He answered the questions almost automatically, using variations of “no comment” or “we have no reliable information on that” whenever possible. Even though he had called the press conference himself, it was only because he’d gotten wind of some pretty wild speculation going on and hoped to head off the worst of it before it was in print or other media, not because he had any real progress to report.

He was concentrating on the crowd in front of him as he answered their questions, but even as he did, he felt an odd change in the room, as if the very air had somehow sharpened, freshened. Cleared. It was a weird feeling, like waking suddenly from a dream thinking,
Oh, that wasn’t real. This is real.

Something had changed, and he had no idea if it was for better or worse.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement and was able to turn his head just a bit, casually, so that none of the reporters picked up on his suddenly diverted attention.

Still, he was surprised that no one else seemed to have observed her entrance, even though she came into the room from the hallway, behind the flock of reporters. Rafe doubted she went unnoticed very often. He saw her pause to speak briefly to one of his officers, producing what appeared to be an I.D. folder, saw Travis’s visible surprise and undoubtedly stuttering response, then saw her move past him and take up a position near the door. She scanned the crowd of reporters and their tangle of cameras, a small half smile that was not so much amused as it was rueful playing around her mouth. She was dressed casually and for the weather in jeans and a sleeveless top, her hair pulled up into a neat ponytail. She could easily have been one of the reporters.

She wasn’t.

When her gaze met his fleetingly across the crowded room, Rafe was conscious of an instant certainty that made him go cold to his bones.