The Professor (4 page)

Thursday night

It was an all-too-familiar sight: a gathering of tired detectives with five o’clock shadows. Files and crime scene photos lay scattered across the conference room table. Discarded fast-food bags added to the general funk in the air. The only good thing about the debacle at Douglass College was that Clinton was centered between Greenville, Spartanburg and Newberry, making this conference with all the task force detectives feasible.

Karen Ward, the Spartanburg detective, dropped the Geiger crime scene photos on the table. She was a no-nonsense brunette wearing slacks and a turtleneck. “It’s a complete change in MO. Are we sure it’s the same guy?”

“The staging, the rock, the e-mails,” Frank said.

Ward slumped in her chair. The violent death and the posing had received extensive press coverage, but the content of the stalking e-mails and the rock were holdbacks, details withheld from the public. Only the killer knew about them.

“It’s an escalation, not a change,” Mick said. “I’ve walked all three crime scenes. This guy’s methodical. Everything’s planned. He chooses his victim, knows when they’re alone and he won’t be interrupted. He comes to the residences prepared with a murder kit. He leaves almost no trace evidence behind.”

“There was semen,” Trey Andersen, the Greenville detective, pointed out. His carefully styled haircut only partially obscured his receding hairline. He propped one cowboy boot–shod foot on an empty chair and smirked.

Whoa, an almost helpful comment,
Mick thought.
Maybe he’s decided to cooperate for a change.
Initially, Andersen had resented the State Law Enforcement Division’s involvement, but as the case dragged on and the body count rose, he was more than willing to let SLED take the heat.

“So he managed to get his rocks off,” Robbins said bluntly. “Unless he’s a registered offender, it doesn’t help us.”

“Has anyone checked on the sexual offenders?” Mick asked. “These guys don’t start with murder. Somewhere there’s a record on him, even if it’s just soliciting a hooker.”

“He may have juvenile offenses: voyeurism, arson, petty theft,” Frank added.

“I’ve got friends in Vice,” Ward said.

“How close a friend?” Andersen asked and blew her a kiss.

She glared at him. “I’ll get a list started.” She scribbled a note, then turned to Mick and Frank. “Should we bring in a psychologist?”

“He’s crazy,” Jordan said. “Maybe we should.”

“He’s not crazy,” Mick said. “Not in a legal or medical sense.”

“He’s just evil,” Robbins muttered.

Frank leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his leg. “All a psychologist will tell you is the unsub appears to be a sociopath, but he isn’t psychotic.”

Appears?
Mick thought.
The bastard ruthlessly tortures and kills three women. Oh, yeah, he’s definitely not getting the “Citizen of the Year” award from me.

“He gets off on humiliating women,” Frank continued. “He hates his mother. Maybe he was screwing her as a kid or she kept bringing guys home and taking them to bed. Maybe they took him to bed with them. Something. Anyway, he hates her and he’s
trying to get back at her by assaulting these nice women.”

“You don’t care why he’s doing it?” Jordan asked.

Mick had been watching Jordan’s face as the other detectives talked. Now that there were no dead bodies in the room, the kid was interested, even excited. “Not particularly. We’ve worked enough of these cases to know most of what the psychologists are going to say. Sometimes the profiles help, but you catch them through police work.”

Robbins nodded. “Hard work and a little luck.”

Mick glanced around the table. They all were excited, although the older cops hid it better. It was part of the reason they’d chosen law enforcement. Deep down, they all wanted to play cops and robbers, do something more than write speeding tickets and settle domestic disputes. They wanted to catch for-real bad guys, rescue damsels in distress. Mick admitted, at least to himself, it was part of why he’d chosen SLED over a better-paying position at the beach.

“Talk to one of Ward’s friends in Vice if you want to know more about these assholes.” Frank resumed his lecture. “Now, our killer’s started cutting the victims, but it isn’t a frenzy or directed at the genitals in a sex substitution. From the traces of lubricant on the victims, we know he’s performed normal sexual intercourse with all three women.”

“I’d hardly call it normal,” Ward objected.

“The penetration is penis into vagina—normal,” Mick said. “What’s abnormal is the use of pain and terror in the process. It’s the power over them that thrills him. He wants ultimate power—life and death.”

Mick leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, deliberately recalling the graphic images from the three crime scenes. “I think the first one was an accident. The drugs started wearing off, she woke up and put up a fight or something. He grabbed her around the neck to shut her up. Maybe he panicked and didn’t know when to quit. Maybe he realized it and it turned him on. He intended to kill the next two. Whichever, the violence is increasing.”

“And he’s getting off on it,” Andersen twisted restlessly in his chair.

What’s he going to do next?

The unspoken words hung in the air.

“What’s with the rock?” Pragmatic Robbins broke the tense silence.

“Only the killer knows.” Mick shrugged. “And even he may not be sure. He’s done it every time. It’s an impulse he can’t resist any more than he can quit obsessing over the women.”

Ward waved a finger at Mick. “Back up a minute. Why’d you call Geiger an escalation?”

“Get into his head for a minute,” Mick said. “The guy’s killed twice. Maybe he felt scared after the first one, but when he wasn’t caught, the fear left. Instead, he remembered how much he liked it. The next time, it was less frightening. In fact, it was so much fun, he decided to raise the stakes. His third victim lived at home. He may have considered a home invasion.”

Robbins didn’t look happy. “Killed her while her parents were there?”

“Or killed them too.” Mick could tell Robbins had mulled over that possibility. “Instead, he got deeper into his fantasies. He kidnapped the victim, presumably from a
public place.”

“And kept her longer…”

“The longer he keeps them, the longer he has to hurt them. If he takes another one, the only way she’s coming out alive is if we move fast and find them.”

Andersen’s cowboy boots hit the floor with a thud. “How are we supposed to do that? We haven’t gotten anywhere on this.”

Mick’s gaze took in all the detectives seated around the table before returning to Andersen. “We have to find him before he takes his next one.”

Silence followed Mick’s quiet comment. They all understood what they were up against.

Jordan sat back with crossed arms. “Greenville-Spartanburg is practically one city. What’s he doing down here in Newberry? I don’t see where Ms. Geiger fits the pattern.”

“It’s not that far,” Frank replied.

“We don’t have a pattern,” Mick said. “Outside of pure, dumb luck, the only way we’re going to find this guy is through the victims.”

“The victims come from similar backgrounds.” Ward shuffled the crime scene photos. “But there are differences in height, body type, hair color.”

“It may be more subtle. Was it the way she smiled? Walked down the street? We need to concentrate on any overlaps: friends, places, habits in common. It may give us the clue about where he’s meeting them.” All the detectives had started with the usual suspects—family and friends. They’d covered people who didn’t like the women, ex-boyfriends; where they spent their days; what they did outside of class. They’d come up dry on all counts.

“I thought serial killers targeted losers,” Andersen recrossed his legs and flicked a speck of dust from his boots. “You know, prostitutes, hitchhikers, people like that. These three were cheerleader types.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s what he always wanted, but couldn’t have.”

Mick scrubbed his hands over his face. “What do we know about Geiger?” He’d studied her file last night. Robbins and Jordan had to be exhausted. They’d worked practically around the clock for two days, not knowing Emily Geiger was already dead.

“She was a sophomore at Windsor College,” Robbins said. “Pretty girl; sweet kid. Always struck me as smart, really confident.”

Mick thought about the life cut short. “Sounds like you knew her.”

“My wife taught her in Sunday school.” Robbins stared glumly at the table. “She was friends with my daughter. Melanie’s all torn up.”

Mick and Frank exchanged glances. Working a homicide was tough enough without personal involvement. Should they ask Robbins to excuse himself? Wouldn’t anybody else in the department have the same problem? Mick flicked a glance at Jordan. The kid wore the same shell-shocked expression in unguarded moments. “So, no theories about where or how he’s meeting them?”

Ward shrugged. “All of the victims were in college.”

“They’re different schools,” Jordan objected.

“It’s still possible the doer’s a student,” Andersen said. “Hell, my kid brother’s over at Windsor and Prescott as often as he’s at Wofford. They’re back and forth, going
to football games and parties. A student’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“There was no forced entry at the apartments,” Ward said.

“And?” Robbins asked.

“A student could get inside another student’s apartment,” Andersen said in a tone that added “idiot” and Robbins bristled.

“They’ve got a point,” Mick said. “It’s irrational, but most students trust other students. But the profile makes the killer older. He wouldn’t fit in as well with a college crowd.”

“That college crowd looked ready to accept you tonight,” Frank drawled.

Mick stifled the mental flash of Meg Connelly. “Up yours, Meyers,” he said. “They wanted you to be their daddy.”

“I don’t think that’s what they had in mind for you.” Frank’s eyebrows rose suggestively.

The other detectives were looking at them expectantly, the earlier tension forgotten.

“Oh, yeah,” Frank continued. “Old Blue Eyes could’ve had his pick of places to stay tonight.”

“Whatever,” Mick said. He was too tired for the ribbing he routinely received from other cops. “I don’t think a student could improvise the way our killer does. Or plan so meticulously.”

Ward propped her chin on her fist. “Isn’t that a direct contradiction?”

“The first two assaults were planned. Without knowing Geiger would be at the mall that morning, how could he plan the abduction? If he was following her and saw an opportunity, then he’d have to improvise. There’s too much outside his control.”

Mick rubbed at the grit in his eyes, trying to think things through. “I wonder if there’s some decompensation. Once the killer started, he can’t stop, but he’s also started thinking he’s invincible. To get the same satisfaction, he has to get deeper into his fantasies.”

“You mean, take bigger risks.”

“And because he thinks he won’t get caught, he’ll go after the next victim more quickly.”

Ward’s hand smacked the table. “You’re saying he could already have the next one picked out?”

“Probably. You gotta remember, the stalk is an important part of his fantasy. But if he strikes sooner, he won’t have as much time to plan beforehand. Maybe he’ll make mistakes.”

“And that’s when he gets caught,” Andersen said with satisfaction.

“In the meanwhile, this is the worst kind of killer. He’s careful and organized.” Frank paused. “He’s white, early thirties, neatly groomed. He doesn’t stand out in the victims’ neighborhoods.”

“Someone who fits in there,” Jordan said thoughtfully.

“If it was just the apartments, I’d wonder if he was a maintenance guy,” Robbins said. “But that doesn’t fit with the mall.”

“What about a security guard?” Ward suggested.

“What about a teacher?”

Everyone turned to Jordan. He blushed, but met their gaze.

“Why do you say that?” asked Mick.

“Students trust teachers. The age fits the profile better and they’re around schools.”

“One school,” Ward objected.

“Not necessarily,” Mick said. “They go to conferences and stuff. Andersen, is anybody teaching at more than one school? Or transferred recently?”

“I’ll check.” Andersen scribbled in his notebook.

“The academic world, especially if the killer is a researcher, would appeal to a meticulous personality like an obsessive/compulsive,” Frank said. “But if he’s a professor, it’s probably not at the victims’ colleges.”

Andersen groaned. “Do you have any idea how many schools there are in the Upstate?”

“A woman isn’t going to let a teacher she doesn’t know into her home any sooner than she would another stranger,” Ward said.

“That’s right,” Robbins agreed. “And I still think it’s too far for him to drive down here and stalk Geiger, if it’s some guy who’s teaching up in Greenville. He’s supposed to be in class. He can’t cut like a kid can.”

“Besides, he knew how to cover his tracks with those e-mails,” Andersen said. “Computer geeks are mostly kids.”

Ward raised her eyebrow at Mick. “Did you get anything on the latest e-mails?”

“Same as the others. Our computer guys ran trace programs. Like the ones the feds use to go after hackers,” he added at their blank reactions. “Don’t ask me to explain how they work.”

“A professor would know how the mail works at their school, how the names are set up,” Jordan said.

Andersen groaned. “Give it up, kid.”

For a moment, none of the detectives spoke. They were all tired. “Are we getting anything off the hotline?” Mick finally asked.

“Confessions and sightings.” Robbins massaged his temple. “So far, most aren’t worth the time it takes to process ’em. We’re having more luck with the folks out on Wilson Road.”

That was the road in front of the park, Mick remembered. He also remembered the comment:
our city, our people.
“What have you got?”

“Multiple reports of a dark-colored vehicle that morning around five. Big engine, maybe a V8 or a 356. The night clerk at the Holiday Inn said it was a coupe, not a sedan.”