[2017] The Extraction

by Steven F Freeman

  But my approach worked. Frankly, profiling isn’t as exact a science as forensics. No matter what profiling technique is used, it isn’t magic, and it’s not an unfailing recipe for success. I messed up plenty of times. But I got it right a lot more often than not…more often than most profilers. Why? It’s tempting to claim I’m just that smart. But the ugly truth isn’t so flattering: I relate to the serial criminal, perhaps more than I should be able to. I crawl into a dark corner of my soul, the one everyone has but no one wants to admit. From that vantage point, I can think like the criminal, visualizing my next steps…my next victim. To my FBI colleagues, it looked like I was guessing. And in a way, that’s true. But my guesses were based on the insight provided by cohabiting the dark minds of the perps I sought. That was the essence of my difference from other profilers: less by-the-book…more by-the-gut. And it explains why I got the “Grinder” nickname. Once my gut told me a person was guilty, I kept pushing until something, or somebody, gave way.

  So how did my profiling technique help with this case? And will it help me decipher the latest note’s second clue? The only way to know is to cast my mind back to the case details.

  The day my lead agent assigned me to this case, I opted to check out the crime scene of the latest robbery for myself. I left HQ to visit the house of the victim—the one who called in a favor from the mayor and landed me in the middle of this investigation.

  A vast southern manor attested to the man’s wealth. This home invasion, the fifth in as many months, had occurred overnight. I entered the home and encountered the forensics team examining the master bedroom for trace evidence.

  I ran into Yancey, one of the Atlanta police department’s better detectives.

  “Found anything good?” I asked her.

  “They’re still working,” she said, moving to a gloved figure applying dusting powder to the top of a bedroom dresser. “But based on the earlier crimes this guy has committed, I’m not holding my breath.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same perp?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure, yeah. All the hallmarks are there. Vics live in a rich house with no dogs. Perp tied up the family at gunpoint but didn’t hurt anyone. And he only took jewelry.” She motioned to an elaborate Bose desktop sound system. “He left the electronics behind, even this good stuff—same as the other four.”

  I nodded. This did indeed sound like the same offender. “Mind if I have a look around?”

  Yancey grinned. “The mayor pulled you in, didn’t he?”

  I answered by shrugging and began examining the place. Were there indicators of unique behavioral patterns? Anything else in the planning or execution of the crime that stood out?

  Nothing jumped out in the bedroom.

  In the living room, nothing appeared out of the ordinary at first. But then there, on the mantle over the fireplace…a break in the sequence of photos. A variety of pictures crowded the space—except for this empty spot.

  I sought out the house’s owner. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Lytle, but I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Was there a photo in that empty spot over the fireplace?”

  He frowned and strode over to the mantle to examine it. “Yes, there was.”

  “So it’s been recently removed?”

  “Yeah, but not by me.” He shook his head. “Damn. It was our most recent one. We just had it framed, too.”

  “Could that have been the work of last night’s criminal?”

  “I guess.”

  I rubbed my chin. “What was in the photo?”

  “Just me and my family. Why would a criminal want that?”

  Why, indeed? The fact intrigued me.

  I called over Yancey. “Look at this. Our perp stole a family photo. What do you make of that?”

  She shrugged. “Probably just grabbing stuff at random—anything he can sell for drug money. Who knows with these guys?”

  But it was my job to know. Perhaps Yancey didn’t think much of the missing item, but it struck me as odd.

  Over the rest of that day and the next, I followed up with the households of the other four victims. Turns out in every case, the offender swiped a family photo—the nice, framed kind you’d hang on the wall or display on the mantle. Home invasions are normally about collecting as much loot with as much street value as possible. Perps normally won’t take anything they can’t pawn. So why take a photo? It suggested this particular home invader had unusual motivations. My gut told me this deviation was significant, an important clue to this guy’s personality. I turned it over in my mind for a while.

  To qualify for a job in criminal profiling, you need a background in psychology. My background told me this guy didn’t fit the normal profile of a serial home invader, even though the missing family photos didn’t seem significant to anyone else.

  So what kind of profile did he fit?

  Many serial criminals collect trophies—a personal item from each victim—in order to vicariously re-live the crimes in their minds each time they view them. Sadly, this is often a hallmark of serial rapists and murderers. But seeing this behavior from a home invader was unusual.

  Was this serial home invader using these pilfered family photos as trophies? Did they represent a kind of exclamation point to the crimes, an extra surge of adrenaline? And most importantly, did the perp break them out from time to time so he could re-live the robberies in his mind?

  If so, that would imply the perp’s primary motivation wasn’t money. This idea was corroborated by the fact that none of the stolen goods had appeared for sale in the usual places, indicating that the criminal might not have unloaded it yet, even months after the first robberies.

  But if money wasn’t the reason, what else made sense?

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a head scratcher. Why expose yourself to the exceptional risk of getting shot or arrested during a home invasion without reaping the economic rewards of selling the stolen loot? What did the perp gain from the experience?

  These robberies didn’t seem to be some kind of coerced gang initiations. If that had been the case, the stolen goods definitely would have started appearing by now.

  So what else was left?

  I thought long and hard about what kind of criminal would see this kind of crime as a worthwhile enterprise. The only real gain I could see from the robbery was the thrill of committing it.

  A basic premise of profiling is that a criminal’s specific behavior, precisely how and why he commits his crimes, reflects his personality. What kind of person is a criminal thrill junkie? What kind of serial home invader gets his jollies from the robbery itself rather than the stolen goods?

  Then it hit me. I did know a type of person that perpetrated crimes more for the thrill than for anything else: the detached, high-society rich kid.

  You’d think rich kids wouldn’t be the criminal type, but you’d be wrong. They’re just as likely to abuse drugs and commit crimes as poor kids. Only the type of crimes they typically commit are different. Rich kids tend to cheat and steal money from their parents and friends. Strange, right? It’s not like they need the coin. It’s more like they’re trying to uncork the pressure their parents and society put on them to excel in everything they do. And believe me, when these parents aren’t putting in long hours on the job, they turn the screws on their kids to shine. And classmates are even worse. These upper-crust kids are caught in a perpetual competition where any outcome less than perfect is perceived as failure.

  Maybe that’s why this perp stole the photos. Every viewing would be a new opportunity to give his rich victims the metaphorical middle finger.

  My gut told me I was onto something. I asked the Atlanta PD for witness reports, interviews with the victims’ neighbors after the crimes. It wasn’t until the fourth victim that a neighbor two doors down mentioned seeing an unfamiliar gray Beamer parked on the street in front of his house the night of the robbery.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something. I
dialed up Detective Murphy, my liaison with the Atlanta PD on this case, to run the idea by him. “Murphy, this is Farr. I was thinking about the family photos, the missing ones.”

  “Yeah?” he said, waiting for me to continue.

  “Well, why did the perp take them? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Murphy chuckled. “This guy was just grabbing up anything he could. If it looked valuable, it went in his bag—including expensive picture frames.”

  “But he left behind electronics that were smaller and worth a lot more than picture frames. And he took a picture from every single home. I was thinking he may be a rich kid, one of those snooty punks who get in trouble ‘cause they have too much time on their hands.”

  “Couldn’t a rich kid just get money from his parents? Why would he need to steal stuff?”

  “He doesn’t need to. He wants to. And remember the BMW parked in front of the neighbor’s house? It didn’t belong to the homeowner or anyone he knows. It could have been the perp’s car.”

  “Seriously? You’re saying someone rich enough to afford that kind of ride is pulling off home invasions? C’mon man, you’re reaching.”

  “No, I’m just trying to understand what kind of person would consistently ignore valuable items but take relatively worthless pictures.”

  Murphy sighed. “Farr, you’re overcomplicating this. This is a string of home invasions just like dozens of others we’ve had over the years. We just haven’t found out where the guy’s unloading his merchandise yet. Once we do, we’ll track him down. And he won’t be a rich boy driving a BMW. He’ll be the typical drug addict looking for dough to buy his next fix.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I’ve got the chief breathing down my neck already to solve this. I don’t need to run off on a wild goose chase so you can look more important to the investigation than you really are.”

  “Fine,” I replied. “Good luck finding your druggie.”

  Disconnecting the call, I fumed. Murphy didn’t have the imagination to grasp the concept of this offender’s personality. To him, if a BMW didn’t look out of place in the posh neighborhood of the latest home invasion, it required no further follow-up.

  Despite my colleague’s skepticism, I still felt like I was onto something. Murphy’s reaction was probably just what the criminal was counting on. In the exclusive neighborhoods he robbed, a BMW would fit right in. He could saunter back to his sedan, and nobody would bat an eye. Clearly, I’d be investigating this possibility on my own, without Murphy’s help.

  Of course, my profile of this perp was all theoretical. I couldn’t prove anything. But the anomaly stuck in my craw, so I checked with neighbors up and down the block. No one owned a gray BMW, nor had they received visitors driving one the night of the robbery. So who did own it? A rich kid up to no good, perhaps?

  The next question: if I was right, how would I track this guy down? The gray Beamer was an obvious choice, but in a city the size of Atlanta, hundreds of cars matched that description.

  Time to look for a new lead, one that could narrow the scope of my search. The police investigators had searched for connections among the victims. Aside from being wealthy, they shared no common thread. But what about the victims’ children? Their teenagers, specifically.

  The initial investigators hadn’t collected any information on the vics’ kids, so this task fell to me. Imagine my growing excitement as I discovered that every family had at least one adolescent attending the prestigious Fitzroy Academy, a private high school with an annual tuition exceeding that of most private colleges. The academy lay nestled among the estates of Buckhead, Atlanta’s swankiest suburb—home to the governor’s mansion and ivy-covered manors of dozens of old-money families.

  This discovery not only helped focus the search for the BMW, but it also supplied a potential explanation for the robberies. Quite often, people in these upper-crust circles valued academic and, ultimately, material success above all. The landscape of their lives served as a breeding ground for narcissism and shallow relationships. And it removed the most important safety valve of pressure for all of us: true friendship. With those bonds missing, moving from shallow friendships to outright antagonism with one’s peers would be a small step. Possibly, the perp held a dislike for his schoolmates and was seeking his thrills in a way that exacted revenge. This concept was supported by the simple fact that one student could very well be robbing only the homes of other students.

  To prove this concept, I’d have to tread with the lightest of footsteps. Anyone sending their kid to Fitzroy had the kind of coin to hire a top-notch attorney. If one of their students truly was the home invader, I’d need to make as air-tight a case as possible before confronting him.

  First stop: Fitzroy Academy. I drove to the school and stopped at the main gate, a wrought-iron structure that looked to have been lifted from an English castle.

  “Can I help you?” asked a disembodied voice from a speaker on a brick column.

  “Decimus Farr, FBI,” I answered while holding up my badge to a security camera mounted just under the speaker.

  Electric motors pulled open twin gates. A forest-green lawn punctuated with an island of impeccably manicured ornamental shrubs sprawled before me. Across the expanse of landscaping, brick buildings peeked from underneath creeping ivy. The place looked more like a college campus than a high school. A long road meandered around the campus in an irregular circle.

  I parked and made my way to the front office. Once I flashed my badge and told them I was looking into a possible witness of a traffic accident down the street, they were happy to give me their log of students’ cars. Turns out only three students had registered BMWs, and only one of those vehicles was gray—a late-model 428i belonging to Evan Pritchard.

  Now to dig into the details of Evan’s family and school life while remaining as under-the-radar as possible.

  I arranged a meeting with Ella Tindol, Fitzroy’s guidance counselor, and kicked it off by showing her my credentials. “I’m Agent Farr with the FBI. I need to know about a student here as part of a case I’m working. Our conversation must be kept in strict secrecy, even from the rest of the school staff. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” she replied, folding and unfolding nervous hands in her lap.

  I’d have to trust her promise to keep our conversation secret. “I’d like to know a bit about Evan Pritchard’s background during his school years here.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?” asked the mousey woman, whose navy blue cardigan sweater looked a size too large.

  “Ma’am, you just promised to keep our conversation secret. I want to make it as easy as possible for you to keep that promise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If one of the students here is guilty of the activity I suspect he is, your principal and the school’s owners may come back and ask you why you didn’t give them a heads up. After all, you owe an allegiance to them, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t want you to get into hot water with the administration. It seems to me that the fewer details I share, the less the administrators will blame you for not passing them along. After all, you can’t pass along information you don’t have, right?”

  She exhaled and nodded again, shoulders still tense but a bit more relaxed than a moment ago. “What do you want to know?”

  “Has he gotten in any trouble during his time here?”

  She paused to consider the question. “This is just between us, you swear?”

  “Of course.”

  “Evan’s gone down the path a lot of kids here follow—maybe a little worse than usual, but certainly not one of a kind. Let me pull his file so I don’t get any of this wrong.” She swiveled her chair and retrieved a folder from a stately mahogany cabinet, then spread its documents across her desk. “He was caught using pot in the gym bathroom in the ninth grade. Then during his sophomore year, he was high in history class and had to be sent home. The parents nev
er followed up with me on that incident, but Mrs. Van Diver, our assistant principal, told me Evan had been using cocaine. Unfortunately, that’s not all that unusual here, either.”

  I could see more notes scribbled on the page in front of Tindol. “Go on.”

  “His junior year, he missed several days of school to attend court. This time, the family told us what was happening. He sold his mother’s rare coin collection to fund his coke habit. His parents told us to be on the lookout so we could stop him from stealing anything from the school and getting into more trouble.

  “And then this year, he nearly got kicked out after getting caught cheating on his SAT. But his father made a substantial donation to the school, and the school’s owners saw it in their hearts to let Evan stay.”

  “Speaking of his father, how much do you know about his family?” I asked.

  “Not much. They’ve only been in a few times. Oswald Pritchard, his dad, works for one of those big banks downtown. I don’t remember which one. And I think his mother is stay-at-home, although Evan told me once she’s not actually at home very much.”

  “I see. How would you describe the student body here? Competitive?”

  She rolled her eyes, an action that seemed out of character with her dishwater demeanor. “Off the charts. It’s all about what car you drive, what clothes you wear and smartphone you’re carrying, what college you’re going to, what your parents do, where you went for vacation.” She paused. “The kind of life kids lead here…it’s not normal. And I doubt many of them realize that.”

  Nodding, I stood to leave. “Thanks, Ms. Tindol. You’ve been very helpful. Remember…not a word to anyone.”

  Driving back to my HQ building, I pondered the conversation. Tindol had confirmed my fears concerning Evan’s home and school environments. His parents lived up to the rich-kid stereotype, putting pressure on their son to achieve while remaining emotionally and physically distant—not horrible people, but not what their child needed during his formative years. And to be fair, they weren’t the worst part of the problem. Fitzroy Academy’s environment looked to be even more destructive. Everyone from staff to students to probably that guidance counselor back there toed the “money-is-the-key-to-happiness” line. No wonder Evan eventually decided getting wasted was more fun.