Say it again!
She’s a bitch. A fucking bitch.
What else?
A cunt. A lying, coldhearted, baby-murdering cunt!
Various encouragements are shouted by the others in the chat; at least, I imagine them as shouts. I see, in my mind’s eye, that same group of men in that medium-size room. Some have faces contorted by rage, others are crying. All of them are shaking a clenched fist and shouting the words, again, and again. Bitch! Bitch! Cunt!
What about my personal favorite? I think.
I search and I find.
Whore. Someone has typed: Fucking whore.
I’ve always hated that one, even more than the sacrilegious cunt. I’m not sure why.
Leo types: God, I fucking hate her. I HATE HER SO GOD DAMN MUCH! I wish …
He stops typing, waits.
You wish what, brother?
“Wait a little longer,” Alan coaches. “Make him pull it out of you. Don’t be too eager.”
Go on, brother. It’s just us here. No one knows your face or your real name. Don’t hold back. What do you wish?
Leo types in a blur of letters: I wish she’d fucking die.
Silence. Then:
We’ve all been in that place. Don’t be ashamed. The first part of reclaiming your masculinity is being honest about your feelings for women. You know how you feel; they don’t. Don’t let them tell you how you’re “allowed” to feel, right?
I gotta go. Thanks.
Leo logs out.
“That was good,” I tell him. “Virtuoso performance. The hasty exit at the end was a good touch.”
“Conflicted and full of hate,” Alan agrees. “Just the right elements for a psychotic break. Hopefully it’ll catch Dali’s attention.”
James is signaling to me.
“I have to go, guys. Let me know when you decide to go back into the chat.”
“Will do.”
The connection is severed. “What is it?” I ask James.
“Earl Cooper is on his way over to see us.”
I stretch, trying to purge myself of the toxic mix of excitement and frustration. “Let’s hope he has something helpful to say.”
“I have some observations, but I’m not sure how useful they’re going to be.”
Cooper sits in one of our office chairs, relaxed but watchful. He twirls one end of his handlebar mustache.
“We’ll take what you’ve got,” I reassure him.
“Fair enough.” He settles back, seeming to collect his thoughts. “Much of geographic profiling is about the concept of a ‘mental map,’ the cognitive image we develop of our surroundings. This ‘map’ is developed via experience, travel, reference points, so on. We all have safe areas, zones we’re most comfortable or confident in, and those tend to be close to home, though not always so. You following?”
“I think so,” I say.
“It’s true often enough that the first killing is usually the most helpful when it comes to geographic profiling. I’ve interviewed a couple of bad boys who were correctly pinpointed by what I do, and I showed them how we found them. Each one said that it made sense. They killed close to home and dumped the bodies in areas known to them. They thought they were being clever, but when I showed them the facts, they realized that they were operating subconsciously within a very definite comfort zone.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “First-time killers haven’t been emboldened by their success. There’s a lot of excitement there, but there’s also a lot of fear. Staying relatively close to home would be reassuring.”
“That’s right. Travel to a foreign country and you understand the concept real quick: We’re most comfortable in familiar surrounds. Here’s an example: Which one of you has spent time around train yards?”
No one raises a hand.
“Well,” he continues, “in that case, if one of you was to kill a man—or a woman—it’s not likely you’d do it near the tracks. But one of the more famous cases of success in geographic profiling is the one I mentioned to you earlier, and it involved just that factor: All the bodies were found near train tracks.”
“You mentioned this before,” James says, sounding bored. “The perpetrator was a transient, right?”
“An illegal immigrant, actually, young Jim. It’s a simplistic example, but a good one for our purposes. You had a man in a country that was not only strange to him, it was hostile by default. If he got caught, he’d be deported. So he hobo’ed, traveled by rail. When he started killing, it was only natural that he’d do it by the trains.
“Now, back to the lecture. So we all, knowingly and unknowingly, develop comfort zones. They’re spatial, and they have degrees. You’re most comfortable in your own living room. You’re more comfortable in your backyard than your front. The local grocery store? Less comfortable than the living room, but you’ve shopped there plenty, so that’s all right. The place you work every day is probably fairly safe. You form a mental map, and when it comes time to commit a crime, that mental map comes into play. You’re going to consider the factors, control what you know: escape routes, what areas are most deserted, where does the light from the streetlamps end.
“Boiling it down to a greater simplicity, by way of example, let’s say we have two neighborhoods right next to each other. One is a white lower-middle-class neighborhood. The other is predominantly black and poor, with a higher crime rate. A white man gets killed inside the white neighborhood, shot dead on his green lawn behind his white picket fence. What’s the first assumption?”
“That one of the scary black people came over and shot that poor white man, of course,” Callie says.
Earl smiles. “That’s correct, little lady. What’s the likely truth, based on what I’ve been saying?”
“That he was killed by someone on his side of the tracks,” I say, getting it.
“Just so. Comfort zones.”
“All very interesting,” James says, conveying with his tone that he thinks anything but. “How does it help us here, now?”
“In due course, young Jim,” Earl says, seemingly unaffected by James’s misanthropy. Maybe he’s used to difficult students. “We consider other factors too. We look at the abduction site and the dump site. We examine the likely escape routes and see what that tells us about him. So on.”
I grimace. “I think I’m starting to understand why you said you might not be able to help much. We don’t know who his first victim was. The abduction sites were built around the victim, not the perpetrator. And the dump sites were chosen for effect, not convenience.”
Earl mimes tipping a hat at me. “That’s correct, Ms. Barrett. Add to that mix the fact that he’s operating in three separate states we know of and …” He shrugs. “Makes things a little tough.”
“What can you tell us?” I ask.
“A few things. First: He’s probably from the western seaboard. My guess would be Southern California or hereabouts.”
“Why?”
“The victims we’re aware of come from Los Angeles, Oregon, and Nevada. It’s a broad area, but it’s still a comfort zone of sorts. That’s why I say Western Seaboard. I’m thinking SoCal because of the victim in Nevada. A perpetrator living in Oregon is less likely to stray to Vegas as a hunting ground than one who either lives in or grew up in Los Angeles.”
“That actually makes sense,” James allows.
Cooper ignores him. “You said the perpetrator is probably driven by finance as the primary motive, and I agree with you. Then why stay out here, where real estate’s so expensive? It’d be cheaper to set up shop in the Midwest, the South, or some areas in the East. He probably tells himself he’s here because it’s a good victim pool, and there is truth in that, but I think he set up shop here because it’s familiar territory.”
“I can see that,” I say, warming to this line of deduction.
“There are other things we can ascertain in the victim dumps. In both here and Oregon, he left the victims near the police. One on
the steps of a police station. In Vegas, he left the victim on a side street. That would suggest he’s much more comfortable in California and Oregon than he is in Nevada.”
“Which means he’d spend more time there, meaning we should concentrate our efforts in those two states, right?” I ask.
He smiles at me, tips that imaginary hat again. “Yes indeed. It’s where he’ll be most predictable. He’ll stray away from the profile more in those areas outside his comfort zone.”
“But if that’s so,” Callie says, “wouldn’t that also be where he’s most likely to make a mistake?”
“You’d think so, but no. He’d be far more careful in unfamiliar territory, whereas he’d be more relaxed—however infinitesimally or subconsciously—in those comfort zones.”
“What else?” James ask, interested now.
“Prefacing all of this with ‘in my opinion,’ of course, I’d say that you can ignore all suburban neighborhoods. They’re too small and packed too close together. Neighbors want to know you and your business. I considered the woods in Oregon and the desert in Nevada but rejected those. I agree with the idea that he’d keep an eye on his victims while traveling, and that requires that he be on at least the outskirts, where Internet connectivity is still available.” He consults his notes briefly. “Business districts are a good choice, because people are by and large keeping their heads down. They don’t own a business zone the same way they do the space where they live, and so they’re less observant. It also would allow him to rent or buy the space he needs in the name of a business, giving his personal information another layer of protection. I considered warehouses, and while that’s still a possibility, I don’t think that’s how he’d go. Warehouses tend to be in out-of-the-way areas—good for him—but they also have a higher probability of being the victim of attempted burglaries or squatters.”
“Somewhere in between,” James says.
Cooper nods. “Just so, young Jim. Those side streets, away from the strip malls and the main arteries. Where they put the business parks and such. That setting would fulfill his needs for privacy while keeping him within shouting distance of the streets and freeways, which he requires based on his abduction pattern. He’s taken the victims we know of from what are essentially urban areas. That’s an uncertain affair, and he’d want to get them back to his lair as quickly as possible.”
“Urban areas seems so risky,” I say.
“Yes and no. People tend to be more observant in your residential enclaves. If he’s decisive enough—and it surely seems that he is—urban areas are better in many ways. You have the highways, you have the streets. You can get almost anywhere in Los Angeles, at the right time of day, within forty-five minutes.”
“That’s true,” James says. “He timed these abductions mid-evening, which would be after most rush hours.”
“Right again,” Cooper says. He shuffles through his notes, seems to find his place. “Here we go,” he continues. “He’d own the properties he’s using. He doesn’t want to have to deal with a landlord snooping around. The victim described concrete walls. That doesn’t point to office space, though I suppose he could have bought the building and put in some aftermarket changes.”
“That would leave a trail,” James says.
“I thought the same. If I were going to do it—and keep in mind that we’re in the realm of pure guesswork now—I’d buy a piece of land and build myself a small storage unit building.”
“Personal storage?” I ask.
“Just so. Build it, but don’t advertise, and make sure the front office is never open. No one thinks twice about places like that getting few visitors, or getting visitors at odd times of the day or night. They’re generally gated off, and there are places where you can pull a car in and empty it out without anyone seeing a thing. Security-camera placement isn’t unusual either.”
“Or climate control,” James adds. “More upscale places offer it as an option, for people who are storing climate sensitive belongings, such as paintings or books.”
“It does make sense,” I allow.
Cooper shrugs. “That’s where my road ends, I’m afraid. Not sure if it’ll help you much in the final analysis, and there’s more guesswork than certainty there, but you asked and I answered.”
I stare at the whiteboard, seeing it but not seeing it. My gaze unfocuses. Workmanlike, I read. Torture, I think. Decisive.
Something’s knocking, wanting to be seen.
“I know that look,” Earl says, his voice soft. “Whatcha thinking, Ms. Barrett?”
The vagueness coalesces.
“I’m thinking about a man with, so far as we know, a perfect record of abduction. He follows his prey, gets to know their routine, and then he swoops in and takes them cleanly. It’s something you said. He’s decisive. Confident.” I look at Cooper. “Trained?”
James responds first. “Possible. These abductions are precision activities. You don’t arrive at that level of competence naturally.”
Earl twirls his mustache. “Military? Law enforcement?”
“It’s just a thought.”
“That makes sense as much as anything else. Still guesswork, but good guesswork, I think.”
“We’ll look into it.” I hold my hand out for Cooper to shake, which he does. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the insight.”
“My pleasure. What’s your next move, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m going to talk to someone I know who could do exactly what our perp does without breaking a sweat.”
“He’s ex-military, I take it?”
“She’s an ex-something.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kirby comes into my office and takes a seat without being asked. She’s dressed in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and tennis shoes. She puts her feet up on the desk and smiles as she chews her gum.
“What’s up, boss woman?”
“I need the perspective of a professional.”
“Professional what?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me. Kirby lives in a state of perpetual unconcern, and, as usual, the only hint of what lies inside her floats transiently through her eyes. A certain watchfulness. A certain deadness.
“Operative. Killer. Whatever.”
She grins. “Oh that. Sure, shoot.”
“We’re chasing a guy who could have had some training. It’s just a theory, but I’d appreciate your perspective.” A hint of interest. “Tell me about him.”
I brief her on Dali. Kirby is technically a civilian, but I imagine there are times in the past that she’s had a security clearance higher than anything I’ll ever see. She asks no questions throughout, just listens, intent. When I finish, she leans her head back and stares at the ceiling, chewing her gum.
“Well,” she says finally, “I’d agree with your assessment that he might have had training. Smooth abduction in an urban environment, batting a thousand on not getting caught or noticed?” She nods. “That’s some highly effective activity. You could learn stuff like that in the Special Forces branches, though it’s always possible that he went directly into the private sector, like I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re really funny about women in those branches of the military. It’s the law, boss woman. No fems allowed. But I knew what I wanted to do from an early age, and if you’re really extra-special motivated to get that kind of training—the kidnap and interrogate and kill kind of training—there are places you can find it, for a price.”
“Like?”
“Central and South America. The Middle East. Israel. Shucks, right here in the good old USA. The CIA has a program or two, but you have to be a little bit too true-blue for my tastes.”
“Let’s say he did go the military route. How long does that take?”
She considers it. “Minimum of four years after joining, as an average. You have to be Mr. Perfect Soldier, be in tip-top shape, and pass various and sundry physical and psychological tests. Even t
hen there’s no guarantee of placement.”
“Which branch would be most likely to prepare you for abductions?”
“Who knows? The truth is, it could be any one of them, depending on how they’re tasked. Not to mention that someone in the Green Berets, for example, could always be cherry-picked for recruitment into the CIA.” She grins. “It’s all one big happy family in the end. Common goals and all that cool stuff.”
I think about everything she’s told me, factoring it in with my current picture of Dali.
“We know he’s been operating for at least fifteen years, probably longer,” I muse. “If he joined the military before he started his current ‘career,’ he’d be … what? Forty-five?”
“If he was lucky.”
“The question is, did he decide to get trained so he could become a criminal or did the idea come after his training?”
“From personal experience, people like Mr. Nut Job and me tend to know what we are from an early age.”
I cock my head at her. “You think you’re the same?”
“Pish. There’s no way he’s as good as me.”
I smile. “There’s more difference than that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. How are you so sure?”
“Two reasons. One, I trust you with my daughter. Two, you’d never do something like what was done to Heather Hollister, an innocent, a civilian, a mother. You have limits, Kirby.”
She assesses me with those oft-dead eyes. “Once, down in South America,” she says, her voice low and reasonable, a talking-about-the-weather voice, “the team I was a part of was captured by a group of paramilitaries. I’d been doing recon prior to the attack and capture, so they didn’t get me. One guy stayed behind to guard their rear.” A wink. “His mistake! I reached out and touched him, just like the old phone commercials. I needed him to tell me where they were, but, gee, he was against the idea, soooo … I pulled out his teeth with pliers until he changed his mind.” She grins, and I force myself not to recoil. I’m disturbed less by what she’s saying than by the lack of madness I see in her eyes. She’s lucid now, she was lucid then; Kirby is entirely present in everything she does.
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