by Tim McBain
“But this guy… he cleans up. Bags them. Puts them in his car. Drives around. And then, instead of going where no one would find them, he dumps them right out in the open. Where everyone will see. He covets the attention.”
Loshak rolled onto his side, propping his chin up with a fist, and fixed his gaze on Darger, those lines smiling around his eyes again.
“But this is supposed to be your profile. Go ahead.”
And now the meat of it, she thought.
“I would expect him to have had a traumatic home life with a domineering maternal figure who likely abused him — physically and mentally — mother, stepmother, or grandmother. Possibly foster care. That trauma created and reinforced a narrative of him being worthless. He’s conflicted in his feelings about women. He’s attracted to them, but he hates that the attraction gives them power over him. He’s intensely afraid of rejection. He’s convinced, in fact, that almost any woman would reject him, and that idea is what fuels his rage. He has a totally warped sense of self. He thinks of himself as an outsider. Someone somehow apart from the rest of the human race. Unlovable.”
Darger was staring at a painting of a lighthouse hung next to the bed, not really seeing it, but looking through it.
“As I said before, he is not a sadist. He kills them quickly because a dead girl can’t laugh or cry or recoil in horror. A dead girl is his completely to do with as he pleases. They can’t reject him. They can’t talk back or spit in his face. He has total control. That is his fantasy.”
He made a face, squinting at her.
“What’s your background? Academically, I mean.”
Violet looked up from her notes.
“I have a Masters in Forensic Psychology.”
Had she made a mistake? She frowned down at her notes. No. Her profile was sound. It was based upon the facts of the case. No profile was ever 100% accurate, but she was certain hers wasn’t straying far from the standard.
“And at the Bureau?”
“I started in Victim Assistance. Sex crimes and human trafficking, mostly.”
“You left OVA to become an agent?”
She shrugged, affecting an air of coolness. Inside, she was anything but. She hated that this always came up, anytime someone asked what she’d done before becoming an agent.
“I liked the job, but I got tired of sitting behind a desk. I wanted something… more proactive,” she said. Not totally a lie. “Less talk, more… hunt down the bad guys. Maybe I was jealous of you agents getting all the limelight.”
He studied her for a moment and then gave a nod.
“You can go on.”
“I’d expect him to be socially awkward, even with men. Not necessarily a recluse, but no close friends. Maybe a few acquaintances he socializes with on occasion. Drinking buddies. Hunting trips or a bowling league. But all of his relationships are superficial. No one really knows him. Though anyone that has spent any amount of time with him probably would have witnessed at least a few incidents of impulsiveness. Outbursts of anger. Violent behavior. These events would be perceived by his peers as out of character. Especially because his so-called normal demeanor is usually extremely controlled.”
Paper rustled as Darger brushed a page out of the way.
“Military experience is possible. The power and respect would appeal to him. If so, it likely ended in dishonorable discharge as he fails to get along with authority figures. He probably works a menial job that he considers beneath him and—”
Loshak interrupted a third time to go vomit. When he came back this time, Violet couldn’t ignore it any longer.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“For food poisoning? It’ll resolve itself.”
Loshak laid an arm over his eyes, possibly an attempt to block out the light from the bedside lamp.
“And how long has this so-called food poisoning been going on? Quantico has been trying to get in touch with you for days. Food-borne illnesses generally run their course in 24 hours.”
He peeked at her from under his arm.
“You didn’t mention you were an MD.”
“I’m not.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
There it was. A touch of the prickly disposition she’d anticipated. Still, she’d expected him to push back more, to challenge her. Maybe it was the sickness keeping him docile.
“Now what’s your take on his method of collection?”
“Collection?” she repeated, not sure what he meant.
“How he chooses the girls. How he takes them.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess that depends on what we think of the interviews with Sierra Peters.”
“Pretend we don’t have a supposed witness. What would you guess, based on the rest of the profile?”
Violet scratched at the back of her head. She was winging it now. Most of her profile had been put together as she walked the crime scenes, and at that point, she’d been taking the legitimacy of Sierra’s story for granted. The ground beneath her feet suddenly felt less solid.
“This is based on gut instinct more than fact—”
“Every profile is, don’t you think?” he asked.
“I guess.”
Violet chewed a fingernail.
“There are two options, really,” Loshak said. “Is it random? He sees a girl walking down the street and just grabs her? Or does he watch them a while? Figure out their patterns. Wait ‘til they’re alone.”
“I don’t think it’s random.”
“Me neither,” he agreed.
Loshak crossed one ankle over the other.
“And what about getting them in the car? Ambush? Or finesse?”
Darger thought for a second.
“If he talks them into the car, that suggests some sophistication — he’s confident in his ability to get what he wants with words.”
She thought of Ted Bundy and Charles Sobhraj, charming and conning women to get close. Ed Kemper made himself seem unimposing and dorky to disarm women, despite the fact that he was 6’9” and 300 lbs.
“But if he threatens them with a weapon, or maybe drugs them before they know what’s happening, that’s different. Forcing someone into a car — even if he incapacitates them or points a gun at them — is still risky on his part. Some of them are bound to scream or try to put up a fight. It could be that he gets off on the use of force. Or he might lack the confidence to try subtler means.”
“If. You said ‘if’ before both scenarios. Which is it?”
She sighed.
“My gut says he does something to catch them off-guard. A con of some kind. Maybe he’s able to talk some of them into the car. I could buy that with Cristal and Sierra. Maybe Katie. But not Fiona.”
Loshak pinched the bridge of his nose and fell silent for a moment. Darger wondered if he was going to throw up again. When a minute passed by with no further expulsions or conversation, Darger cleared her throat.
“Speaking of Sierra Peters. What do you think of her statements?”
Loshak grunted.
“Hard to say. She contradicts herself so many times. Makes it almost impossible to decide what might be true. I’m disposed to ignore all of it for the time being. It’s a shame, too. Having a failed abduction attempt could have been a real boon. That’s what got Bundy caught. The first time, anyway.”
“Even with what she said about the pool?” Darger asked.
“The what?”
“Have you seen the video of the second interview? Or only the transcript?”
Loshak lifted his head, frowning at her.
“The transcript. You got video?”
Darger held up a finger.
“I’ll be right back.”
She hurried next door, grabbing her laptop bag from the bed. In the mirror over her motel room’s dresser, she noticed the manic, gleeful look on her face. Violet reminded herself that three girls were dead. She’d do well to curb her enthusiasm.
Back in Loshak’s room, she skipp
ed to the end of the video and cranked the volume.
SIERRA: I think there was a pool nearby.
DET. JANSSEN: A pool? Why is that?
SIERRA: I don’t know. A feeling I guess.
DET. JANSSEN: And you just remembered this now?
SIERRA: I just… got a flash of it. In my head.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” Loshak said.
“I’m assuming the fact that they found traces of bleach on the bodies was held back from the media?”
Loshak bobbed his head once.
“Then she’s telling the truth,” Darger said, her voice coming out a bit more excited than she’d intended. So much for curbing her enthusiasm. “What are the odds she’d randomly guess that? She didn’t smell a pool. She smelled the bleach he dumps on them.”
Loshak was still staring at the screen, the blue tinted light from the TV reflected in the wetness of his eyes.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he said. “I’m just saying, she didn’t specifically say she smelled it.”
Darger chewed her lip again.
“What?” Loshak said.
“What if that’s why he took Fiona Worthington? Sierra was who he really wanted, but she got away. He was angry. Impulsive. Lashing out. And he happens to see Fiona jogging by. That could be why she doesn’t fit the victim profile as well.”
Loshak pondered the ceiling for a while.
“It’s possible. But your theory relies heavily on a girl known for telling stories.”
“That’s why I want to talk to her,” Darger said. “I think I might know why she changed her story.”
This finally snapped Loshak out of his trance. He ruffled a hand through his hair again and snorted, half-amused.
“Just what every junkie wants, right? A house call from a federal agent.”
Chapter 7
Their task tonight may be to watch for a serial killer, but all McAdoo wanted, for the moment, was to open his damn snack cake.
The wrapper on the Honey Bun crinkled as Officer Dan McAdoo’s pudgy fingers worked at it. He grit his teeth, pulled with all his might. The oblong food item quivered in the open space between his hands, but the plastic sleeve wouldn’t budge.
“Piece of shit thing,” he muttered under his breath.
He swiped the back of his hand at his brow. Despite the night’s chill pressing at the windows, it was warm in the car. Stuffy. He took a breath and went back to it.
The bun shifted in his hands, hammy palms mashing the icing to the plastic as he tried again. With the amount of force he was applying, he couldn’t help but picture the wrapper shredding apart all at once, the Honey Bun somersaulting out and belly-smacking the floor mat. Instead, the stupid thing just shook like mad and rasped out that cellophane sound.
His partner, Officer Chuck Novotny, was his opposite physically — tall and bony with a long face that was almost 50% nose. He watched the portly cop from the driver’s seat, jabbing his gums with a toothpick, something between a grimace and a smile pulling on the corners of his mouth. His face couldn’t seem to decide if it was amused or disgusted by what he was seeing — a grown man fighting like hell with a snack cake and somehow losing.
“Give it,” Novotny said finally.
“Huh?”
The crinkle of the plastic ceased.
McAdoo turned to look at his partner as the man spoke, breaking eye contact after a moment to watch as the toothpick bobbed with every syllable.
“Give me the damn thing.”
Novotny put his hand out, and McAdoo’s eyes drifted from the toothpick to the outstretched palm, hesitated there a beat, and flicked to the Honey Bun pinched in his fingers. He stared at the oval of cake for a long time before he handed it over.
“Something’s wrong with this piece of shit thing.”
Novotny had snatched it and popped the top of the package open before McAdoo had even finished his sentence. He shook the opened Honey Bun, the rich aroma of artificial flavors filling the vehicle, and McAdoo plucked it from his hand, lips twittering as though mumbling something to himself without sound.
“You’re welcome,” Novotny said.
They fell quiet again as McAdoo peeled away the plastic and bit the snack cake. The pudgy cop tried to think of something — anything — to say as he chewed. He hated the quiet. It made the time go slower, he thought. He came up empty, though. Maybe they’d talked themselves out over the past several nights.
Novotny spoke up then, mercifully shattering the silence.
“Tonight’s stakeout was brought to you by the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said.
McAdoo chuckled. They both knew that they were out here because of Loshak. The agent had impressed upon the Chief how certain he was that the perpetrator would return to one of the dump sites. Apparently these sickos did that on a regular basis. So here they were. Bored. Constantly either too hot or too cold. Shoving junk food into their mouth holes all night.
They’d set up shop in the parking lot of an apartment complex across the street from the Burger King where the most recent body had been found. They were tucked back in the shadows pretty good, their car nestled among the sedans and mini-vans of the people who lived in the building, but they had a clear view.
Both officers sported plainclothes, of course, and they sat in Novotny’s Mustang rather than their standard cruiser. McAdoo decided to wear his holster since that wouldn’t blow their cover so long as he stayed in the car, but he found himself unable to get comfortable with the gun in these bucket seats. Everything was so much smaller and more narrow than what he was used to in the cruiser. It didn’t make much sense to him, but no matter which way he shifted, the gun kept digging into his hip.
Novotny switched out his toothpick, replacing it with a wad of Skoal from the hockey puck sized can he’d removed from his breast pocket. With the tobacco secured in his bulging lip, he lifted the binoculars to his face, and McAdoo followed his gaze. They looked at the Burger King across the street. The image of that bloody bag of body parts flashed in the portly cop’s head, but the lot was empty. Dark.
“See anything?” McAdoo said, his mouth full of snack cake.
“Nope.”
“Think he’ll come back?”
McAdoo tried to sound nonchalant as he asked, but he was pretty sure his chalant was showing nevertheless.
“FBI people sure seem to think he will,” Novotny said with a shrug.
McAdoo stopped himself short of asking, “What if they’re wrong?” It would have been a silly thing to say, he knew. Between the two of them, Novotny and McAdoo had worked 11 years at the Athens Police Department. Neither of them had witnessed a homicide scene in real life before all of this, let alone worked a serial murder case. Special Agent Loshak knew more about violent crime than he would in 10 or 20 lifetimes working this jurisdiction.
“So they really do that?” McAdoo said after a lull. “Go back to the scene, I mean. That’s, like, a thing?”
“Oh yeah,” Novotny said, bringing the binoculars down to his lap. “Ted Bundy used to go back up into the mountains to his dump sites and sleep with the dismembered bodies.”
McAdoo paused mid-chew, suddenly less interested in the second half of his Honey Bun.
“For real?”
“Yep. Used to jerk off into their mouths and stuff. He had problems.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Where was that at? Somewhere way out west, right?”
“Washington state. Utah. Colorado. A couple in Florida, too. Maybe three.”
“Yeah. So pretty far from here.”
Novotny’s head swiveled to face his partner, and he locked eyes with him.
“You think it doesn’t happen around here? Ohio had one of the first famous serial murder cases. The Cleveland torso murders.”
McAdoo’s mouth suddenly seemed very dry.
“Torso?”
Novotny tilted his head and squint
ed, narrowed eyes still focused on his partner.
“Yeah. Torso. Please tell me you’re not asking what a torso is.”
“No. I just… I mean, I didn’t know if that’s what you said, or…”
“I said torso murders. Cleveland, Ohio. Twelve vagrant victims. Dude beheaded them while they were still alive, then cut off the arms and legs and dumped ‘em. They never found about half of the heads as a matter of fact. I think he emasculated some of the male victims, too. Cut their junk right off. Snip-snip.”
Novotny scissored his index and middle fingers a few times as he finished his thought, chuckling a little at his sound effect.
A sigh escaped McAdoo’s nostrils like he’d sprung an air leak.
“Jesus, man. Who would do something like that?”
“Don’t know. They never caught the guy. Investigation dragged on for years.”
The Honey Bun sank as McAdoo let his forearms fall to rest on his legs. What the hell were they talking about? What the hell were they doing out here at all?
“This is so morbid. Remember when our job was handing out fix-it tickets for people with busted out taillights?” the fat one said. “Now we’re staking out a goddamn serial murder scene. A goddamn Burger King where they found a goddamn dismembered girl in a garbage bag.”
Novotny lifted a styrofoam coffee cup to his face and spit tobacco juice into it, nodding as he did it.
“Yep. I remember it well. But someone has to do the job, my friend. Some psycho wants to hack up a bunch of girls and shove the pieces into garbage bags? Well, someone has to stop ‘em. That’s the police, right? And that’s us. We’ll get the piece of shit.”
They were quiet for a while. McAdoo watched the shadows over the empty Burger King lot. The lights inside the building were on for anti-theft purposes, of course, but the big orange and red sign held dark. He could picture the killer swathed in half-light, struggling to get the bloody bag over the lip of the dumpster. His shoulders quivered a little when he thought of it.
“But those Feds,” Novotny said, interrupting the vision. “They ain’t real police. Always remember that.”
McAdoo thought about this notion, couldn’t make much sense of it.