ADAM STOOD BESIDE VALERIE and took her arm. “I’ll have no more of this!” she screamed.
“That’s enough,” Adam said to Goldman. He sat back down on the couch, lowering Valerie beside him.
“I’ll now present my personality profile of the subject,” Goldman said, his voice deep and entrancing. “But first I’ll explain personality profiling and what I look for.”
Dawn said nothing, but Adam sensed she was relieved the grilling was over. Adam looked around the room—all eyes were fixed on Goldman.
“It’s necessary to understand the thought patterns of criminals in order to make sense of the victim information and the crime scene evidence,” Goldman explained. “I actually try to think like the person to uncover his motives. But first I’m after the signature elements of the perpetrator. Considering this a distinct element from modus operandi will lead to the critical question of motive.”
“So what makes this guy tick?” Averly asked. Adam sensed impatience in Averly’s voice.
“I’ll get to that,” Goldman snapped. “I’ve spent over twenty years digging into the sick minds and emotions of killers, rapists, child molesters, bombers, and arsonists. Using this data, I have developed what’s referred to as behavioral profiling, the examination of every aspect of a crime to reveal particular behavioral patterns. With that as a basis, what emerges is a profile describing the type of person a particular criminal will most likely be.”
“Agent Goldman has interviewed some of the most notorious criminals in America,” Harrington chimed in.
“That’s right,” Goldman agreed. “Like Richard Speck, David Berkowitz or, as some referred to him, Son of Sam, Ed Kemper, and Charles Manson, to name a few.”
Adam watched Averly lean toward Carillo and whisper something, but he couldn’t make it out. Goldman heard it too and shot a stern look in their direction, lifting his thick eyebrows.
Valerie tugged Adam’s arm. “I’ve heard enough,” she said.
“Agent Goldman,” Adam interrupted.
“Yes.”
“My wife doesn’t want to hear this. I’m taking her upstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Goldman checked his watch. “Okay, but hurry.”
Adam returned in five minutes, and Goldman continued.
“I have read the transcripts of the two phone calls and listened several times to the tapes made of Sara Ann’s abductor,” Goldman said. “And I’ve pored over the various reports. I now have a twenty-two point profile of the suspect that I will present.” He cleared his throat. “I believe the abductor is a white male in his late twenties or early thirties, and possesses above average intelligence. He’s probably a blue-collar worker, most likely an electrician or electronics technician. He has to be mobile, so he has a driver’s license and a reliable car.”
“How can you tell all that from the reports and the audio tapes?” Wilkerson asked.
Goldman turned to face Wilkerson. “He’s probably white because these people usually attack victims of the same race. Not always, but very often so. An exception that I recall is Cleophus Prince, Jr., a black man whose victims were white females. The age because, mid to late twenties is when these sick bastards usually surface.”
“But you said he could even be in his late thirties,” Wilkerson said.
“I know I did, and the reason is I don’t think this is his first abduction. And from what I’ve seen so far, quite frankly he’s good at what he does. He may very well have been at this for quite a while.”
“How about him being an electrician or electronics technician? Maybe because he’s electronically distorting his voice?” Wilkerson asked.
“That’s correct. And I believe he lives locally.”
“In Cocoa Beach?” Adam asked.
“Maybe. At least in the area. See, these scumbags like to work initially in familiar territory. Gives them a sense of security. He may even own a large power dog, like a German shepherd or Doberman, also for security. But then they venture out, seeking opportunities in other areas as they gain confidence.”
“But you said he may have done this before,” Wilkerson said. “So he may not live locally.”
“I did say that, but I didn’t get to a related point.”
“What’s that?” Wilkerson asked.
“He may have moved into the area from somewhere else. I have a hunch he’s from out of state. Maybe lived here for a couple of years. He may even have a criminal record in another state, probably something related to assaultive behavior. But he’s no doubt checked out the area and his potential victims. He’s too damn good to be a beginner.”
Adam listened and thought about what this slick, experienced FBI profiler was saying. From what he could determine, Agent Goldman wasn’t giving a personality profile of just a kidnapper. Oh God no, this man could be a serial killer! I don’t know that. Just listen. Listen to what he has to say. Adam drifted back.
“He may have had one or more unpleasant childhood experiences,” Goldman said. “He could have been physically or mentally abused, or even sexually abused. And when I listened to the tapes, the tone and content of the voice I heard on them indicate to me that this person is asocial and obsessive-compulsive.”
“What do you mean he’s asocial?” Adam asked.
“Good question. The simple answer is he’s not a social individual, and lacks sensitivity to social customs. He’s probably a loner. This type of person will typically react to stressful daily events in a very abnormal manner. In other words, he can break down. At that time he would try to compensate for his own inadequacies through violent behavior.”
Adam stiffened. “What type of violent behavior?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“It’s difficult to say. But many times a real or perceived crisis in the offender’s life can trigger violent behavior, like kidnapping.”
Countless emotions chaotically bounced around inside Adam’s head. “Or like murder?” he asked, choking out the words.
“Possibly,” Goldman stated without hesitation.
Adam slowly looked around the room. Everyone stared ahead with deadpan faces, except Dawn.
“No!” Dawn screamed. “Don’t say that!”
Adam returned once again to the gathering in his living room after taking Dawn upstairs to her bedroom. He found Agent Goldman planted in the same spot in the middle of the room, tapping his foot on the thick pile carpet.
“I’ve asked my lab to run a series of tests on the letter from Sara Ann,” Goldman explained. “Spectral analysis will reveal any possible fibers and hairs, even fingerprints. Mr. Riley, I will need a sample of Sara Ann’s handwriting.”
“What for?” Adam asked.
“We have handwriting specialists. I want them to check the handwriting in the letter with something that we know Sara Ann has written.”
“I’ve already determined that it’s Sara Ann’s handwriting.”
“I know you did, so this will be a confirmation of that.”
“Okay. I have a letter she wrote us last year from Washington, D.C.”
“That’ll work. I also need some of her hair strands. You can get those from a brush.”
“Why do you need her hair?”
“For the same reason as the handwriting sample, Mr. Riley.”
22
ADAM THOUGHT HE HEARD whimpering. He stood outside Dawn’s bedroom, his ear almost touching her door.
“Dawn?”
No response, but the weeping stopped. Several moments passed. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. May I come in?”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m coming in.”
“Okay.”
Adam slowly turned the doorknob and cracked the door. He peeked inside. She was lying on her bed, her head on a pillow at the foot. Adam saw her red, puffy face before she buried her head in the pillow. He pushed the door open and sat on the bed beside her.
“Do you want to talk
?”
“No,” she said, sniffling.
“I heard you crying and thought you might want to talk.”
Suddenly a burst of tears came. Adam smoothed her light-brown hair as her sobs soaked the pillow. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Dawn rolled over and faced her father. She cleared her throat. “Daddy—I think it’s my fault.”
“What?”
Dawn blinked several times, tears shining in her eyes. “Sara Ann’s kidnapping.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Something happened last Friday.”
“What happened?”
Dawn propped herself up on her elbows but didn’t look up. “Sara Ann and I had a fight.”
“About what?”
She lowered her head further, silent again.
“Dawn, you have to tell me.”
She drew a deep breath. “Sara Ann came into my room last Friday night. She didn’t knock.” Dawn beat both fists on the pillow. “She should have knocked.”
“And?”
“She saw something.”
“What? What’d she see?”
Dawn coughed and finally looked up at her father. “Something she shouldn’t have, she should have knocked first.”
“Dawn, please. What did she see? You have to tell me.”
“A bag of marijuana.”
“Whose marijuana? What are you talking about?”
“Mine! It was mine!”
Adam reeled back. “Yours? You don’t smoke that stuff.”
“She threatened to tell you and Mom.”
“Wait, wait, wait. What’s this have to do with her kidnapping?”
“I hated her for coming into my room without knocking first. I told her bad things would happen to her.”
“This is crazy. You can’t possibly blame yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I was mad. I don’t hate her.”
“I know you don’t.”
Dawn’s face hit the pillow.
23
TWO YOUNG GIRLS in matching red swimsuits tried to climb up on their father’s shoulders, dunking him, as their mother sat on the edge of the hotel pool dangling her feet and laughing. Goldman tried to remember the last time he took his family on vacation. He wasn’t sure.
His thoughts drifted to the Riley family. He feared the worst for Sara Ann.
She was probably killed the first night.
So far every piece of evidence indicated that the freak he was dealing with was a serial killer. Not just a kidnapper, but an organized, meticulous killer.
This isn’t his first time. I know it. I can feel it. He’s too damn good.
The ringing phone brought him back to his hotel room.
“Goldman.”
“Doug, how are you? This is Wayne Chang. Hot down there in Mickey Mouse Land?” Only a slight Chinese intonation could be detected in his voice, mostly evident in his ‘r’s and ‘f’s.
“Wayne. What’ve you got for me?”
“Basically nothing. The trace analysis found no human hair or fibers. We also analyzed the glue on the envelope. It wasn’t self-sealing so we tested for traces of saliva. The perp was ahead of us on that one—looks like he used tap water to seal it.”
“I’m not surprised. Anything else?”
“We still need to do our latent print work. But that will require using a protein-sensitive dye to enhance any prints that may be on the paper. When we get the handwriting sample we’ll have the two compared by the Questioned Documents Unit. But I want to wait on that.”
“Why?”
“Well, there’s one other possibility, pretty unlikely it’s anything, but—”
“What?”
“Well, when I viewed the paper under the microscope I noticed some indentations. Imprints. It looked like some numbers, but I couldn’t tell. We know this paper came from a glue-bound tablet. So the numbers might be indentations from someone writing a phone number on the previous page.”
“So the imprinted numbers aren’t clear, that’s what you’re telling me?”
“That’s correct. But I want to try something.”
“Go on.”
“Before we use the dye to check for fingerprints, I want to use a device that might enhance the imprints. An ESDA. Have you heard of it?”
“I think so, but go ahead.”
“ESDA is an acronym for Electrostatic Detection Apparatus.”
“Is that the device that uses those tiny beads that can stick to a piece of paper?”
“That’s the one. We electrostatically charge the paper and microscopic toner beads adhere to the paper. If there are any imprints on the paper, they’ll show up. It’s much better than the oblique lighting method we used years ago.”
“When can you do this?”
“I hoped to do it tomorrow. But they told me the machine is tied up until Monday.”
“Monday? Bullshit! Not acceptable! We need the results now. See what you can do.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Call Rick Blankenship.”
“I know Rick.”
“Good, then call him immediately.”
“But I thought he moved over to full-time instructor last year.”
“He did, but he should be able to help us get access to the ESDA.”
“I’ll call him. Have you sent the hair samples?”
“You should have them in the morning.”
Goldman hung the phone up and sat on the side of the bed. He watched the two little girls pulling on their father’s arms in the pool. Monday. Son-of-a-bitch!
Adam stepped outside for some fresh air, walking to the end of the driveway. There had been a light rain earlier that left the asphalt damp. The aroma of night-blooming jasmine contrasted with the acrid smell of the wet asphalt produced a wonderfully paradoxical mixture.
Halfway back he stopped to check the sky. It was sprinkled with stars, and the moon seemed to dance with the sparse clouds as wind gusts rustled the large palm fronds. Everything seemed perfectly peaceful and normal. But this wasn’t his world. A madman was forcing him and his family to live in uncertainty and terror. As he headed back, the front door suddenly swung open.
“Adam.” It was Detective Carillo. “Your phone’s ringing. Hurry.”
Adam ran to the open door. His lean, muscular body quickly and efficiently covered the distance. “I’ll answer it in the kitchen.”
Adam raced toward the kitchen as Carillo headed for the living room. Adam picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Riley. I was ready to give up on you.” There was a pause. “I thought you didn’t care about your daughter anymore.”
It was the same metallic voice.
“Of course I care. I was—uh—in the bathroom.”
“Listen to me very carefully. I’m going to give you directions so you can pick up your daughter. Don’t interrupt me because I will not stay on the phone long.”
Adam’s heart raced. His stomach knotted with anticipation. “Okay, I’m listening.” He fumbled with the pen and pad of paper, not thinking that the call was being recorded.
“Go across the 520 Causeway and then head north on U.S. One to Scottsmoor. It’s about thirty-three miles.”
“I know where it is,” Adam said.
“Turn left on Summer Street and then another left on Huntington. Look for an abandoned house on the left with boards on the windows. It’s just before Huntington curves.”
“Is she in the house?”
“Shut up and listen or I’ll hang up.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a dirt road to the left of the house. It goes through a lot of bushes. Go down it about three hundred feet. There’s a path off to the right. Walk down the path and we will be waiting. God has chosen us.”
The phone went dead. Adam turned with the notepad in his left hand and saw Valerie and Dawn.
“What is it?” Valerie cried.
“Oh God!”
Dawn stood rigid, her mouth hanging open. “Where? Where is she, Daddy?” she finally whispered.
“Follow me,” Adam said.
All three headed for the living room where Carillo was talking on the phone.
“He beat the trace, but I have the directions he gave Mr. Riley,” Carillo explained to the sheriff’s department dispatcher.
He read the directions from his notepad and then said, “You need to send extra backup.”
“Yes, he may be out there with her.”
“I’m not sure what he’s up to. Just make sure there are enough deputies.”
Carillo lowered the receiver and looked over toward the three standing inside the living-room entrance.
“When are they going?” Valerie shouted.
“They’re on their way right now.”
“I’m going out there,” Adam said.
“No, that’s out of the question,” Carillo shot back. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t care.”
“Sara Ann may not even be there. It’s too risky. We’ll all have to wait here.”
24
DENSE THISTLE BUSHES scraped along the sides of the two sheriff cars as they crept down the dirt road. Four deputies, two in each car, cringed from the shrill squeals. The tires bounced in and out of the potholes that riddled the beaten path, rattling the cars and tossing the deputies about.
Four other deputies stayed behind. They staked out at the entrance to the makeshift road. After several minutes, two of the deputies who had been crouching at the entrance slowly rose and headed for the boarded-up house. Once inside, they inspected each room with their guns and flashlights drawn. They swept away cobwebs, and slowly stepped over crushed beer cans and empty fast-food bags, the hardwood floors creaked from their weight. The old house was abandoned.
After twenty minutes passed, the two deputies remaining at the entrance to the dirt road spotted a flickering light. The glint moved around in an eerie fashion. They drew their nine-millimeter Berettas. As the flashing light approached they lowered their weapons.
It was one of the deputies that had driven down the road, walking toward them with a flashlight. He got closer and shouted, “We found her!”
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