Profiled

by Renee Andrews

  The back of her neck tingled. She’d never heard her first name from Paul Kingsley’s lips. A waterfall of goose bumps trickled down her arms. Grateful for the long sleeves of her pantsuit, she forced a smile. “I don’t fit the criteria.”

  “You’re blonde and you’re single.”

  She held up two fingers. “Two out of three. And I don’t plan on becoming pregnant anytime in the near future.”

  At his audible groan, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl, and I promise I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that. But if you sense anything, anything at all that doesn’t feel right, I want you to let me know.”

  “Deal.”

  Vickie Jones stepped into the afternoon sun and shielded her face from the blinding glare. Her eyes were ultra sensitive today and burned the same way they did after they’d been dilated by an optometrist, because she’d been crying for the past hour.

  But she hadn’t visited the eye doctor today. And the doctor she had visited couldn’t prescribe a pair of contacts to fix her problem. Matter of fact, there wasn’t a doctor in Macon who could prescribe anything at all to fix the problem of having her ex-husband’s baby growing inside of her. Vickie didn’t want to do anything to harm her child, even if that child was his.

  She’d gotten a raw deal from the divorce, but she could handle that. Her new life in Macon, away from Florida and her ex, was going okay. And the new job at the Waffle House helped pay the bills for her tiny apartment, but she didn’t know what she’d do when the baby came. Her weekly check and tips couldn’t support her and pay for a good daycare, and she wouldn’t put her baby in just any ol’ place.

  Digging through her canvas tote, a big cream bag stamped with the Waffle House logo, she located her sunglasses, slipped them on and walked the short distance from Dr. Weatherly’s office to the city bus stop. Typically, at least one other person sat on the wrought iron bench and waited for the next pass of the green trolley-like shuttle. Today, however, bare black metal awaited her arrival, and Vickie plopped her body, and her troubles, on the cool seat.

  Things would be much better if her mother were still alive. No doubt Omadee Cutter would’ve been thrilled about a grandbaby to love. She’d have been happy watching the baby while Vickie went to work each day, and Mama would’ve given the child more love than it could handle. Too bad the cancer took her last year. Vickie could sure use her Mama now.

  She sniffed, slid her fingertips beneath the big round lens of her cheap sunglasses and wiped her tears away. “Suck it up, Vickie. Crying isn’t good for the baby.”

  A cloud passed over the sun, and the instant shift in temperature made her shiver. A soft rain misted through the thick Georgia air and added the final punctuation to her miserable day. She released another full dose of pity tears.

  “Super.” Pulling her sweater together, she arched her shoulders in an attempt to keep the front of her body dry. Her pants were already a tad tight, due to the eight pounds she gained after her wedding day. She’d need maternity clothes soon. How would she afford them?

  “Here.”

  Vickie raised her head toward the deep male voice. She hadn’t even heard him approach. Then again, she’d been lost in her misery. In spite of the rain, the afternoon glare and her sunglasses cast his face in shadow, but she viewed the item in the hand he’d extended. A black umbrella.

  “Just press the silver button. It’ll open on its own. I believe you need it more than I.”

  She smiled. So there were some people in the world who’d help her after all. Things could get better, couldn’t they? “Thanks.”

  “I saw you leaving the doctor’s place over there.” He pointed toward Dr. Weatherly’s office.

  Vickie nodded, popped the umbrella open then lifted it above her head. “Do you want under here too?” The proximity required the two of them to fit under the dome-shaped shelter, but he’d given her his only protection from the increasing rain.

  “No thanks. I like the rain.” He sat on the other end of the bench and tilted his head heavenward as if emphasizing the truth of his statement. Then he looked at her and smiled, his face wet and his eyes friendly. “Not many people at the park today.” He nodded toward the city park nearby. “I guess the weather kept them away.”

  “I guess so.” She wished the trolley would hurry.

  “Dr. Weatherly is a baby doctor, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “You got a little one on the way?”

  Vickie nodded, sniffed and managed a half-smile. In truth, she’d always wanted a child, even if she wasn’t happy about the entire picture.

  “Your first?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” He leaned over and patted her thigh.

  Vickie fought the urge to jerk away from the physical contact. He’d given her the umbrella, after all.

  “No reason to be nervous, you know. No reason to cry. A baby’s a gift from God.” He moved back to his side.

  “I know,” she said, relieved to regain her personal space.

  “Have you told your husband yet? Bet he’s excited.” The stranger let rain mist his face.

  Vickie inhaled, then blew it out. “I don’t have a husband.” Might as well get used to saying it.

  “Oh.” The man seemed to care, the single word apologetic and his smile disintegrating. And she needed someone to care. Sylvia, the oldest waitress at the Waffle House, had taken Vickie under her wing, but other than her, Vickie didn’t have a friend in town. It felt good to know a stranger would offer kindness. She prayed she’d meet more people like him in Macon.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be all right.” She touched her belly, where a ten-week-along baby slept. Everything would be okay. Somehow. The man was right. God had given her this baby. “We’ll be all right.”

  Chapter Two

  One down, six to go, then this mission would be complete. They were all so stupid, the cops, the FBI, thinking they could stop the inevitable. Thinking they could prevent what had to be done, what he had to do. It wasn't as though it was his choice, after all. He followed the plan that had been set in motion long ago; he didn't start this, after all. Hannah did.

  Now the followers would start to understand. They'd know, and while they'd proclaim that it didn't make sense, that it wasn't a part of their existence, of the rules that they'd all believed and lived by, inwardly they would see the truth. Rules were made to be followed, and his plan ensured that they were, the best way, the only way. Too many of them had forgotten the wisdom of Brother Moses, the wisdom he’d shared before he too had doubted the plan.

  Like Moses, the current believers had also turned their heads and ignored the ones who didn't follow the rules. But he knew there were those among them who cheered his resolution to see justice served, to maintain that the power wasn't distributed to the sinners that hid their darkness beneath a veil of purity. They weren't pure. Hannah wasn't pure. She should have been pure; she should have been his. But she followed the darkened path, and she paid the price. Just like Cami Talton. And just like the other six, the ones who would be delivered to him at the appropriate times. Seven that would pay the price for the sins of so many. A shame he couldn't rid the world of all, but he was only one man. Still, he’d been selected to make a statement, to remind them of the destruction that would come to those who wrongfully take the power.

  He noted the people surrounding him in the Internet café. No one paid any attention to another coffee lover out to check his email and have a cup of strong java to start his day. He powered up the computer then logged on to the familiar site, noted the number of followers participating in an active session in the chat rooms. Did they suspect he'd returned? Did they know? And if they did, would they be grateful this time? Or would they slander him again for doing what's right? How many years would pass before they embraced the dedication he had to the goal?

  His generic screen name, TRUTHLUVR, blinked to l
ife at the end of a long list of similar pseudonyms filling the active chat area. He'd never entered a single message under the identifier he'd selected so long ago, yet he used it to lurk within the depths of the believers and to see how close they were to the truth. In the chat room, an aggressive discussion ensued regarding the return of the "Anti," their preferred reference to him during the predestined years. Anti. As though he was the opposite from all of them, rather than the same. Or rather, better than the same. He fulfilled the plan, reminded the sleepy town of Macon of a greater power and rules to be followed, rules that they embraced so long ago, back when they embraced Brother Moses and his teachings. Before he too went astray.

  He watched as another visitor to the site logged on and the new screen name displayed beneath his own. PROTECT&SRV had entered the chat room. Smiling, he relished the thought that he'd brought the high and mighty individual out of hiding once more. As if every believer online didn't realize that the one man on the Macon PD who had served dual duty as detective and suspect on the case had now entered their midst. "Welcome back, Tucker."

  Detective John Tucker thumbed through almost three decades of reports regarding Macon’s Sunrise Killer. Twenty-seven murdered women, or twenty-eight, if Cami Talton marked the beginning of another killing spree, which she did. John knew the killer had returned. And he had to end it this time for good. And for Abby.

  He flipped through page after page of documented evidence, autopsy reports, crime scene photos and pictures of each victim. All blonde. All pregnant. All single.

  The same signature. The same MO. And the same sick feeling in the pit of John’s stomach.

  Each woman smiled back at him from the page, but one pierced his heart more than any other. He moved through the six women of 1985, the seven from ‘92, then slowed his progression as he started through 1999’s victims.

  “Why, Abby, why?”

  Abigail Lynette Tucker beamed from the page and looked as beautiful as she had the day of the photo, their wedding day. The questions that had plagued him throughout the past fourteen years whispered through his mind once more.

  Was it a boy or a girl? Why hadn’t she told him she was pregnant?

  The police hadn’t requested a DNA test to verify paternity for the child, had assumed John was the father, since he and his wife had been separated for a couple of weeks when the murder occurred. But Abby started cheating well before they separated. She’d admitted it, even if she hadn’t acknowledged whom she’d fallen for when he’d spent his days and nights trying to capture the Sunrise Killer.

  While he put everything he had into sparing additional victims, his marriage disintegrated. Then Abby fell in love with someone else, got pregnant and became the perfect target to be murdered by the very killer John had been chasing. And then, as if his life couldn’t get any worse, the FBI profiler penned him as the perfect fit for their wanted man.

  Fourteen years had passed since the nightmare of 1999, and John still had to overcome the whispers, the memories, the suspicions. Even though the Feds never had enough to bring him in, that hadn’t stopped folks around town from talking. And it sure hadn’t kept them from dragging his name through mud as thick and unforgiving as Georgia’s red clay.

  He forced his clenched teeth apart and took a deep, cleansing breath. He’d made it through 1999, then 2006 and another set of murders and rumors, unscathed. But he’d also ended both years without apprehending the killer. This year would be different. One way or another, he’d put an end to this thing. One way. Or another.

  His phone rang, and he snatched it from his desk. “Tucker.”

  “Detective Tucker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Leon Hawkins.”

  John closed his eyes. Knowing that this call would come didn’t make the reality any easier. “Agent Hawkins, what can I do for you?”

  As profile coordinator for the FBI’s Atlanta field office, Leon Hawkins would deliver the news that John would, once again, have to work with someone who’d see him as the perfect depiction of a serial killer. Although he had expected Leon’s call, John had hoped the Feds would give him full reign this time.

  No such luck.

  This morning John had received the District Attorney’s direct order to send his list of potential task force members to Atlanta to be authenticated and accepted by the powers that be. The Feds had evaluated his prospects and were ready to get the show on the road which meant, he assumed, sending their own person, or people, to join his team. John didn’t know how he’d control himself if Stanley Carlton stepped one foot in Macon.

  Stan, a young, determined, egotistical jerk, had placed a glaring spotlight on Tucker during the 1999 murders. The FBI and Macon PD hadn’t generated an official task force that year, but Carlton drove in from Atlanta in his big black car and delivered his spiel identifying John Tucker as a manipulative, conniving killer. Then he left town, while John faced endless speculation.

  But Carlton couldn’t put Tucker with his wife at the time of her murder. He had an airtight alibi, meeting with the father of victim number three. John had watched the wind deplete from Stanley’s sails when the girl’s father corroborated his story.

  Tucker vowed never to forgive the guy for his part in that nightmarish year. Because of Carlton, he hadn’t been able to mourn Abby the way he should. He’d been too involved with proclaiming his right to be at her funeral instead of a four-by-eight cell. John attended the memorial, but the whispers and stares followed him, taunted him, haunted him. Yeah, he and Abby had problems, but he still loved her. And he’d wanted that baby she carried.

  In 2006, Stanley Carlton returned, and although his profile of the killer hadn’t changed, he didn’t put a name to the description. He even had the nerve to attempt an apology, which John accepted, even though he still wanted to wrap his hands around Carlton’s skinny neck and squeeze.

  “I wanted to verify the task force has been established.” Leon cleared his throat. “I know you sent a list to the other guys here, but I’d like a copy as well.”

  John punched a couple of keys on his computer and brought up the list. He would have sent it to Leon anyway. Hawkins wasn’t the enemy in this thing, far from it. Matter of fact, Leon Hawkins had been John’s main supporter in 1999, when Carlton had been ready to issue him a death sentence. “Sending it now.”

  “Fine. Hang on, and I’ll check it out.”

  John listened to Hawkins move around his office, then heard the phone rattle a bit.

  “Let’s see here. Captain Ed Pierce. He’s your chief for homicide and sex crimes, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Deputy Chief Lou Marker, Lieutenant Ryan Sims and Sergeant Zed Naylor.”

  “That’s it from the department.” John eyed the four names on his screen.

  “Same guys as before, minus Sergeant Brooks?”

  “Right.” John didn’t want to talk about Brooks any more than necessary.

  “He was there in ‘99 and 2006. Why not now?”

  “Transferred to Birmingham.” Of course Leon didn’t know the details. Most people didn’t. John liked it better that way.

  During the Sunrise Killer’s 2006 series, Ed Brooks and John Tucker worked side-by-side trying to identify the killer and clear John’s name. Their partnership forged a friendship for a time, until the end of the year, when Ed found the guilt too heavy a burden to bear and confessed his affair with Abby. They’d struck an agreement, John and Ed. Brooks would leave Macon posthaste without telling anyone what he’d done, and Tucker would refrain from killing him.

  “Fine. I’d rather keep the original group intact as well, and I feel you’ve got your bases covered, if you added the media personnel the guys up top requested.”

  “Lexie McCain has been assigned to the story and the task force.”

  “Lexie McCain.” Hawkins whistled. “She’s the best we could ask for. Good job, Tucker. I’d forgotten she moved down there. Gotta say, I always enjoyed her coverage of Atlanta’s ne
ws. The woman gets so involved with her stories that the public relates to her.” He paused. “She’s got heart, but she doesn’t hold her punches either. Excellent. I can’t imagine anyone who could do a better job.”

  “Me either.” John remembered the intelligent blonde and her interview with him last fall. She told John’s story in a manner both truthful and appealing. Since her piece ran, he’d noticed a definite shift in the public’s portrayal of his brief turn as a potential suspect. Thanks to Ms. McCain, he’d been redefined as a near-victim rather than a near-killer.

  “Sounds like you’ve got things moving well. I’m assuming you’re working over the weekend, correct?”

  “This is the killer’s weekend. Today is Good Friday.”

  Leon grunted. “Right. We used to get the day off.”

  “Yeah.” And John used to be as religious as the next guy regarding Christian holidays, and way more knowledgeable of scripture than his friends in high school, thanks to his father. He waited, knowing what came next in the conversation, but Hawkins remained silent. Tired of playing wait-and-see, he asked the million dollar question. “When’s he getting here? The profiler.”

  “Not a he, this time, John. She.”

  Tucker blinked, pressed the phone closer to his ear to make sure he heard correctly. “She?”

  “Stan Carlton is working a case in Miami, so you’re getting one of our newer profilers.”

  “They’re sending me a rookie? For this killer?” True, John didn’t want to deal with Stanley Carlton again, but he wanted—needed—someone who knew what they were doing. His task force still believed the FBI profiler had hit the nail on the head, even if the head Stan kept focusing on was his. Tucker hadn’t murdered anyone, but with all the reasoning Carlton provided, even John agreed he fit the bill. And if someone else in Macon also hit the mark, a profiler would help them find him before he killed again.