The numbers in the area would go up as the day progressed, and it’d be impossible to spot their killer in the midst of the crowds. Even if a man returned periodically, that wouldn’t produce a red flag. Most people who ventured to parks came often, which meant the cop in the car down the street was wasted effort. But it wasn’t Angel’s place to tell the police how to do their job. She didn’t catch the criminals; she identified the type they were looking for then let the cops do the rest.
However, in the case of the Oklahoma City rapist, she’d taken an active role even though that wasn’t included in a profiler’s job description. But the task force in Oklahoma City had approved her idea, agreeing that she’d be most likely to recognize their perpetrator and capable of handling herself in a dangerous situation. That time, the local police were on hand at the restaurant and at the ready for anything to occur.
This time would be different. She couldn’t inform the task force, because three men on the force were potential suspects. Lou Marker, Ryan Sims and John Tucker all fit the bill. Therefore, she’d called Leon Hawkins and relayed her idea, then Hawkins called Quantico. Now she needed to set everything in motion with the doctor. She’d tell Lexie later, after everything was set. No doubt her cousin wouldn’t approve. Lexie didn’t agree with lying or deception, regardless of whether it was necessary in the line of duty. Angel, however, hadn’t grown up with the same moral compass as Lexie, and didn’t have a problem with either. If God had wanted her to be good, He wouldn’t have let her life begin with her mother’s murder. And now she’d do whatever it took to catch a killer.
“Good morning.” A woman, whose nametag read Nita, welcomed her to the office. “Come on in.” Nita walked ahead of Angel through the airy entry.
“Morning.” Angel followed her then watched her disappear through a side door. The waiting room had peach walls, teal chairs and a television centered on one wall. Within seconds, Nita reappeared behind the window of the reception area, slid the glass open then placed a large white clipboard and a pink pen advertising mammograms on the counter. “You can go ahead and sign in. You’re a new patient, aren’t you?” She grabbed a second clipboard from a side shelf. “I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork regarding insurance, contact information, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, I don’t have an appointment this morning, but I do need to speak to the doctor for a few minutes.”
“Are you having problems? Experiencing discomfort?” Nita raised the pen.
“No, I need to talk to her regarding two of her former patients.” Angel displayed her credentials. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Nita frowned, put down the second clipboard. “Let me go ask if she can see you. Now would be a good time, since it looks as though our eight o’clock is going to be late.” She gestured to the empty waiting room. “I’ll be right back.”
Angel waited at the window, while Nita retreated down the hall and a second woman entered. She smiled at Angel, then booted up her computer. “Do you need help?”
“Just need to ask Dr. Weatherly a couple of questions.” Angel nodded toward the hallway Nita had entered. “I believe Nita’s talking to her now.” Might as well get on a first name basis with the nurses. Familiarity encourages conversation, and conversation equates to information. Angel needed all the information she could get.
“Okay.” She opened a side drawer in her desk and dropped her purse inside, then yawned. “Definitely need coffee.”
“Oh Mandy, if you’re getting some, will you bring me a cup?” Nita re-entered the tiny reception room they shared.
Mandy smirked. “Sure, but the next cup is on you.” She looked at Angel. “Want a cup? We have decaffeinated, if you’re expecting.”
Expecting? Angel fought the urge to laugh. Searching for serial killers didn’t leave a lot of time for relationships, let alone a pregnancy. And her brief infatuation with Agent Stanley Carlton had last less than a week. “I’ve already had some this morning. Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back, Nita.” Mandy headed out to get the coffee.
“Doctor Weatherly said she’ll see you now.” Nita dropped some files on her desk, then moved back to the side door to let Angel in. “Last door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Angel headed down the hall to find the doctor…and some answers.
After driving past Cami Talton’s and Vickie Jones’ homes, he spent a good portion of the night with Hannah and her lover. Telling them of his conquest. Informing them of what they had caused, what they still caused, so many years after their sin. He’d also spent a good portion of the night fuming at how the chatters on the Fellowship’s website had dismissed him. He accomplished the true goal with every kill, yet they didn’t care. Not even PROTECT&SRV. The Supreme One would be infuriated.
All in all, he had slept less than three hours, but he didn’t need much sleep. During a killing year, his body pulsed with energy, with adrenaline produced from the challenge and with the bliss of accomplishing his goal, a high he only experienced in the midst of a seventh year, when he followed the pattern and claimed the power.
He’d gotten antsy last year with that girl he met in the park. She’d been blonde, pregnant and single. And so pretty, the kind of woman who could tempt a man and lead him to sin, convince him to give her what she needed to gain power. But he resisted the temptation, even when she smiled and flirted and laughed. She’d wanted him. He’d known it as sure as he’d known that if he met her this year, if her baby had come twelve months later, she’d be dead.
That woman had married a month before the baby came, proof she wasn’t a chosen one. He’d been tested to see if he could restrain the impulse to kill before the right time. He’d been tempted, and he’d conquered the temptation. Another affirmation that he did the right thing.
His feet pushed against the asphalt, arms pumped and breath passed in and out of his lungs in a steady whoosh. As he did every day during his run through Central City Park, he counted his strides. Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Left, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Right...
The surge of excitement stirred in his veins. He pushed up the sleeve on his sweatshirt to look at his watch, but he knew what he’d see. He’d passed the thirty minute mark, and he began to experience that blessed runner’s high, the euphoria when endorphin and serotonin release and everything becomes clearer. More focused. More real. He inhaled, pushed it out, inhaled, pushed it out, increased his stride and enjoyed the ability to remember every kill.
Starting with Hannah and her lover, the screams washed over his senses as he progressed through the park. He listened to her voice, begging him to stop, and felt that surge of power from feeling her body grow limp beneath his. Then he killed her lover. He’d whimpered and whined like a toddler, pathetic and weak and useless.
Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Another kill, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Claim the power, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Claim the child, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
By the time he’d progressed to his most recent kills and remembered Cami Talton’s and Vickie Jones’ futile struggles, he’d been running for an hour and felt ecstatic.
Then he saw the car.
He’d noticed it before, but the morning sun had cast a glare on the windshield and hidden the man from view. Now, though, he saw the sole individual perched inside drinking from a Racetrac sixty-four ounce cup, the same kind of cup the car’s occupant drank from every morning.
He passed the vehicle and nodded to the guy inside, then continued around the track once more. On his next pass, he decided to let the runner’s high slide in lieu of gaining information. Slowing, he approached the car and grinned.
Officer Richard Barnes rolled his window down. “Hey, you realize all that exercise ain’t good for your heart.” Then he reached across the seat and lifted a white and green paper bag. “This here’s what you need to get you going. Cream-filled doughnuts. You want one?”
“Nah, I’l
l pass. The run gets me going.” He jogged in place and felt his pulse skitter at the sudden change.
“Well, you ain’t no spring chicken anymore. I heard about this fellow once who got so addicted to running and all that mind-numbing stuff it does, he had a stroke on the track and didn’t even realize it. You’re acting like you’re trying to kill yourself out there. You might very well have one of those strokes like I read about.”
Another grin. Nope, he wasn’t trying to kill himself, but he did remember a few kills with every pass. “I think I’ll risk it, and I’ll still pass on the carbs and sugar.”
“Suit yourself.” The cop lifted his Krispy Kreme in mock salute. “But I like my way better.”
“You watching the doctor’s place?”
“Yeah, but half the men out here fit the description.” He pointed to the surplus of individuals roving the park.
“I’ll say.”
Richard Barnes took a big bite of doughnut then used the back of his hand to wipe a dribble of cream from the corner of his mouth. “I told them this was a useless bit, but Pierce insisted. No sweat off my back, though. It’s an easy deal.”
“Yeah.” A long blonde ponytail caught his eye, and he turned toward Dr. Weatherly’s office. “Isn’t that the profiler?”
Richard nodded. “Don’t know what she’s doing here. Nobody told me she was coming, but I figure those government guys have their own agenda, you know? Maybe she’s asking questions, getting specifics about that other woman’s pregnancy.” He shrugged, then took another oversized bite of doughnut.
“I’m sure the Feds have their own plan.” He eyed Agent Jackson.
“The Feds usually do.”
“Well, if I see anybody looking suspicious, I’ll let you know.”
“Do that. But if you ask me, everybody out here looks suspicious. They’re all exercising. That’s crazy enough for me.” He laughed, then grabbed another doughnut. “See ya around.”
“Right.” He jogged away from the cop’s unmarked car, then progressed around the track, all the while keeping one eye on the blonde profiler climbing in her SUV. What was Angel Jackson doing at Dr. Weatherly’s? Why would she need to, since she’d talked with Tucker about the answers he’d already obtained from the doctor. The notable detective would have given her copies of the files he collected and all information the doctor had provided on Vickie Jones.
He jogged around the track a couple more times to cool down and think about Angel Jackson. Sure, she reminded him of his victims, but he wondered if there wasn’t more to it than that. Maybe her intelligence drew him to her, made him feel something of a kinship to the woman. In the four days since she’d arrived in Macon, she’d already produced a profile much more accurate than the last FBI guy’s depiction. Listening to her, he’d have sworn she could see his face in the midst of her notes. But she’d looked right at him, several times. And had been clueless.
He smiled at that. She could come close, but she’d never get close enough. No harm could come to someone setting about to achieve justice. However, he couldn’t deny that Special Agent Angel Jackson had caused the task force to look in the right direction.
A male, forties to mid-fifties. Correct.
Caucasian. Correct again.
Someone close to the case. He grinned. Oh yeah.
But she hadn’t narrowed it down enough to exclude the remaining men involved with the case. And almost every one of them also fit the bill.
“Nice try, Jackson.” He rounded another curve of the track. Squinting in the distance, he watched her black Tahoe pull out of the doctor’s parking lot. She’d go to the police station, where she’d slave over her notes and figures for the remainder of the day, and the remainder of each day until he killed again.
He’d been impressed by her mind, though, when she linked the religious aspect to the crimes. Lexie McCain too, for that matter. It’d taken the two women to realize there had been another kill that first year, and it’d taken the two women to identify each kill occurred forty days apart and always started forty days before Easter. They’d understood the importance of the numbers and the semblance involved with each.
You would think they’d understand that he couldn’t be stopped, that he served a purpose and had to reach his goal. But Angel Jackson and Lexie McCain weren’t that smart.
Right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Left, two, three, four, five, six, seven. What’s she doing? two three, four, five, six, seven. Need to know, two, three, four, five, six, seven...
Chapter Eleven
Angel pulled into the police station parking lot, cut the engine and sighed in frustration. Her trip to Dr. Weatherly’s hadn’t netted anything beyond what Tucker had already learned. The doctor had lots of patients, many of whom were blonde, single and pregnant.
Etta Green stepped outside the police station, lit a cigarette, then paced while she smoked. She nodded at Angel and darted occasional glances her way as though waiting for her to exit her vehicle and head toward the building. Angel would, but first she had to call the field office.
Fishing her cell phone out of her purse, she dialed Leon Hawkins and relayed the current status of the investigation, the same status as yesterday. She’d hoped that her visit with the doctor would at least provide a new lead to investigate, but her gut told her that past case history provided the best source of information they had now. Angel hated looking backward. True, studying the killer’s signature and MO helped, but she despised feeling as though the task force was on the defensive. She wanted to take control, turn the case around so that they were the ones that were proactive, rather than the killer. That’s the way cases were solved, like her previous case in Oklahoma City.
She finished her conversation with Leon, dropped the phone back in her bag then jumped when someone tapped on her window.
“You coming in?” Etta’s voice echoed loud enough to be heard through the glass.
Angel nodded, grabbed her things and climbed out of the Tahoe. Etta bristled with anxiety, and Angel assumed whatever the woman had to say had to do with the case. Maybe Angel would learn something new this morning after all. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” Etta squinted into the sunlight. Her breath had a hint of recent smoke, combined with peppermint. Angel saw the red and white striped candy pass from one side of Etta’s mouth to the other as the woman dropped her bombshell. “Rumor has it you fit the profile. I figured the best way to find out was to ask. So. Do you?”
Angel blinked. She fit the profile? “Our killer is male.” There were several other factors involved with the profile that would eliminate Angel and all other females from the scenario, but the obvious one seemed the best to relay in light of Angel’s shock at the statement. What kind of crazy rumors had been started?
Etta tsked, smacked the candy then waved a bangle-clad hand. “Not the killer’s profile. The profile for victims.”
“I’m not pregnant.” True, she hit two out of three of the killer’s signature criteria, but two out of three—for this type of methodic killer—wasn’t going to cut the mustard.
“That’s what I told him,” Etta shook her head with a frown, “but you’re going to have to get in there and tell them all yourself. See, with the way you tossed your cookies at the crime scene, you know, and then you went to the doctor’s office this morning. And we all know Tucker already checked out the doctor, so you wouldn’t be asking her the same questions, right?”
Angel tried to make sense of the disjointed monologue, while Lou Marker entered the parking area. He parked his patrol car, got out and nodded at them as he strode toward the building. “Nothing new this morning, huh?”
Angel shook her head. “Not yet. Something will turn up.”
He looked doubtful. “Any other news you want to share?”
“No.”
He gave her one of those bobbing head moves that said he thought she was keeping something from him, but before she could say anything else, he walked past them and e
ntered the building.
Etta waited until the station door closed behind Lou. “He’s heard it too. News travels fast in a small town. So, it isn’t true?”
“No.” However, Angel had contemplated a way to start that very rumor and then serve herself up to the killer as bait. Had someone actually helped her accomplish the goal? “Who said I fit the profile?”
“Elijah Lewis.” Etta’s tone rang with distaste. “He pointed out that everyone saw you get sick at the crime scene and that FBI folks should be accustomed to things like that, so you shouldn’t have gotten sick, which does make sense, you’ve gotta admit, though I hadn’t thought about it before. And then he said he saw you this morning going into Dr. Weatherly’s place, and we all know Tucker had checked out the doctor’s information and that he’d already finished with that, so why would you go too...unless maybe you weren’t going for the case?”
“I’m not pregnant.” Angel wondered how many people she’d have to convince before the day ended, thanks to Elijah Lewis. Who had he already told? And in a town the size of Macon, how long until the entire county knew? Not very long. “And for the record, lots of ‘FBI folks’ toss their cookies. We’re still human.” Although Angel had never gotten sick before at a crime scene; however, she attributed her response to the fact that Vickie Jones had been murdered by the same man that killed Angel’s mother.
“Oh well, you’d better get inside then and try to stop the wildfire.”
“Wildfire?”
“Captain Pierce. He said if there’s any way that you fit the victim criteria, he’s demanding they take you off the case.”
Profiled Page 18