by Meg Gardiner
Emmerich considered it. “Write it up for presentation.”
“Yes, sir.” She took a beat. “His narcissism convinces him he’s superior to the world. If we tell him we’re on his trail, we might puncture his sense of invincibility. That might spook him into backing off.”
Emmerich nodded. “And we may shake loose some leads. Time to get proactive.”
12
At eight A.M., the detectives’ room filled with uniformed deputies and detectives in jeans and polo shirts. A weak sun slatted through the venetian blinds. On the board, the Polaroids of women in white looked like a congress of the dead.
Chief Morales swept in. “Listen up. These FBI agents have information on who we’re dealing with.”
Emmerich thanked him. His white shirt was crisp and starched, his cheeks pink from a fresh shave. He looked focused, as though he planned to waste not one syllable.
“A single perpetrator abducted the missing women and killed the two victims who were found yesterday,” he said.
A deputy blurted, “A serial killer.”
“Yes.”
The collective intake of breath sucked air from the room. Emmerich gave Caitlin a nod. She passed out copies of the two-page profile of the UNSUB she’d written up overnight.
White male, early-to-late thirties. Some college education. Employed at a white-collar job, possibly in sales. Will have a wife or girlfriend.
She walked to the front of the room. It was her presentation. She took a breath.
“He lives within fifty miles of Solace,” she said, “in a detached house with landscaping or trees that provide privacy. He drives a vehicle that’s large but won’t stand out. He needs it to transport his victims but doesn’t want it to be memorable. It’s probably an American make, muted in color, and may have tinted windows.”
She told them about the kidnapping kit he would likely keep in the vehicle. Officers flipped through the profile. Some took notes. Caitlin felt caffeine and nerves kicking in.
“The UNSUB hunts between ten P.M. and one A.M. Darkness allows him to slip nearly unnoticed into neighborhoods and position himself at vantage points where he can observe and select his victims. Unlit side roads, tree-covered plazas, hallways, and even rooms that are dark in contrast to the victims’ location.”
Tight faces turned to her.
“He’s taking risks. Abducting women in public places. Darkness negates some of that risk, but not all.” She turned to the map of Texas tacked to the board and tapped the I-35 on-ramps that the UNSUB had used to fade away with his victims. “His ability to gain control over victims without drawing attention to himself, and the way he escapes the crime scene so quickly, indicate planning and composure.”
A detective at the back said, “Does this mean he’s an organized killer?”
“It indicates a methodical approach.” She paused and considered her words. “The FBI has backed away from classifying offenders as ‘organized’ or ‘disorganized.’ Those terms describe an UNSUB’s psychological makeup and the way they commit their crimes. ‘Organized’ implies offenders who are socially adept, often have above-average intelligence, and show indications of order before, during, and after a crime. They often conceal victims’ bodies. They’re calm and relaxed after committing murder. And their victims are most often strangers—targeted because they’re in a particular place or have certain characteristics.”
She glanced at the photos of blond women on the board. Everybody did.
“‘Disorganized’ implies offenders who are socially inadequate and sexually incompetent. Who kill when they’re distressed and confused—acting suddenly, with no plan to evade detection. Leaving victims where they’re killed. Not attempting to conceal the body,” she said. “But the categories aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s not a dichotomy—more a continuum. So we don’t classify this UNSUB as organized.” She took a beat. “But he certainly shows signs of order and control.”
“So, this guy is Mr. Chill?” Detective Berg said.
“He kills out of rage, displacing his anger onto proxies for someone who injured him emotionally. Killing provides him with emotional and sexual gratification,” she said. “He takes possession of his victims. These women are objects to him. Not fully human. In his mind, in fact, he’s the only human being on the planet.”
“Gratification,” a deputy said.
She nodded. They’d received the autopsy results on Shana and Phoebe.
“He sexually assaults his victims, then kills them. Then he lays the bodies out in a way that suggests he revisits them after death.” She looked at her notes instead of the deputies. “I’m not saying that he’s a necrophile. But dressing and grooming the bodies provides satisfaction. He wants to prolong the excitement of the kill. He’s not dumping them. He’s preserving them. As his.”
A sick silence hung in the air.
“Why the nighties?” Chief Morales finally asked.
“A fetish, a memory—something makes him associate the negligees with sexual desire.” She looked at the photo of Phoebe Canova’s body. “The makeup—he’s probably attempting to restore a semblance of life and obscure signs of decay. Again, trying to extend the illusion as long as possible. And maybe making them up to resemble a particular woman.”
Morales began to pace at the back of the room.
The deputy shook his head. “Psycho.”
Caitlin turned to the photos on the board. “The killer is increasingly confident. The first victim, Kayley Fallows, left the Red Dog Café and walked down a dark street. The UNSUB had copious cover from which to observe and attack her without the risk of being seen.”
She pointed at subsequent photos. “Heather Gooden disappeared while walking fifty yards between her college dorm and a coffeehouse. He had a narrower window of opportunity and acted with increased boldness. Then he took Veronica Lees from the movie theater. Still greater confidence and sophistication—multiple opportunities for customers and staff to see and remember him. Video cameras. A narrower window of time to gain the victim’s trust and gain control over her.”
“And all in plain view,” Berg said. “Was he showing off?”
“No. But his previous successes gave him the assurance that he could succeed. That he could act with impunity.”
“I think he’s on the theater’s CCTV,” Berg said.
“There’s a high probability he was captured on video—if he entered the multiplex through the front entrance. Presuming none of the emergency exits were propped open or the alarms disabled,” she said. “We’re working on it.”
Berg nodded and pointed at the photo of Phoebe Canova. “An even higher-risk abduction. Main Street, in plain view, while a pickup idled forty feet away. Now he’s showing off.”
“Agreed.”
Caitlin moved on to Shana Kerber. She tapped the young mother’s photo. “This is the boldest abduction yet. Entering the victim’s home, where he would normally be at a disadvantage and more likely to leave forensic evidence. But he got away.”
A deputy in the back said, “So what’s he look like?”
“Ordinary. Well dressed, in clean, neat clothes. Maybe attractive. He blends in.”
“No facial tattoos.”
“No. This UNSUB appears deliberately nonthreatening.” She straightened. “But he has a predator’s instinct for people who are vulnerable. He catches women when they’re distracted, or in a rush, or half asleep. He’s skilled at seizing opportune moments to take advantage of others.” She paused a second. “Think about people you know who have that skill.”
“You think we know this guy?” a deputy said.
“Lots of people do.”
The deputies shifted, disconcerted.
Emmerich spoke up. “This UNSUB is mobile, he’s confident, and from the Polaroids, we know the murders in Solace aren’t his first killings. You shoul
d investigate other disappearances along the I-35 corridor. It’s his hunting ground.”
Berg nodded at the map. “I-35 runs near five hundred miles through Texas.”
“And another thousand miles north to Duluth, Minnesota. But Texas is a place to start.”
Caitlin panned the room. “This man is dangerous and driven, and unless we stop him, he’s going to kill again.”
Berg’s frown was challenging. “What are you going to do?”
Emmerich said, “We’re going to hold a press conference with the chief. And see if anybody out there has any information.”
Morales raised his chin. “Somebody knows this son of a bitch. We’re going to find him.”
13
Television news crews crowded the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s station. They came from Austin and San Antonio, along with print reporters and photographers, a stringer from AP, local bloggers, and two dozen Solace citizens. Grim and purposeful, Chief Morales spoke into a thicket of microphones. He confirmed the deaths of Shana Kerber and Phoebe Canova and emphasized that the department was urgently seeking the suspect, probably a white man in his thirties. Behind him, Caitlin stood beside assembled deputies, detectives, and the FBI team.
Morales finished speaking. “I’m going to turn the microphone over to Special Agent Brianne Rainey of the FBI, who has more information.”
Rainey stepped up. Her black coat was sleek, her braids swept back into a chignon. She looked as sharp as an arrow. “We believe the man who has committed these murders lives along the I-35 corridor between Austin and San Antonio. He’s part of the community. People know him. They work with him.” She scanned the assembled media. “There will be signs that he’s committing these crimes. He may go out unexpectedly on Saturday nights. He may leave and return without explanation, or with an implausible explanation. If you recognize a man who fits this description, please contact the sheriff’s department.”
She made eye contact with every journalist, then looked into the cameras. “This offender scouts potential victims ahead of time. He watches women at home and at work before choosing an opportune moment to attack. If you’ve seen anybody in your neighborhood or on the street who seems out of place—somebody watching a house, or a business, somebody who doesn’t belong—please contact law enforcement.”
Reporters scribbled. The TV people held out their microphones.
“If you feel like you’ve been watched, or if you’ve been approached by a man seeking assistance or asking you to accompany him somewhere, call the sheriff’s office. Your vigilance can help apprehend this killer.”
Morales handed Rainey several eight-by-ten photos. They were photocopies of Polaroids found around Phoebe Canova’s body in the forest. Jane Does. Rainey held them up.
“We’re appealing for your help to identify these three women.”
A deputy passed out copies. Behind him, Caitlin and Emmerich stood silently, props for the press.
“Questions?” Morales said.
Caitlin, without moving her lips, whispered, “Here we go.”
The Austin TV brunette said, “The Saturday Night Killer. He takes women and makes them dress up in white nightgowns?”
“Yes,” Morales said.
The Saturday Night Killer. Caitlin kept a poker face. The BAU never gave an UNSUB a nickname. They avoided mythologizing serial killers. She was afraid that these photos would give tabloids a hard-on to come up with more piquant names for the murderer. The White Nightie Killer came to mind.
“Will you institute a Saturday curfew?”
“Are you going to shut down schools?”
“Why has it taken so long to bring in the FBI?”
Caitlin stood behind her shades. She and Emmerich scanned the crowd, memorizing faces, analyzing body language. Some offenders injected themselves into the investigation of their own crimes despite knowing the cops watched for it. The station’s CCTV camera was capturing everybody there.
Morales said, “That’s all. Thank you.”
He headed into the station with reporters shouting questions at his back. Rainey followed him.
As she passed, Caitlin said, “Let’s hope this works.”
Rainey opened the door. “Hope is for church on Sunday. Let’s flush this snake from its den.”
14
In downtown Dallas, Saturday night was popping. Skyscrapers were brightly lit. The broad downtown streets were a river of headlights. Despite the cold, the North Point Plaza mall in Uptown, near the tangle of expressways that spaghettied through the city center, was packed. The upscale shopping center’s garage was one hundred fifty yards from an on-ramp to I-35, the Stemmons Freeway.
Teri Drinkall stepped out of the elevator on garage level five, holding a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus and another from an independent bookstore and a third from California Pizza Kitchen, containing her shrimp pesto pizza. The clack of her stack-heel boots echoed from the concrete floor. When she’d arrived three hours earlier the garage had been packed, but it was almost empty now. Her Ford Escape was parked at the far end of the floor. A gust lifted her blond hair from her shoulders.
She rounded a pillar near the fire stairs and heard a man’s voice.
“Excuse me.”
She jumped and spun, bags swinging. Her key ring was in her right hand, her keys jammed between her fingers like talons.
The man stood near the stairs, half shadowed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
He was stylishly dressed, with a warm voice. He looked abashed. He was pressing a hand to the wall, apparently for balance.
“I hate to bother you. But I need a hand getting to my car.”
On the concrete in front of him were shopping bags from a toy store. A Paddington Bear peeped out of one.
Teri smiled.
The man smiled back.
• • •
Sunday afternoon light fell through the sheers on the bedroom windows, dappled with shadow from the backyard oaks. Standing beside the bed, the man eagerly examined the new Polaroid. It was so fresh. The details were vivid. The light captured detail, every swell of her body, the gleam in her eyes.
Dallas women had an extra measure of polish. A little cowboy kick.
She’d been worth the drive.
He’d been beyond angry when the Gideon sheriffs and the FBI found the women in the cedar woods. They’d ruined his work. Brought dogs. Taken his prizes. He’d been furious. Then, when they held the press conference, he’d become alarmed.
He had considered holding off. The girl he had in mind, the barista named Madison, had seen him scoping her apartment complex. She was baby blond, saucy, with an insincere, May I take your order smile. Young and blank-eyed. But she’d seen him, if just for a few seconds. Taking her, with the FBI goddamn shouting watch out from the rooftops, was too risky this weekend.
And the old rage—the awful, righteous craving to show them, to make these women see, to quench his want before he exploded—had risen and coursed through him. It had thundered beneath his temples, telling him: Nobody can take this from me. It’s mine.
And Dallas was two hundred miles up the interstate.
He admired the photo for another minute, then added it to the display. His exhibit was secret—he kept it stashed behind a false wall in his closet. He pinned Debbie Does Dallas to the board. She added a gleam to the assemblage. He ran his fingers across the collection. So many white negligees, so carefully chosen . . .
He untacked a photo of a teenage platinum blond. The photo was old. He cared for it diligently, keeping it out of the light so it wouldn’t fade, using the same pinpoint hole every time he tacked it to the board, but after all this time, the white border betrayed greasy gray smears. He loved caressing it but now tried to keep his fingers above the surface.
Not today. She had started it.
He had t
ried to forget, and forgive, and ignore, and pretend that it didn’t matter, but everywhere he went, the world teemed with others like her. The dismissive. The selfish. The ones who threw him aside like a gum wrapper. The beautiful, the superficial, the emotionally juvenile. The ones who failed to care. Who didn’t comprehend that if you stomped on a man’s spirit, there was no coming back. The ones blind to the depths.
He pressed the photo to his lips and bared his teeth, as if he was going to bite it.
The doorbell rang.
Heart pounding, he pinned the photo back in place. He reluctantly locked away his stash and checked himself in the mirror. His color was high, his eyes bright. He looked like he’d been working out.
He had been.
As he strolled down the hall, the images from the corkboard sent a stimulating prickle along his skin. He allowed himself a single smile, broad and hungry, then smoothed his expression and opened the front door.
“Central Market was out of jalapeños. I’ll substitute serranos.” In swept Emma, bubbly as always, with two grocery bags in her arms. “The corn bread muffins will have a kick, but hey, we can live it up. I’ll get the soup on.”
“You’ll work your magic. It’s no problem,” he said.
She blew him a kiss and headed toward the kitchen, her Bambi-brown hair soft in the light, her floral perfume reminding him of schoolteachers and maiden aunts.
“And you’re the kick,” he called after her.
Over her shoulder, she gave him a bashful smile.
He turned to the door. “Well. Hello.”
The six-year-old girl stood on the porch, holding a DVD of Frozen.
“Is that what we’re watching today, Miss Ashley?” he said.
She giggled and hopped up and down. “You silly. You know it is.”
“Come in. Your mom’s getting lunch on.”
She skipped past him. It was Disney movie day. Smiling, he closed the door.
15
Monday morning, Caitlin walked toward the hotel checkout desk, pulling her roller suitcase. Solace had escaped the weekend unscathed. The BAU team was returning to D.C. on an eleven A.M. flight.