The Profiler

by Chris Taylor

  He ticked them off on his fingers. “Josie Ward was after ten at night. Angelina Caruso we’re not exactly sure, but my guess is late afternoon or early evening. Her last class finished at five. No one saw her after that. For Sally Batten, it’s also unclear, but I’d back the girlfriends who thought they saw her at class, to the dope-smoking boyfriend who wasn’t sure when she’d last been home. One thing we do know is that they all disappeared on weekdays. Which means he’s either at work on the weekends or he’s tied up with his own life, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he could have a family of his own. Don’t forget, this guy appears to the rest of the world as just another average citizen. Maybe he leaves town on the weekends and goes to his holiday house. A lot of psychopaths lead typically normal lives during their downtime.” He grimaced, his frustration evident. “Who knows? Despite what you see on TV, there’s still a lot of guesswork involved.”

  “The art professor definitely ticks some of the boxes,” Ellie said. We’ll have to get a copy of his timetable. Find out when he has free time. I’d also like to know where he lives.”

  Clayton nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, at the moment, he’s up there with Wayne Peterson and I can’t wait for him to step off that plane. But there are still a vast number of other possibilities. Even a taxi driver could fit the profile. Flexible working hours, unobtrusive, generally trusted at face value.”

  “Except none of our girls caught a cab.”

  “As far as we know… Josie Ward was supposed to catch one,” he added.

  Ellie opened her mouth to protest and he held up his hand, knowing what she was about to say. He gritted his teeth against another surge of frustration at how little he had to go on to develop the profile that could make all the difference.

  He drew in a deep lungful of air and blew it out slowly through his lips. Ellie walked over and took the whiteboard marker out of his hand.

  “Okay, let’s assume our girls are connected. One thing I definitely agree with is that he lives around here.” She drew a red circle around the suburbs of Greater Western Sydney displayed on an enlarged map taped to the whiteboard. They included Penrith, Cranebrook, Mt Druitt, Auburn, Fairfield and Blacktown.

  He stared at the black dots representing each girl’s last known location. On the same map, within easy driving distance of one another, two blue dots had been added to represent the places they’d found the body parts. It was clear it was the killer’s hunting ground.

  She turned to face him. “So, the question is, has he left any calling cards?”

  “Have you heard anything from the lab?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet, but I’m hopeful we’ll get something. There was a lot of matter underneath Angelina’s fingernails. Having her limbs sealed in the plastic bags helped to preserve some of the evidence, even if it did spend time in the water.”

  “You never know your luck.”

  Ben appeared in the doorway of his office. “Ellie, I’ve just had Jim Whitton on the phone. I thought you told him to call you direct?” Without giving her a chance to respond, Ben continued, “Anyway, he wants to know how you’re going with his missing freezer.” Spying Clayton, he strode toward them. “How’s it going? Any leads?”

  “Not really,” Clayton replied, “but I found out Wayne Peterson has been back on the streets since April. Apparently, he’s living in the Penrith area. I thought Ellie and I might go out and pay him a visit.”

  Ben’s lips twisted. “Peterson. He’s a nasty piece of work. I can’t believe he’s been let out.” He glanced across at Ellie. “You got anything else?”

  “No, sir. We’re still waiting to hear back from the lab.”

  Ben sighed, his expression grim. “All right, well I guess that means you two are heading back out.”

  Clayton’s voice lowered. “Right you are. I’m just in the mood to go visiting.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ellie deftly negotiated the early morning traffic and threw a glance at Clayton. “Did you talk to the parole officer?”

  “Yep. Some guy over in the Penrith office. Sounded overworked and underpaid, like most of the poor bastards. The name Wayne Peterson barely registered with him.”

  She frowned. “I thought you said he was released three months ago?”

  “That’s right.” His mouth was set in a grim line as he turned to look at her, his eyes speaking volumes.

  “I take it Peterson hasn’t been reporting like he’s supposed to.”

  “Right again, Detective. You’re pretty good at this.”

  Shaking her head in disgust at the system, she checked her rear view mirror and changed lanes. “So when was the last time he saw his PO?”

  He sent her a dry look. “Take a guess.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You don’t mean to tell me he’s never shown up?”

  “Not quite. He reported in during the week he was released. Gave the PO the Penrith address. After that, nothing.”

  “And the PO didn’t report the breach? What the hell’s he doing? Does he have any idea who Peterson is? Did he even bother to have a look at that fifteen-page record of his?”

  Clayton threw his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m hearing you. Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m on your side, remember.”

  The pent-up air in Ellie’s lungs deflated. Banging her fist against the steering wheel, she gave vent to her frustration by cursing aloud.

  They rode in silence for a few moments before he spoke again.

  “I made some calls and had a couple of uniforms go over to his digs about twenty minutes ago. Apparently, they saw him through a window. Let’s hope he hasn’t caught wind of us and done a disappearing act.”

  Ellie’s gut tightened. Cold, hard anger swirled inside her. The killer, whoever he was, had proven himself capable of unspeakable violence. She’d do whatever it took to find him and lock him away forever. Preferably down a very deep, dark hole.

  Her lips compressed. Too bad that wasn’t an option.

  Clayton shifted in his seat and looked at her as she turned into Peterson’s street. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s how we’re going to handle it. You wait in the car while I work out if he’s still in there. When I give you the nod, you come out.”

  “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Listen here, big shot. You’re riding with me, remember? For all I know, you’ve spent most of your time behind a desk. I mean, have you even been out in the field before?”

  Not waiting for his reply, she continued, steel in her voice. “We’re going to do this my way or not at all. This is my turf, remember? If anyone’s going to be sitting in the car, it’ll be you. You got that?”

  He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ve got it. God help us if I tread on your turf.”

  Unamused, she kept her face forward and cruised to a stop a few houses down from the one they sought. The street was quiet, with only the occasional passing car interrupting the lazy silence of the morning. The skeletons of well-established Chinese elm trees, winter bare, lined both sides of the nature strip. Most of the yards were fenced with cheap wire and weathered wood palings once painted white. Overgrown lawn reached through the gaps, beckoning to the sidewalk.

  Clayton’s voice was a low murmur. “There’s a car parked on the nature strip outside his house. Call the plates in so we can check who it’s registered to.”

  Ellie squinted through the glare of the sun and took note of the details. Within minutes, the dispatcher returned with the information. The white 1982 model Falcon was registered to Arthur Jones. She hung up the handpiece and turned to him, a question in her eyes.

  “A former cell mate of Peterson,” Clayton supplied. “They were in Long Bay together a few years back. As they say, birds of a feather.”

  “I didn’t find mention of Jones in Peterson’s file.”

  “That’s because it isn’t in there.” With a shrug, he turned to face the windscreen. “I made a few calls. Tracked down some of the
officers in charge of Peterson’s later arrests. Let’s just say, most of them take a special interest in knowing who he associates with and where this bastard is.”

  Her lips twisted in derision. “Too bad the members of the parole board didn’t see it that way.”

  “Yep. You’ve got that right. The hardest part is knowing there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Until the powers that be see fit to increase the funding for parole officers, there are going to be more and more of them failing to keep proper tabs on their clients.”

  Drawing oxygen deep into her lungs, Ellie held onto it for as long as she could. With a long sigh, she let the air slip through her parted lips. She turned to him. “You ready?”

  A feral gleam of anticipation lit up his baby blues. “Bring it on.”

  * * *

  “Open up! Police!” Ellie banged on the door again. Clayton covered her back, every nerve in his body on edge. Adrenaline surged through him. He instinctively went for the gun at his hip and cursed silently when he realized he didn’t have one. As much as he loved what he did as a profiler, it was times like this he remembered just how much he missed being in the thick of it.

  Ellie shot him a quick look over her shoulder, her service revolver drawn. He signaled with his hand to go in. Peterson was already in breach of his parole. They wouldn’t be breaking any laws by entering uninvited.

  She turned the door handle then shook her head. It was locked. He nudged her aside and braced his shoulder against the weathered timber door. Taking a breath, he pushed hard.

  The hinges squeaked in protest and he felt the wood give a couple of inches. Another shove and it gave way altogether. He collected himself and peered into the gloom. Ellie closed in behind him.

  In the dim light, they discovered they were in a small lounge room. Two filthy couches stood against the walls. One sagged so low, part of it scraped the dirty floor. The other one was in a similar state of disrepair. Gaping tears in the cushions exposed pale gashes of foam. The smell of unwashed bodies, sweat and rotting food was overwhelming. The room was cold, silent and empty.

  Moving on noiseless feet down a worn, carpeted hallway, Clayton signaled to Ellie that he was going to check out the room that opened to his left. She acknowledged him and continued past, her gun still drawn and at the ready.

  As his eyes adjusted to yet another darkened room, he realized it, too, was empty. A noise coming from the direction Ellie had taken suddenly registered in the stillness.

  A yelp of surprise.

  Then the sound of flesh upon flesh and a moan of pain. He tore down the hall and came upon them.

  Peterson lay face down on the scraped linoleum floor of the kitchen. Ellie leaned over him, her knee pressed against his back. The click of handcuffs was loud in the now-silent room.

  Clayton came to a halt. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”

  For a pint-sized woman who looked like she weighed less than a hundred pounds, wringing wet, she sure knew how to handle herself. Although Peterson wasn’t a big man, he outweighed her by at least half.

  One single bloodshot eye stared at him balefully. “Fuckin’ coppers. What the fuck do you want?”

  Clayton tsked tsked. “Now, now, now. That’s no way to speak in front of a lady. She deserves a little more respect.” He stepped forward and pressed his boot deliberately against the man’s neck. Peterson tried to twist his head away, his single eye now glaring at him with murderous intent.

  Clayton increased the pressure, resisting the urge to slam his fist into the malevolent face as memories of the man’s criminal history flooded back to him.

  As if sensing how close he was to losing control, Ellie intervened. Standing, she rolled Peterson over and out from underneath Clayton’s boot.

  “We’re just here to ask you a few questions.” She eyed the lowlife. “We can do it the easy way or the hard way. You pick.”

  “You’ve already got me in fuckin’ handcuffs.”

  Clayton stepped forward again, his fists clenched at his sides. “Hey, watch your mouth, buster. I’m not going to warn you again.”

  Ellie laid a restraining hand on Clayton’s arm. “Who’s living here with you, Wayne? You’ve got a pretty tidy setup here.” Her gaze slid over the overflowing trash can and the sink full of dirty dishes. A dozen or more empty beer bottles stood haphazardly around the kitchen, along with a couple of half-empty cans of baked beans and a loaf of bread which spilled out across the cracked Formica counter. A grimy toaster stood in the corner.

  Peterson grunted in response. Clayton gave him a none-too-gentle shove with his boot. “What was that, you grub? I’m afraid we didn’t hear you.”

  Another grunt followed by a wad of spit that landed just shy of Clayton’s shiny black boots.

  Clayton’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’ve really pissed me off.” He bent down and heaved the man to his feet. Momentum dragged him forward. He pushed Peterson against the nearest wall.

  “I thought I told you to mind your manners, dirt bag,” he snarled. With a hefty thrust of his arm, Peterson’ head hit the wall behind him.

  “Munro, let it go.”

  Ellie’s low voice slowly penetrated the fog of anger that enveloped him. Now he remembered why he’d opted for a desk job. He didn’t have to put up with scum like Peterson.

  Releasing the man’s filthy flannel shirt, he stepped away. The smug look on Peterson’ face was nearly enough for Clayton to have another go. But that’s exactly what the little worm wanted. He could see it in his eyes.

  Turning his back on him, Clayton went to lean against the open doorway that led back down the hall and tried to get his anger back under control.

  “Right. Now, Wayne, let’s try that again.” Ellie was all brisk efficiency as she pulled a notebook and pen out of her jacket pocket. “We know this house belongs to Arthur. Where is he?” Her eyes drilled into Peterson’ whose jaw jutted out at a belligerent angle.

  “How the fuck would I know? I’m not his fuckin’ mother.”

  Clayton tensed and pushed away from the wall. The look he gave Peterson was deadly. “I thought we’d already been over this, scumbag? Perhaps you need another reminder?”

  He stepped closer, his eyes narrowed menacingly. Ellie moved between them.

  “You haven’t been checking in with your parole officer, Wayne,” she said. “That’s very naughty of you. And you’re fraternizing with a known criminal. That’s also a no-no. You know we could arrest you right now and throw you back in the slammer. Now, how about you try being nice to us for a change. Answer our questions and then we’ll be on our way.” She spread her arms wide in a magnanimous gesture. “It’s really quite simple.”

  The parolee eyed her distrustfully. “What kinda questions? I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Well, we’re real glad to hear that, Wayne. It’d be a real shame for you to have to go back to the big house after only a few months. It’s nice being on the outside, isn’t it?”

  With a non-committal shrug, the man’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  Clayton strode over to him and pulled up a couple of paces away. His sheer size alone must have felt intimidating to the much smaller man. Just as he meant it to. “Where were you on May twenty-ninth?”

  Peterson looked at him blankly and didn’t respond.

  “How about July third? Come on, dirt bag, it was only a month ago. Where were you?”

  Peterson shrugged again and looked even more confused. “How the fu—” He glanced toward Ellie and wisely tried again.

  “How the hell would I know?” I wouldn’t even know what day it is today, let alone what I was doing a month ago.”

  Clayton’s face was now only inches away. The man’s stench clogged his nostrils. “Well you’d better start thinking, buster, because we’ve got a bunch of young girls missing and one of them has turned up dead. We have you in our sights, scumbag. We know how much you like young girls.”

  Panic flared in Peterson’s eyes. His
gaze sought Ellie’s. “It wasn’t me! I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. You can’t go pinnin’ anything on me!”

  Clayton glared at him, unmoved. “We’re waiting on some DNA evidence from the lab. If it comes back as yours, we’ll be back; you understand? And you’d better pack a decent supply of toothbrushes this time around. You won’t be going anywhere for a long, long time.”

  Peterson struggled against the handcuffs. His eyes darted nervously around the room. “You can’t do this to me! I dunno nothin’ about no missin’ girls. I swear!”

  “Tell it to the judge, dirt bag.” Clayton turned away and propped himself up against the doorway. Ellie stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs.

  Clayton’s gaze remained narrowed on Peterson, pinning him where he stood, silently daring him to try something. It would give him immense satisfaction to see the worm back behind bars, where he belonged.

  As if sensing the razor-edge hold Clayton had on his self-control, the man wisely chose not to move. Clayton screwed up his nose as another whiff of putrid body odor reached his nostrils.

  “You might consider having a shower now and then, Peterson. You’re on the outside, now. Or are you worried Arthur might take advantage of you?”

  Peterson’s face flared crimson and anger sparked in the bloodshot eyes. Clayton turned away. “Come on, Ellie. Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  Ellie unlocked the car and looked across at Clayton. “So, what do you think?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. He seemed a bit too out of it to be our man. I actually believed him when he said he didn’t know what day it was. He looks like he’s been on a bender for weeks.”

  He opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, feeling grim. “Our guy’s way too organized. And much more discreet. The way Peterson looks, not to mention the way he smells, there’s no way he’d go unnoticed—and I can’t see any of our girls going anywhere near him. At least, not without a struggle. And so far, no one’s seen or heard anything. Besides, I’m certain we’re looking for someone ordinary. I hate to say it, but I don’t think he’s our man.”