Sense of Evil

by Kay Hooper

  “Or maybe something. Something fatal.”

  “Look, all I can tell you is that for some agents, there's a price for using their abilities. Some, like Isabel, live with pain most of the time, usually headaches. Some finish up assignments so exhausted it takes them weeks to fully recover. I know one agent who eats constantly during a case, and I mean constantly; it's like her abilities cause her metabolism to shoot into high gear and she has to fuel her body continually in order to do her job. But there are other agents who never seem affected physically by what they do. It varies. So, no, I can't tell you using our abilities is going to kill us one day. Because we just don't know.”

  “But it's possible.”

  “Sure, it's possible, I guess. It's also possible—more than possible, really—that we'll be killed in the line of duty by a regular old bullet or knife or explosion of some kind. The risk comes with the job. We all know the potential hazards, believe me. Bishop is very careful to make certain we understand what we might be risking, even if it's only a theoretical possibility. Anyway, Isabel made the decision that was hers to make, to use her abilities this way. She's been doing it for years, and she knows her limits.”

  “I don't doubt that. What I doubt is that she'll stop before those limits are reached.”

  “She's dedicated” was Hollis's only response.

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “You face risks in your job. Why keep doing it?”

  Rafe didn't answer, just shook his head and said, “T.J. and Dustin will be a while, and there's really nothing more you and Isabel can do here. Is there?”

  It was Hollis's turn to avoid the direct question. “We can go back to the station, work there while you guys finish up here. Get the information on the two previous series of murders posted on the boards.”

  “Good idea,” Rafe said.

  Hollis took the first chance she got to call in, which turned out to be about an hour later, when Isabel left the conference room to make copies of a stack of paperwork.

  The number was still a bit unfamiliar, but her cell phone's address book had been carefully programmed, so it was easy to find the number and make the call.

  As soon as he answered, Hollis said, “I didn't like doing that. Isabel's business is her own. She wouldn't talk about me behind my back, not that sort of personal stuff.”

  “He needed to know,” Bishop said.

  “Then Isabel should have been the one to tell him.”

  “Yes, but she wouldn't. Or, at least, wouldn't tell him right now. He needs to know now.”

  “And why is that, O wise Yoda?”

  Bishop chuckled. “I'm guessing ‘Because I say so' is not going to be a satisfactory answer for you.”

  “I didn't accept that even from my father; it definitely won't work for you.”

  “Okay. Then I'll tell you the truth.”

  “I appreciate that. The truth being?”

  “The truth being that certain things have to happen in a certain order if we're to avert a catastrophe.”

  Hollis blinked. “And we know that catastrophe lies ahead because . . . ?”

  “Because some of us occasionally catch a glimpse of the future.” Bishop sighed. “Hollis, we can't fix everything. We can't make the future all bright and shiny just because we know before they happen that there are troubles and tragedies waiting there for us. The best we can do sometimes, the absolute best, is to chart a careful path somewhere between bad and worse.”

  “And that path requires that I spill part of Isabel's story to Rafe.”

  “Yes. It does. This time. Next time, you may be asked to do something else. And you'll do it. Not because I say so, but because you can trust in the fact that Miranda and I would never do anything to injure or betray any member of the team—even to save the future.”

  Hollis sighed. “I wish that sounded melodramatic, but since I know the stories and I've seen a few things myself, I'm afraid it's the literal truth. The saving-the-future business, I mean.”

  “We have to do what we can. It's seldom enough, but sometimes the right word or the right information at the right moment can change things just a bit. Shift the balance more toward our favor. When we can even do that much. Sometimes we can't interfere at all.”

  “Going to tell me how you know that this is one of the times you can interfere?”

  “Miranda sees the future and takes me along for the ride. Sometimes we see alternate futures; that's when we know we can change things. Sometimes we see only one future. We see what's inevitable.”

  “That's when you know you can't.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the future I just changed by telling Rafe some of Isabel's past?”

  “Was a future in which he died.”

  “So why hasn't her cameraman reported her missing?” Isabel asked Dana Earley.

  “I think he's ashamed of himself. Apparently, she told him to wait in the van while she went to check something out. He claims he doesn't know what. Anyway, she hadn't been gone ten minutes before he was asleep. And he didn't wake up until Joey and I banged on the side of the van about half an hour ago.”

  “That's a long nap.”

  “He says he's been running short on sleep for days. Probably true; a lot of our technical people get fascinated with their toys and keep the weirdest hours you can imagine.”

  Isabel frowned. “You've checked with her station, with the other media people across the street?”

  Dana nodded. “Oh, yeah. The last anybody saw of Cheryl was just before dark last night. Dammit, I warned her to watch her back, brunette or not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think the spotlight on a small town like Hastings can get pretty uncomfortable, and I wouldn't be surprised if this maniac targeted a journalist just to get us to back off.”

  Isabel rested a hip on the corner of an unoccupied desk, where the conversation was taking place. “That's not a bad theory, assuming he isn't too far gone to think logically. Off the record.”

  Dana nodded again, this time somewhat impatiently. “And I'm no profiler, but I'd expect him to target somebody who doesn't fit his clear preferences so far, just to make a statement.”

  “You're not the one I want, but you're in my way. Nobody's safe,” Isabel murmured. “Go away.”

  “It makes sense, doesn't it?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Thanks for filing the report, Ms. Earley.”

  “If there's anything I can do to help look for that kid—”

  “The best way you can help her and us is not to get yourself added to our missing-persons list. Don't go anywhere alone. I mean anywhere, unless it's into a locked room you know damned well is safe. Pass the word to the other journalists, will you?”

  “Will do.”

  “Male and female journalists,” Isabel added.

  Dana nodded wryly and left.

  Isabel remained where she was for several minutes, frowning at nothing. She was tired. Very tired. And worried.

  If this bastard had grabbed a brunette journalist, had been angry enough to stray so far from his preferences, then why hadn't Isabel felt it?

  “What's wrong with me?” she murmured.

  There was no answer, except for the feeling she had of something crouching in the darkness. Watching.

  Waiting.

  When Rafe walked into the conference room just before four that afternoon, he wasn't especially happy to find Alan Moore there with Isabel.

  “Hollis and Mallory are out running down a couple of leads,” she told him, without going into detail. She seemed none the worse for what had happened in Jamie Brower's secret playroom, though something about her eyes told him she was still suffering a pounding headache.

  Rafe nodded without commenting on either her info or his own hunch, and said to Alan, “Please tell me you have a reason other than idle curiosity for being here.”

  “My curiosity is never idle.”

  “I should have warned you about him, Isabel. You c
an only believe about half of what he says. On a good day.”

  “See, this is what happens when you grow up with a guy who becomes a cop,” Alan said. “He turns into a suspicious bastard right before your eyes.”

  “Not without reason,” Rafe retorted. “You've been a pain in my ass since I was appointed.”

  “I've been doing my job.”

  Isabel intervened before they could begin rehashing past offenses, saying, “Alan received something a bit unexpected in yesterday's mail.”

  Rafe stared at Alan. “And you're just now bringing it in?”

  “I've been busy.”

  “Alan, one of these days you're going to go too far. Consider this a warning.”

  Despite the calm tone, Alan was perfectly aware that his boyhood friend was deadly serious. He nodded, not really having to fake the sheepish expression. “Noted.”

  Without commenting on the byplay between the men, Isabel handed Rafe a single sheet of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag. “I've already checked it. No prints, except his.”

  The note, block-printed yet virtually scrawled in a bold, dark hand on the unlined paper, was brief.

  MR. MOORE, THE COPS HAVE GOT IT

  ALL WRONG. HE ISN'T KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY'RE BLONDES.

  HE'S KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT

  “Not blondes?” Rafe said, looking at Isabel.

  “Yeah, but they were,” she said. “At least, Jamie and Tricia were natural blondes; Allison Carroll used hair color.”

  “But she—” He stopped himself.

  Isabel finished the comment for him. “She matched top and bottom. But the lab results are in, and they say she used hair color. It's not all that uncommon for a woman to dye her pubic hair, especially when the change is so drastic and she's at a stage in her life when looking good naked is a major goal. In any case, Allison's natural hair color was very dark.”

  Rafe met Alan's interested gaze, and said, “This is off the record, you realize that?”

  “Yeah, Isabel's already warned me. Giant red federal warning, accompanied by flags, stamps, sealing wax, oaths of secrecy, and appropriate threats of being transported to Area 51 and turned into a lab rat.”

  Isabel smiled but said nothing.

  “Just as a point of interest,” Alan commented, “Cheryl Bayne is a brunette.”

  “Cheryl Bayne,” Isabel said, “is missing. As are others on an unfortunately lengthy list. We don't know that anything has happened to any of them.”

  “Yet.”

  “Yet,” she agreed.

  Alan eyed her, then continued, “Anyway, when all is said and done and you've got the guy, I reserve the right to inform the public that I was contacted by the killer.”

  “Were you?” Isabel murmured.

  “Third person,” Rafe noted, studying the note. “He isn't killing them because they're blondes. This could have been written by someone who knows the killer. Knows what he's doing.”

  “Or maybe,” Alan offered, “he's schizophrenic and believes it's not really him killing these women.”

  “You just want this to be the killer,” Rafe said in an absent tone.

  “Well, yes. This story could be my Watergate.”

  Isabel pursed her lips. “No. Your Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. Not your Watergate.”

  “It could make my career,” Alan insisted.

  “Yeah?” Isabel was politely interested. “And do you happen to remember the name of the journalist who was supposedly contacted by Jack the Ripper?”

  Alan scowled. “Shatter a man's dreams, why don't you?”

  “Do you remember?”

  “It was over a hundred years ago.”

  “And the most famous serial killer of modern times. Countless books have been written about him. Movies made about him. Theories as to his identity endlessly debated. And yet the name of that journalist doesn't exactly spring readily to the tongue, does it?”

  “Do you know it?” Alan challenged.

  “Of course. But then, I specialize in serial killers. More or less. Everybody in the business has studied the Ripper case. It's practically Murder 101 in Behavioral Science at Quantico. Everybody wants to be the one to solve it.”

  “Including you?”

  “Oh, I don't think it'll ever be definitively solved. And I don't believe it should be. Some things should remain mysteries.”

  “You don't really believe that.”

  “Yes, I do. We should never, ever believe life—or history—holds no surprises for us. That way lies arrogance. And arrogance can blind us to the truth.”

  “Which truth?”

  “Any truth. All truth.” Her voice was solemn.

  Alan sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, before you start calling me Grasshopper, I'm going to leave.”

  “I'm sure I have a pebble around here somewhere, if you want to stay and test your readiness,” Isabel said, still solemn.

  “Somehow, I don't think I'm fast enough,” Alan said, not without a note of honest regret. He offered them both a casual salute, then left the conference room, closing the door behind him.

  “Good job of distracting him,” Rafe said.

  “Maybe. With any luck he'll spend at least the next few hours on the Internet or in the library reading up on Jack the Ripper—just so he can tell me the name of that journalist the next time I see him. It'll occupy his mind a little while.” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed the nape of her neck with one hand, frowning slightly.

  “Still got that headache?”

  “It comes and goes. So far, there's no sign of Cheryl Bayne; her station has backed up Dana Earley's missing persons report with one of their own. And Hollis and Mallory are checking out the rest of the properties owned by Jamie Brower.”

  “You still want to find that box of photos.”

  “I want to find whatever is there. Speaking of which, your forensics team confirmed blood in Jamie's playhouse, I gather. A lot of blood.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you were right about that. And a faint blood trail to the door. T.J. figures the body was wrapped in plastic. I'm guessing it was put into a car and hauled somewhere. They're going over Jamie's car now, but we didn't find anything when we checked it bumper to bumper after she was killed.”

  Isabel shook her head. “She wouldn't have panicked, and she was too smart to transport a body in her own car. It would have been her playmate's car. And I'm betting she got rid of it afterward. Very rid of it. Like maybe sank it to the bottom of one of the lakes in the area. With or without the body inside.”

  “That,” he agreed, “is all too likely.” He hesitated, then added, “Did you pick up anything from Alan?”

  “No, he's a very closed book. Not uncommon for a journalist; they keep a lot of secrets, as a rule. Most of us find it difficult to read them, even the telepaths.”

  “You think his guess about the killer being schizophrenic was right?”

  “I think it's at least as likely as any other theory we have. Maybe more than likely.” She drew a breath and spoke rapidly. “One school of thought proposes four different types of serial murderers: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic, and control-oriented. The mission-oriented is out to eliminate a particular group he feels is unworthy of living. Common victims for this type of killer are those easily categorized: prostitutes, the homeless, the mentally ill. Or—plumbers.”

  Rafe blinked. “Plumbers?”

  “I'm just saying. Mission-oriented serial killers target groups. Unless our guy is out to kill all women, or at least all successful women—a task even a madman would have to find daunting—then I don't believe he's mission-oriented.”

  “Sounds logical to me. Next?”

  “The hedonistic killer is after pleasure or thrills when he kills. He may get his jollies from the kill itself, from the arousal and gratification of what's basically a lust murder; he may enjoy the planning stages, the stalking of his prey. Or he may find pleasure in the consequences of the kill if, for instance
, he gains a kind of freedom by killing family or people he perceives as tying him down somehow.”

  “Control-oriented type?”

  “His thing is having power over the victim, especially the power of life and death. If he rapes, it's for control and domination, not thrills. And this type generally doesn't kill his victims immediately. He likes to torture, both physically and psychologically. He wants to draw it out, savor his power over them, watch their helplessness and terror.”

  “You must have hellacious nightmares,” Rafe said.

  She looked at him with a little half smile. “Oddly enough, no. My nightmares tend to come while I'm awake.”

  Rafe waited a moment, giving her an opening, but it was obvious she didn't intend to take it. “So our guy is not likely to be control-oriented, or at least not driven by that, since he doesn't waste any time at all in killing his victims. And the visionary type of serial killer I'm assuming is the nail Alan may have hit on the head?”

  “Umm. Alan . . . and the note sent to him.” She tapped a red fingernail against the plastic-sleeved note Rafe had placed atop the stack of papers on the conference table in front of her. “This makes me wonder, it really does. If it's not purely a ruse designed to throw us off track—and we have to assume that's at least possible—then this note could tell us a lot about our killer. I'll need to make a copy for us and send the original to Quantico, by the way. The handwriting experts may be able to tell us something. As for what the note says . . .”

  “He wants us to stop him?”

  “If we accept this as written, and as written by the killer, then some part of him does. The sane part.” Isabel paused, frowning. “The least common type of serial killer is the visionary, someone who sees visions or hears voices commanding him to kill.”

  “As in Son of Sam.”

  “Yeah. He usually attributes the voices to God or some kind of demon and feels himself helpless to disobey them. He's not in control, the voices are. They tell him to kill, who to kill, when to kill. Maybe why those particular people have to be killed. He may hear the voices from childhood, or it may be a sudden psychosis brought on by stress or trauma. Some people believe a chemical change in the brain is responsible, but, as I said, we don't know a whole hell of a lot about how the brain really works.