The Profiler Page 15

  Severo nods his head, agreeing with Cain. “And Matthias Killarney was a spiritual advisor, so that’s a given.”

  “Which leaves us with Paul and Jean,” I say. “Jean was a baker. I don’t know what role he plays in this, but maybe we can talk to his housekeeper again, now that we know to question from this angle. And what about Paul Aaron White?”

  “I’ll check into it,” Cain says, then pats me on the shoulder. “Good work, kiddo. It’s bad news for us, knowing there’s another eight possible victims on the list, but good work figuring that out. I like the way you think.”

  As much as I want to enjoy this moment of commendation from my mentor, one thing is still bothering me. Why did the killer decide to make contact with me? As my thoughts wrap around possible links, however, Cain’s cell phone rings at the same time as Severo’s, and I listen for the inevitable.

  “Let’s go. Number five is still alive.”

  I ride with Cain, as per his request, and we follow the detective’s Jeep to the scene at a sewer drain along the West side. “What do you think he’s doing?” I ask Cain, shocked to learn our fifth body is still breathing. “You think he’s setting us up?”

  “No way to know for sure,” Cain says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead as he speeds along the streets. “If he’s up to something fishy, we’ll use it to our advantage, kiddo. If this guy’s as good as he thinks he is, nothing comes by way of accident. If he left this victim alive, it’s for a reason.”

  There’s a bit of nervousness in Cain’s voice and I share his obvious concern. I don’t know which scares me more—another dead body or a possible trap to snag us. But I listen to my mentor as he preps me for what’s to come.

  “Just do what you do best, Angie. Use those instincts. We’re going out there with all eyes open, and if you keep in mind everything you were taught—at the academy and by your father—you’ll do just fine. Okay?”

  His car reels into place alongside the sewer passageway, and we exit to meet up with Severo, not knowing for certain what to expect. As we step forward, armed and ready, I am drawn by an unidentified voice. There is no one visible. The man’s speech is coming from behind some concrete slabs.

  “And he found in the temple those selling cattle and sheep and doves,” the voice says, and thanks to my uncle Simon’s private sermons, I recognize the words as a Bible passage.

  Growing up, I gained a solid education in the ways of religion, even though I’ve never claimed to be a churchgoer. Even when I skipped out on official Sunday preaching to spend time with my father, Simon made sure each of my visits with him was spent discussing the old ways of the world. At the time I didn’t care one way or the other what I was being taught, but now that I’ve grown up and work in the real world, it’s amazing how much of those life lessons come in handy.

  The detective walks at my side, with Cain just a few feet behind. Not sure what to think of the situation just yet, we pace ourselves, not knowing if our killer may still be on site.

  “…and the money brokers in their seats.”

  As the voice preaches its message, my fingers wrap tightly around my handgun as a precaution. Severo nods his chin to the left and I mimic his movements, staying close against the concrete, creeping nearer to the source. The sewer drains are rippling with water, and the faint smell of refuse and rotten perishables fills my nose.

  Cain has remained at the sewage entrance, and I see he has met up with paramedics who are waiting for word to go in and see what help this victim requires.

  It was a jogger on this out-of-the-way path who came across a stranded vehicle, and when he noticed the body inside, not knowing if it was dead or alive, he called 911.

  It’s not a good idea to assume the killer has left the scene, not when we can’t even see it yet, so I prepare for the worst. This could be the day his identity is blown and this case moves from open to closed.

  We’re edging closer to the end of our concrete protection and I ignore the words “he poured out the coins of the money changers,” until I hear a new noise filter through the air. I sidle closer to Severo and realize it’s the chime a car door makes when it’s ajar.

  Rounding the edge of the barrier between us and the car, the detective and I make eye contact, giving one another the go-ahead to step into the scene and crack down.

  Gradually, I peek out into the open and see the teal-green sedan with the driver’s-side door open. My foot loosens some gravel and the minuscule disturbance triggers a reaction from something, somewhere.

  “This is Detective Severo with the NYPD,” Carson announces, his voice echoing through the sewer drains. “Come out with your hands where I can see them.”

  My breath sounds louder than the preaching voice, but no one is making his presence known, other than a few sewer rats. We step forward, cautious of any nooks that could act as a hiding place, but no one appears.

  In the distance, the wailing of additional sirens grows closer, but Severo loses his patience and begins to walk toward the car. Other than the voice, there is no indication we aren’t alone, and when he approaches the sedan, his hands move through the air as he shrugs.

  “Cassette tape.”

  Not too quick to shrug off the possibilities, I take my time approaching, but he’s already affirmed where the voice is coming from. I reach his side and he points into the car, where the keys are turned in the ignition to keep the battery going, but the car is stalled.

  My guard down, I lean into the car and offer a smile to our victim, but he appears lifeless except for the faint movement of his chest. “Cain, bring the medics!” I yell, letting him know our killer is out of sight. In the driver’s seat, the man is propped tight against the head-rest. The nylon seat belt has been cut, then wrapped snugly around his neck.

  “Nice.” The detective looks up and down the sewers and shouts out, “I hope you’re enjoying your little game!” which surprises me, since I don’t know who he’s yelling at. “Just in case,” he says, looking back at me. “You recognize the voice from the tape?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answer, trying to remember what my attacker sounded like that day in the crematorium. His voice was raspy, but my mental clarity isn’t top-notch right now.

  Cain is approaching with backup and the paramedics, but I keep my eyes on the details of the crime, determined to find any evidence to lead us to our killer.

  “Must have got him from behind,” Severo says, aiming a finger at the back seat. “The belt’s wrapped around several times, but it’s tied at the back. See?”

  “Yeah.” My attention diverts to the car’s exterior. While there’s no way our killer could have covered his tracks out here, our chances of finding his trail look grim, with the muddy earth and flow of drainage fighting against us.

  Cain approaches me, notepad in hand, and I await the news. “According to the plates, this is Mario James Anderson. I don’t know what that does for the apostle theory, kiddo.”

  Cold drops of rain begin to fall upon us on this second-last day of November, and combined with the crispness of the gray weather, my skin begins to get goose bumps even under the layers of clothing.

  “Mario’s not one of the Twelve, but James is,” I say, shrugging my shoulders, wondering if my attempts at figuring out this guy’s pattern will hold up.

  As the paramedics take away our victim, alive but not in the best of shape, and CSU begins to inspect the scene, eager to pull trace yet again, I look to Cain for answers. “Anything else about Anderson? Anything that might possibly indicate his religious involvement?”

  The pellets of rain are increasing and the three of us, Severo beside me now, slide under the sewage tunnel to stay dry. “I dunno, kiddo. This guy was no saint. His plates came up with a flag on him. He’s served time before.”

  “What for?” Severo asks, clicking off his car alarm and leading us in that direction. The collar on my jacket is filling with rain, so I shake a bit, trying to get the wetness off me.

  “Perjury, of
all things. Gotta love a man who lies and gets caught. Especially in front of a grand jury.”

  I slide into Severo’s Jeep and he quickly turns up the heat to warm us from the sudden cold shower outside. Cain, however, remains in the rain, determined to have a cigarette even without an umbrella. As a compromise, I keep my window down halfway, so we can hear him read off his notes, and I simply sit back to avoid the drops of rain.

  “Our perjurer here didn’t do much for the friend he was trying to protect. Guy’s locked up. Doing time, big-time.”

  “But he’s alive?” I ask, somewhat relieved there may be a lead we can follow. If the convict knows today’s victim, he may also know the killer.

  “Interesting choice of words, kiddo.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s up the river.”

  “At Sing Sing?” Severo asks, leaning into me to listen closer to Cain’s words.

  “Yup. Death row, too. Philip Martin. Seems he and Mario James Anderson here were involved awhile back on some level,” Cain explains, looking to me for confirmation that this name is also that of an apostle. “Counterfeit ops, drug rings, you name it.”

  “We have to talk to him,” Severo says, and I agree. “If he knows anything, it’s not like he’s got something to lose by sharing it with us.”

  “You’re probably right on that one.” Cain wipes the rain from his brow, then backs away from the Jeep as an approaching CSU member calls to him. “Hang on a sec, you two.”

  “This is good, Ang,” Severo says, and I twist toward him as he leans over the middle console. “This might be it, you know? The day we figure out what the hell is going on with this case.”

  “Hey, look,” I say, watching Cain and the CSU member.

  With my window still down a notch, Severo and I lean over to hear Cain ask, “Whatcha got?” as he accepts a clear plastic sleeve the investigator is carrying. I can’t believe we may finally have some evidence to work with. That, and a possible connection with this Philip Martin guy.

  “Maybe a family photo,” the investigator says. “Found it tucked into the visor. Best look into his next of kin.”

  “Oh my,” Cain breathes, his voice crackling through the cool rain. “Angie.”

  “What is it?” I can’t see well enough from my seat, so I hop out of the Jeep and reach for the bag. But Cain pulls away and takes a step back. “Cain, what the hell is it?”

  Severo has also left the comfort of the vehicle and walks around to meet me as I stare at Cain, hungry for answers. Rain is pounding down on us and I scrunch my neck into my collar, trying to keep the body heat inside.

  “I’m not sure, Angie. I’m not sure you should see this.”

  Severo leans toward my mentor, also wanting answers. “Cain?” he asks, but doesn’t wait to be acknowledged before he grabs the bag and looks at it closely. His eyes move up to meet mine, but I can’t read his expression.

  “Jesus, you guys, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I move my hand quickly and snap the bag from Severo’s hold, shaking my head at their absurdity. But when I see the image stained with age and damp with today’s rain, my breath catches and I feel my throat tighten.

  “Angie?” Severo pleads, his voice muffled by my thoughts.

  My eyes do not leave the image I am holding when the words escape from my lips. “It’s my father.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent David,” the CSU investigator says coldly, as he reaches for the photo. “But I’m going to need that back. It’s evidence.”

  “I know that! Just give me a minute, will ya?”

  Heat rises to my face even in this chilled weather, and I feel somewhat faint despite the surge of adrenaline pushing through my veins.

  Severo’s hand reaches to my shoulder and I feel his fingers wrap securely around my wet clothing. “Angie?”

  “And that’s me. God, I must have been six years old when this was taken. He looks so young.”

  “Okay, let’s give it back to these guys, kiddo,” Cain says, wrapping one of his hands around the sleeved evidence and grasping my arm tightly with the other as he looks into my eyes. “They’ll need to trace it for any prints, fibers…and, Angie, kiddo, we’re going to figure this out.”

  I let my eyes meet my mentor’s, unsure of what this means. Cain’s right. This is evidence, and for some reason, it’s been left here for me to see. I aim to find out why.

  “Okay. He knew we’d find it. He knew it would affect me. So let’s get on with it,” I say, trying to keep focus despite my unease. “Let’s talk to the guy at Ossining.”

  “Hold on just a minute, kiddo,” Cain says, speaking softly against the rain. “I don’t know that you should be going up the river. This might be a good time for you to take a step back. Step away from the case for a bit. You know?”

  “I couldn’t disagree more! Cain, he’s making it personal. This guy obviously has something to say to me and I want to hear it. Philip Martin may know who’s behind this. I’m not going to give up on this because of a photo. Hell, he could have taken that from my apartment yesterday.”

  “That’s true,” Severo states, and I look to him, relieved he sees my point. “But, Angie, this is a lot to take in right now. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  So much for siding with me.

  “Yes, I’m up for it. I don’t know what this means any more than you do,” I say, looking at the detective, then at my mentor. “But I’m sure as hell not going to sit around and wait to be knocked over the head. Again.”

  “All right, all right,” Cain says, leading me to Severo’s Jeep and urging me into the passenger seat. “Then you go with the detective. Technically, this is his case, so he’ll need to get clearance to talk to this guy on death row.”

  “What about you?” Severo asks, nodding to Cain.

  “I’ll go to the hospital and see if Mario James Anderson feels like talking. His life was spared for a reason, so he must have something to say.”

  Chapter 13

  With Sing Sing nearly an hour away, I get comfortable in the passenger seat as Severo and I head out to meet Philip Martin. With Monday morning traffic to compete with, this may be a long ride. Hell, it might take an hour just to get through the core and out to the expressway.

  Despite my unease with seeing that photograph at the scene, I have to focus on what to ask the convict. Whatever he has to say may lead us to our killer, and nabbing him off the streets is the most important thing to me right now.

  “You think he’ll cooperate?” I ask Severo, angling in my seat to watch his reaction.

  His hair is damp from the early morning rain, and his eyes are intent on the road ahead, but I’m glad he has accepted my determination in finding this killer. There is no way I’m going to sit back and watch as everyone but me takes action with what could be our best possible lead yet.

  “You never know,” he says softly, and I can tell he’s a bit worried about my apparent involvement in this case. I don’t know what the killer wants with me, but he’ll find out soon enough that I don’t play nice with strangers. “Have you ever met someone on death row?”

  “Can’t say I have. Though I’ve heard stories.”

  “Yeah,” Severo breathes, almost with a laugh, but his voice is undercoated with a reality I can’t yet relate to. “We can pretty much expect one of two scenarios.”

  His face turns a bit to his right, and meets my glance for a moment before focusing again on the drive. “This guy will either be newly repentant and want to amend his ways by helping us out, like it’s some sort of debt he needs to repay to society before he goes. Or…”

  “Or we’ll be the last people on earth he’ll want to talk to,” I admit, realizing the odds are probably not in our favor.

  “What we have on our side, though, is that we’re not after him, exactly. That may make it easier for him to talk to us, seeing how we’re not trying to dig into his past, per se.”

  “Philip was one, too, ya know,” I say, my eyes skimming t
he printed-out pages from this morning’s research. “An apostle, that is. Damn it, Severo, how did he do this? How did this guy figure out who to kill? And for what?”

  His subtle shrug shouldn’t be confused with uncertainty. I can see Severo is wrapping his thoughts around this case like it’s the only thing that matters to anyone right now. And, well, it is. If there are another potential eight targets out there, we have to stop this man before he goes too far.

  “I think it’s safe to go with the name connection,” the detective says, making the transition onto the expressway. “I also think there’s another reason he chooses them. Could be the connection they each have to some religious organization or whatever, but there has to be something with that. Despite the textbook definition on serial killing, this guy has already tossed any tested theories out the door. He seems to know his victims personally, and they are anything but random.”

  “Does that scare you?” I ask, hoping to get an honest reaction to such a simple question. As part of our jobs, we’re supposed to know what’s going on and have the confidence to set it straight, but we can’t be robotic about things. Human nature isn’t always just, but it does leave room for fear, even among the good guys.

  “A little. It just means we have to work that much harder, that much faster at putting the pieces together. Now that we know the superficial elements,” he says, leaning toward the dash to wipe a condensation smudge off the inside window. “It’s time to go deep.”

  As I reach to the stereo to turn on some music, anxious to pump some adrenaline into my blood, Severo’s hand meets mine and stops me at the volume control. “Hey, Angie, about that photo—”

  “I’m fine. I’m just pissed off,” I say, showing my anger. “I’ll have to have a better look around the apartment and see if anything else is missing. Creeps me out, is all.”

  He holds my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before returning his to the wheel. “Whatever this guy’s up to, he’s trying to make it personal. But don’t let him do that. Don’t let him get the better of you. It’s what he wants, ya know?”