The Profiler Read online

  There is a serious glare in Severo’s eyes as he stares at nothing in particular, focusing his thoughts on the crime. “Then it also means our yet-to-be-discovered doer seriously knows his shit. To leave no trace anywhere?”

  “Exactly,” Cain says, and in his voice I notice a switch in tone, as though this is the moment he’s been waiting for. The moment where a case provides enough information to formulate opinions and create the initial impression of a profile.

  “From where we’re at—and Angie, listen up—here’s what I figure.” As Cain begins to deconstruct the making of our man, he scribbles down his thoughts as quickly as he speaks. “This guy is middle age—maybe late forties, but I’m thinking early fifties? I say that on account of the victims and their age range. There’s something about this guy to make me think he wouldn’t go outside of his own peer group to make his point. Caucasian, that’s for sure. We can assume he’s intelligent and we know he’s exacting in what he does. And as you’ve pointed out, Detective, he knows what he’s doing. That’s not good news for us.”

  I keep my ears open to the two of them as they begin to debate the clues, but I multitask by reviewing the material submitted by the medical examiner. Various substances were found on the body, and consequently at the scene, but not one stands out to unleash our killer’s MO.

  Gasoline, oil, lighter fluid…all the usual ingredients an amateur arsonist would utilize. I focus on these details, crossing fingers that a theory will soon come to fruition. There is only one idea I cling to at the moment.

  “He wanted them to suffer.”

  Cain swallows some of his hot beverage and turns his attention from Severo to me. “Go on.”

  “Well, he wasn’t burning them to death.” Looking to my mentor, I explain. “He burned them, yes. They died, yes. But he wasn’t killing them by fire alone.”

  I stand and circle my desk as I think aloud. Removing the crematorium’s historical brochure from a desk drawer, I hand it to Cain. “Somewhere in there it describes the cremation process. For a body to burn as it should, under normal cremation circumstances, the fire must reach 2,800 degrees Fahrenheit, and burn for about thirty minutes.”

  I top up my mug, adding a pleasant dose of cream—thanks to the detective—and lean against the service station ledge. “Gasoline will only reach 1,500 degrees.”

  Cain looks at me, nodding to confirm my observation. “It wouldn’t be hot enough to destroy the bodies.”

  “So if he wanted to kill them and destroy all evidence,” Severo adds, “gasoline was not the way to do it.”

  I keep my eyes off the detective, not wanting to acknowledge his understanding, after our personal misunderstanding last night. “The fire would damage them, and the smoke could kill them, but the flames alone would not disguise the crime.”

  “And,” Severo adds, “we know Matthias Killarney only suffered fourth-degree burns. It wasn’t hot enough.”

  “Generally speaking,” Cain says, and both the detective and I watch as he talks out the science. “Seventy percent of a body’s skin needs to burn before death will occur. Severo, check the report on Killarney. What were the readings on his carbon monoxide levels?”

  Severo flips through a few pages. “Enough to suffocate.”

  “Exactly,” I say, beginning to grasp the evidence. “Killarney was alive during this whole thing. He suffered fourth-degree burns, but it was the carbon monoxide that killed him.”

  “Yeah, but you’re missing one point,” Severo argues. “How did he get from the cremation pit to the men’s mission? And what about La Roche? He survived through it. Made his way home, too. Explain that.”

  “Killarney was carried. The killer moved his body.”

  “Proof?” Severo asks, eyeing me, then my mentor.

  “His room at the mission was untouched. No trace evidence, not a drop. We know that much. Had he died at his residence, after walking up those stairs, he would have left a trail for us to follow. He had to have been carried in there by someone who knew how to cover his tracks, like Cain said. Someone who knew what we’d be looking for.”

  “And La Roche?” Severo asks, helping himself to a refill. “He was alive. You said it yourself.”

  I pace back and forth, staying clear of the detective’s path. “Yes, he was. But the M.E. confirmed that La Roche would have been on his way out anytime soon. He was old and frail, with a weak heart. Being in the pit with Killarney, and the killer, he would have suffered similar effects from the smoke, creating oxygen starvation. Even if he didn’t get burned, the lack of air in his lungs would affect the ability of his heart to perform. Essentially, he was poisoned.”

  Cain sizes up my argument and watches me intently, eager for me to take the lead in the criminal diagnosis. “Okay, kiddo. Why would the killer let La Roche go? If he was stable enough to make it home, there was no way to tell if he’d have a heart attack or not. For all the killer could tell, La Roche could’ve lived, identified him and closed the case.”

  Picking at the dried plant leaves that hang over the coffee service area, I pose a theory. “Not if the killer knew him. Not if he knew what state La Roche’s health was in.”

  “You think the killer knew Killarney, too?” Severo takes a seat next to Cain, and the two of them sit side by side as I continue to pace the office.

  “Yes, and that explains how a baker and a priest end up in the cremation pit.”

  Cain lets out a hearty guffaw. “Sounds like a bad bar joke to me, Detective.”

  “And,” Severo adds, “it doesn’t seem provable, Agent. It just seems mildly plausible.”

  I lean against the plain white concrete wall and press out a few kinks from my spine, but my eyes remain steady on the detective. “Maybe. But as far as I can see, our killer had to have known that La Roche could only go so far without dying of somewhat natural causes.”

  “Unless the doer wanted to get caught.” Severo and I both look to Cain when he says this.

  I begin to tape up the photos along the concrete office walls, so we can clearly see what we’re dealing with. “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Angie, this is where profiling comes in. Could be this guy is up to something, has something to say. We don’t know that yet. But they all have their games they like to play. They want us to be amused by what their wicked little minds can do.”

  I think back to the victimology classes at Quantico, describing just that—little clues left by the killer to taunt the investigators. But it doesn’t seem our guy has left us much to work with at either scene.

  Cain’s cell phone rings and he steps into the hall to take the call, away from me and the detective. I dump the remainder of my room temperature coffee into the small, rusted sink and wash out the mug. Severo’s throat clears and when I turn my head to face him, he is looking at me with wide eyes.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I set the mug upside down on a stiff paper towel. “What?”

  “Last night. What was that? I could have taken you home, you know. You didn’t need to walk out like that.”

  “And you didn’t need to follow me, Detective. You think I wouldn’t notice your Jeep trailing my cab?” I stare into his eyes as I wait for whatever lame excuse he can provide for his behavior.

  After I left his family at La Costa last night, during my cab ride home to Chelsea from the Midtown West café, I realized I wasn’t alone in my travels. Severo was trying his best to shadow my cabbie from a distance.

  From his expression, I see he had hoped I didn’t notice him last night. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

  “I’ve already told you,” I say, pushing unruly chunks of hair from my face, “I don’t need you to protect me.”

  “Hell, I know that. And listen, I live in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not like I was completely off track getting myself home. So don’t be getting all hissy on me. It was late and it was the gentlemanly thing to do. My apologies for being chivalrous.”


  I’m not sure I need to explain my stubbornness to the detective, but when Cain reenters the room, I don’t have to.

  “Looks like we got a live one. Oh! Bad choice of words,” he says, chuckling in between rough breaths. “Maybe not alive, but I bet we ought to check it out.” With his eyebrows arched into evil giddiness, my mentor looks at me, then at Severo.

  “Is it him?” the detective asks, as I wonder the same.

  “Could be. Who knows. But this one was found with the good book in hand, so it’s worth checking out.”

  I look to Cain for answers. “The Bible?”

  My mentor winks at me, then shrugs as he says, “Is there any better book to die with, kiddo?”

  Chapter 7

  “Thomas Devlin,” Cain says, nudging at the victim. “Some kids were trekking through the shortcut this morning and found him here, stuck like a pig.”

  My eyes trail the narrow path, which leads from the building to the parking lot. It’s obviously worn with traffic, but doesn’t appear to be a main access point to anything other than dumping bins.

  We’ve gathered outside the City College campus of CUNY, just west of St. Nicholas Park in northern Manhattan, and the winter chill that was only yesterday playing in the air is now on full-time duty.

  A group of teachers and students, bundled in jackets and scarves, linger in the distance outside the North Academic Center, trying to capture a look at the scene. I’m surprised to see so many here on a Saturday morning, but apparently bright yellow caution tape has a way of drawing people in rather than keeping them away.

  “Devlin taught night classes to continuing ed students,” Cain reads from his notebook. “Guess last night was his final exam.”

  I lean over the body, which seems carelessly propped against the brick building, and take in the sight.

  The victim’s body is pierced through with four swords. From each direction, they point inward, as though he were attacked simultaneously by four different assailants.

  “Got to hand it to the students,” Severo says, stepping up beside me. “At least the scene doesn’t appear to be compromised. Damn good thing no one around here collects swords.”

  “Probably didn’t want to lose their course credit,” Cain retorts, stepping aside for a CSU photographer.

  “What was he a professor of?” I ask, wanting to understand more of this man’s life, as it could help us solve his death.

  Flipping through his notes, Cain reads off in a monotone drill. “English. Philosophy. History. Myths and legends. You name it. The guy was a regular brain-a-holic.”

  “Then why the Bible?” Severo asks to no one in particular.

  Cain lights up a cigarette, but backs away from me when I glance at him with distaste. His overcoat is undone and flaps in the breeze, exposing an untucked shirt.

  I squat down beside the body and evaluate the visuals. “Maybe he used it in class. To some, the idea of God is a myth. Or maybe he was just a follower. Anyone talk to his students?”

  “The school’s gathering a list. They’ll have it to us shortly.” Cain leans on the wire fence, which is apparently meant to block off shortcutters from the path. It doesn’t seem to be working, for the crisscrossed wires bend downward, creating enough space to step through.

  Severo is peering at me over the rim of his sunglasses. In his dark shades and bulky winter clothing he looks sporty and cosmopolitan, and I try not to get caught up in his stare. A crime scene is nowhere to dissect the mixed emotions I have developed for him.

  “Why’d we get the call?” I get back to my feet, closing my jacket tighter around me, protecting myself from the tunneling wind.

  “I told my captain about the crematorium,” Severo explains while walking around Devlin’s body. “With that scene being at a church, and this guy being found with a Bible, Captain Delaney must have figured we’d be interested in checking it out.”

  I pace around the victim in turn, trying to view the corpse from varying angles. “But swords? Seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

  “Choice of weapon can tell us a lot about the killer, kiddo,” Cain says, walking up to Devlin’s body. “Not every day you see swords on the street. It has to mean something.”

  “Hopefully there’s prints to be found,” Severo adds, before pointing a gloved finger to one sword’s entry point. “Or blood. Chances are the killer would have sliced himself by accident while sticking it to Devlin.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Cain says. I follow his movements as he meets an approaching middle-aged woman halfway and takes a small stack of papers from her. They exchange words, and when he returns to my side, he seems to have found some optimism.

  “What’s that?”

  “List of the professor’s students. But get this,” Cain says, handing me a sheet of printed paper. “Devlin was teaching them about the Lord, all right. In his myths class—Angie, good call—they were studying religious ceremony, Christianity, cults, you name it.”

  “Good to know,” I say, admittedly a little smug.

  “It’s not the same MO…but there is a small chance it’s the same guy,” Severo says, a frown showing his frustration.

  I watch the emotions he reveals, as I still can’t figure him out. For the most part, it seems Severo keeps his guard up while on the job, as any good cop would, but when I least expect it he warms up. Hell if I can figure it. But I don’t have the time nor the energy to think about the detective’s mood swings. There’s a more important—albeit less attractive—body in front of me, calling for attention.

  “Which means,” Cain says, bringing my focus to him, “we either have someone who has a lot of personal enemies or…?”

  I finish his sentence. “We have a serial on our hands.”

  Severo steps back, pulling his shades off to reveal the sincerity of his emotions. “Now wait just a minute. First off, let’s keep our voices down so as not to alarm any of these people,” he says in a hushed voice, nodding toward the loitering public. “Secondly, we can’t be jumping to any conclusions that this is a serial. I’ll buy into the theory our killer knew Killarney and La Roche, but there’s nothing here yet to tie him to Devlin. And even if there is, I wouldn’t say that qualifies as a serial.”

  “Why not?” I ask, sounding more defensive than I intended. I simply want to understand Severo’s disbelief.

  “By definition,” he says, “serials don’t do people they know. They find victims to fit the mold of whatever plan they have in mind. It’s usually more of a wrong place, wrong time type of thing.”

  “I know that much, Detective. But what about the Bible? You think it’s purely coincidence our other two vics were burned up at a church burial site, and this one here dies with the good book in hand? I don’t think so.”

  “I love it!” Cain chuckles, jabbing me in the side. “Play devil’s advocate, kiddo. Let your mind take you somewhere.”

  Though he’s prodding me along, I’m not yet sure my theories are tangible enough to share. But something in my gut tells me there’s a connection among these three bodies, and my father always said, “If in doubt, follow your instincts.” He knew what he was talking about, so I go with it.

  “Okay. Remember what we found in the crematorium? The carving in Latin? In nomine Dei.”

  The two of them look back to me and so I translate yet again, “In the name of God. Which should tell us the killer has some religious score to settle.”

  With doubt in his eyes, the detective gazes at me. “Yeah, but Agent David, if the killer is all about God, or whatever, he seems to be targeting the wrong men, as far as Killarney and Devlin go. They’re believers, not pagans.”

  I slide my tongue between my lip and inner mouth, tracing my teeth with its tip. I smack my lips, while thinking of what the possible answers could be. “Perhaps you should be thinking inside out, Detective.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The number one thing I was taught in training is to identify with the killer, not with the victim
.”

  “So,” Cain interjects, pleased with my statement, “how does it add up, kiddo?”

  “If I’m the killer and I’m after what appear to be God-fearing men, perhaps it is I who is the disbeliever.”

  With a nearly burned-out cigarette dangling from his lips, Cain puts his hands together and begins to clap. I’m sure he means well, but the gesture is a bit annoying. Even if I am right, there’s no need to carry on like that.

  “That’s my girl, eh? Eh, Angie. You got some smarts up there,” Cain says, waving in the direction of my head. “Detective? You gotta love this woman. She knows her stuff.”

  Severo snorts with little enthusiasm, then says, “Then our list of potential victims just got bigger. Besides, seems like a lame reason to kick off a killing spree. Because these men believe in God? There has to be more to it than that.”

  “Detective, I have no doubt,” Cain says, drawing us out of the way for the CSU to get closer to the body. “But hopefully we find this guy soon so we can ask him in person.”

  “How are we going to do that?” I step back from the scene, letting the icy air chill my senses. “So far he’s left nothing to lead us in the right direction. We’ve got three bodies within three days. Without trace to guide us, how will we find him?”

  “He wants to be found, Angie,” Cain says, motioning toward the CSU vans. “He wants us to know how smart he is for making us look like idiots. There’s going to be something that leads us to him. For now, we work with what we got.”

  As we drift away from the scene, I spot Severo’s Jeep parked along the roadside and think of the previous night. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was sitting in his passenger seat chomping on a stick of cinnamon gum.

  It wasn’t necessarily the highlight of my day, but I can’t help but feel a discomfort has grown between us, with the way we parted at the restaurant. Maybe I shouldn’t have reacted so childishly last night, but I’d thought we were having a good time. Who knows. Perhaps the detective was right in calling it an early night.