“I agree.”
“Does a particular kind of woman appeal to him?”
“Both victims have been young, in their early to midtwenties. Attractive. Petite.”
“Applies to a lot of women in this town.”
He nods. “Keep going.”
“Where does he kill?” I’m thinking aloud now. Random thoughts. Questions. Brainstorming.
“He needs privacy,” he says. “A place where no one can hear him.”
“Basement.”
“Deserted home or building.”
“Soundproof room.”
He throws up a roadblock. “If he has a wife, she would know about the room or basement.”
“Unless he has property somewhere else. Off-premises. Rental property.” I think about that a moment. “Why do you think the wife isn’t involved?”
“If she has a dependent personality and he controls her, she could be,” he concedes. “But it’s not likely. These murders are too brutal. This guy doesn’t hold back. He’s alone. Uninhibited. Living out his fantasy in absolute privacy.”
Silence falls. We look at each other. Tomasetti appears excited. A bloodhound that’s caught a scent.
“Assignments,” he says after a moment. “I need to know who’s doing what. Your officers. Sheriff’s office. So we don’t waste manpower repeating ourselves.”
I flip through my notebook, locate the page where I’ve jotted assignments. “I’ll have Mona type this for you.”
“I’ll finish this profile tonight.”
I nod. “Hand it off to Mona in the morning, and she’ll disperse it.”
He picks up the Slaughter house Killer file. “Can I take this?”
“As long as you bring it back in the morning.” I don’t ask him when he plans to sleep.
He rises. I catch a glimpse of a pistol in a shoulder holster when he stretches. A Sig Sauer semiauto. It strikes me that, for a cop, he knows how to dress. Pinpoint oxford shirt. Expensive tie. Nicely cut suit. Details I shouldn’t be noticing.
“See you in the morning.” He starts toward the door.
I watch him disappear down the hall. We didn’t accomplish much, but the profile is a start. I think I’ll be able to work with him. He’ll be an asset to the team. I hope it’s enough.
I look out the darkened window at the deserted street beyond where snow sparkles beneath the streetlights. I think about the killer and wonder if his dark hunger torments him tonight. I wonder if he’s out there, looking for his next victim. I wonder if he’s already picked her out.
CHAPTER 19
The Willowdell Motel was a dump, but then John hadn’t expected much. The management made an attempt to capture the quaint atmosphere of an Amish tourist shop, but only achieved Midwestern tacky. Second-rate carpet. Ugly bedspread. Peeling wallpaper in the bathroom. A heater that blew tepid air smelling of cigarette smoke and mildew. But the place was clean; a bed and a shower were all he needed. The TV worked, so he tuned it to the Fox News Channel and broke the seal on the bottle of Chivas.
He poured three fingers into a plastic glass and chugged half while his laptop booted. It was too late to call Harry Graves, his contact at CASMIRC, the FBI’s Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center, so he drafted an e-mail instead and made a mental note to touch base with him first thing in the morning. He poured a second glass of Chivas as he navigated the FBI’s Web site. VICAP wasn’t web-based, but he could access the forty-six page questionnaire online. Finding a signature match was a long shot, but sometimes long shots paid off. If a similar crime had occurred anywhere in the United States—and had been entered into VICAP—they might catch a break.
It took him an hour to fill out the form. Once the inquiry was sent, he opened the Slaughter house Killer file and began to read. He scribbled notes and tried to lose himself in his work, something that used to come with the ease of breathing. No more. Some days there was no escape from the dark places his mind chose to dwell.