They didn't immediately announce themselves as Feebies when they entered my office, without knocking. But both wore tailored gray suits, Harvard ties, spit-shined shoes, and crew cuts. Who else could they be -- yearbook committee?
"Lieutenant Daniels?" The one on the right continued before I acknowledged him. "I'm Special Agent George Dailey. This is Special Agent Jim Coursey."
Special Agent Coursey nodded at me.
"We're from the Bureau," Special Agent Coursey said.
Special Agent Dailey nodded at me.
Dailey was slightly taller, and his hair a shade lighter, but that minimal difference was negligible. They could have been clones. And knowing our government, they might have been.
"We're both ViCAT operatives of the BSU."
"The Violent Criminal Apprehension Team of the Behavioral Science Unit."
"We've done a profile of the perpetrator, and we have a printout of possible related cases with percentile rankings of same suspect likelihood."
"Are we going too fast for you?"
I said, "You're early."
They looked at each other, then back at me.
"The sooner we give your people an idea of what we're looking for, the sooner we catch him," Dailey said.
Coursey dropped his briefcase onto my desk and snapped it open, pulling out a packet of neatly stacked paper. He handed me the top sheet.
"Are you familiar with profiling?"
I nodded.
"Profiling of repeat and recreational killers is done with the ViCAT computer at Quantico." Dailey had apparently missed my nod. "We enter specific details about the murder, including but not limited to the condition of the corpse, location it was found, method of demise, signs of ritualism, physical evidence, witness testimony, and any beforehand information about the deceased. The computer analyzes the data and gives us a rough description of the suspect."
"For example," Coursey took over, "our suspect is a male Caucasian, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-nine. He's right-handed, and owns a station wagon or truck. He's blue collar, probably a factory worker, possibly in the textiles industry. He is an alcoholic, and prone to violent rages. He frequents western bars and enjoys line dancing."
"Line dancing," I said.
"He also wears women's underwear," Dailey added. "Possibly his mother's."
I felt a headache coming on.
"As a juvenile he set fires and committed relations with animals."
"With animals," I said.
"There's a high probability he's been arrested before. Possibly for assault or rape, probably on elderly women."
"But he's impotent now."
"He may also be gay."
I lifted my coffee cup to my lips and found it was empty. I lowered it again.
"He hears voices."
"Or maybe just one voice."
"It could be the voice of his mother, telling him to kill."
"Maybe she just wants her underwear back," I offered.
"He may be disfigured or disabled. He might have severe acne scars, or scoliosis."
"That's a curvature of the spine," Dailey added.
"Is that a hunch?" I asked.
"Just an educated guess."
I thought about explaining the joke to them, but it would be wasted.
"He may have been dropped on his head as a child," Coursey said.
He probably wasn't the only one.
"Gentlemen." I wasn't sure where to begin, but I gave it a try. "Call me a skeptic, but I don't see how any of this is going to help us catch him."
"First of all, you should start staking out western bars."
"And local textile factories that have hired someone with a criminal record within the last six months."
"I could stake out the zoo too," I said. "He may be sneaking in at night and committing relations with animals."
"I doubt it." Coursey furrowed his brow. "The profile says he's impotent now."
I rubbed my eyes. When I finished, the two of them were still there.
"Of course, the profile may change slightly as more data becomes available," Dailey said.
"If he kills again."
"When he kills again."
They looked at each other and nodded smartly.
I wondered, in all seriousness, what would happen if I pulled my revolver and shot one of them. Would the other one arrest me, or would he wait to see if my profile showed the proper aptitude for the crime?
"Here's the statement we're releasing to the press." Coursey handed me another piece of paper. "Now that we're assigned to the case."
"We still have jurisdiction." I let some irritation show. "No state borders have been crossed."
"Not yet. Until then, we're just consultants."
"Simply a tool for you to use."
"To help make things run smoother."
There's a laugh for you.
"This" -- Dailey handed me more papers -- "is a list of reasons why we've pegged the murderer as organized rather than disorganized. You're familiar with the concept of grouping serial criminals as either O or DO?"
I nodded. He went on, paying me no heed. I had a feeling this entire meeting could have been conducted without my presence.
"DO, or disorganized criminals, usually have little or no planning stage. Their crimes are spur of the moment, either lust-or rage-induced. Signs of guilt or remorse can usually be found at the scene, such as something covering the victim's face; an indication the killer doesn't like the accusation of a staring pair of eyes. Clues in the form of physical and circumstantial evidence abound, because the DO type doesn't stop to cover them up, or only does as an afterthought."
"I'm familiar with the labels." I stated it, distinctly, precisely.
"The organized type," he went on. Perhaps I hadn't been clear enough. "Usually spends a lot of time on the planning stage. The perp may spend days beforehand fantasizing about the murder, plotting out every detail. He won't leave evidence intentionally, and usually the victim bears no sign of savage, uncontrollable violence. The injuries, while they can be sadistic, are more focused and controlled."
"We've come up with one hundred and fifteen reasons why we believe this killer is the organized type," Coursey said. "And we'd like to take an hour or so to go over them with you."
I was ready to fake a heart attack to get them to leave, when Benedict walked into my office, saving me the trouble.
"Jack, we got a lead on that Seconal. Sixty milliliters were purchased by a Charles Smith on August tenth of this year at the Mercy Hospital pharmacy."
"Have we found him?"
"He gave a fake address. There are seventeen Charles Smiths in Chicago and twelve more in the rest of Illinois, but it looks like the name is fake too."
"What about the doctor?"
"That's how we nailed it down. The doctor's name was Reginald Booster."
The name was familiar.
"The unsolved murder from Palatine a couple months back?"
"That's him. He was killed at his home on August ninth. I had the file faxed to us and I've called his daughter. We're meeting her at the house at one."
"Let's go." I stood up and grabbed my jacket, thrilled to be actually doing something on this case.
"We'll go over this when you get back," Dailey said.
It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I left without acknowledging them, but felt no moral victory in being rude.
They hadn't noticed.
Chapter 7
HE KNOWS WHERE SHE LIVES.
He knows where all of them live, but this one was easier to find than the others. It was just a matter of looking her up in the phone book. T. Metcalf. Did women really think they were fooling anyone by only allowing the first initial of their name to be published? Who else but women did that?
He watches her apartment from his truck. Theresa Metcalf. The second whore to die. He's parked across the street, binoculars aimed at her window, peering through her open blinds. There's movement in the apartment. He knows it's her, getting ready for work.
He has her schedule down better than she does. As usual, she's running late. When she finally hits the street, it will be in a rush. But she never runs, and she never calls a cab. Work is five blocks away. She always walks the same route. Human beings are creatures of habit. He's counting on that.