Chapter 2: The Risk: Chapter 2

As a human being, one has been endowed with just enough intelligence to be able to see clearly how utterly inadequate that intelligence is when confronted with what exists.

—Albert Einstein.

I finish off my croissant while staring at the gory crime scene photos.

Blood is smeared across the walls with a paintbrush, just like the other four cases we’ve managed to link together. It’s one of the few things that remains consistent. The unsub always paints a wall red with the victim’s blood.

“How can you eat while seeing that?” Elise asks while wrinkling her nose and sitting down on the edge of my desk.

Ignoring her question, I ask, “What did they find out about Ben Harris?”

“The M.E. estimated that he was tortured for at least three days. He has parts of him that have been cut off, just like the others. Including the penis,” she sighs.

That has me cringing, just like any man would. One of these images is supposed to be a dismembered penis?

“His fingers were all cut off,” she goes on, pointing at one picture that was snapped of ten severed fingers lying on the ground. “His chest was slowly pulled off piece by piece. The unsub stopped the bleeding each time by using a barbaric method of cauterization. He wanted the victim alive for those three days specifically. His penis seems to be the last thing to have gone. Ligature marks were found again, and chains were hanging from his basement rafters. We think the unsub stayed true to his profile, leaving the victim strung up in their own home. So far, all the men have had isolated homes too far away for any neighbors to overhear or see anything.”

And he’s not devolving either. His strikes are controlled, well planned out, and meticulous in detail, even if we don’t understand the details.

“The unsub should be a female, considering the groin mutilation in all the kills,” Craig says, shuddering as he walks up on our conversation. “Only a woman could handle cutting off a man’s junk.”

“Women serial killers statistically don’t torture. They’re actually far more efficient and harder to track down because of that,” Elise says dismissively.

“Well, he has to be impotent. Most serial killers are,” Alan chimes in, joining us.

There’s a reason he and Craig are not profilers.

“I think he’s more of a sexual sadist,” Elise explains. “Impotence likely plays a part, but just calling them impotent isn’t a profile.”

“So an impotent sexual sadist?” Craig asks, confused.

“Sexual sadists are often impotent, and they seek out their sexual release through the torture. No signs of rape were found, but it’s likely the unsub hasn’t evolved and grown the confidence to rape the men yet.”

“So a gay sexual sadist?” Craig goes on, still lost.

“Yes,” Elise says, nodding.

“All of the male victims were straight, according to witnesses. If they were gay, that theory would make more sense,” I add. “All five men were from the same town, yet no one can think of any man who might want to kill all five. However, I know we’re missing something.”

“Footprints are a size twelve man’s shoe made in the dirt on the way to the house. The footprint is solid from heel to toe. Our field expert says that the unsub weighs between two-ten and two-fifteen,” Elise announces.

“He’d have to be physically fit to be able to overpower these men the way the unsub has. And very built, most likely. The unsub is overpowering them with sheer brute force. Originally he was only killing alphas, which led to the profile being an alpha serial. But Ben, although physically fit and strong, was very submissive in his line of work. It was why he was so successful, because he liked being in the background instead of in charge.”

“Sexual sadism is far more likely, since the last kill. There may be a sexually frustrated trigger, which should narrow down our search. We should also adjust the profile. What else do we know about the victims?”

“These guys were tops of their classes in college, but they were all different ages—from twenty-three to twenty-eight. Victimology only links them through the town and through their isolated homes. They haven’t kept in contact, even though they were all friendly when they still lived in town. It’s possible the unsub hates the whole town, but why? Is it part vengeance?”

“Possibly,” I say more to myself than to Elise.

One kill in Boston. One kill in Denver. One kill in Long Island. One kill in Maine. And now one kill in our own backyard in Virginia. This guy is all over the map, shitting all over a normal hunting ground pattern.

It would seem random if we hadn’t made the connection to the same home town. But not the same school. Three of them went to a private school two towns over. So obviously this isn’t an old grudge dated back to school ages, especially given the age gap in the victims that would put them in different grades too.

“No kills have been reported in town,” I groan. “If it was just two, I’d call it a coincidence. But it’s five from that town, yet no deaths within the town limits. What do we know about the town?”

“Small. Very small. Five hundred is the population. In the past three years, nothing of any real interest has made the news, other than a wolf that attacked a man in his cow pasture. Very religious town.”

“Small, religious towns are notorious for making it hard on gay males. Especially small farm towns. You and Leonard head out there and see what you can find out. Ask about a physically fit male over six feet tall, age twenty to thirty-five, who might have been gay or showed interest in men. Given the religious aspect, it’s doubtful he came out. Ask if anyone seemed to struggle or demonstrate a nervous tic frequently after having any sort of contact with an attractive male. All the males killed so far have been physically fit, single, attractive, and very promiscuous with women. It’s possible the unsub had feelings for them at some point in time, and retaliated for them not returning the same affections.”

I purse my lips, wondering what we’re missing. The profile appears solid, and the evidence lines up to support it, but something just feels off. We should have made the connection sooner, but with all the kills so spread out over state lines, we just got wind of this two weeks ago, which was two weeks after the fourth victim.

“Anything else I need to note to the profile before we deliver it to the town’s PD?”

“Yeah,” I say, sitting up as I study the photos. “The unsub managed to enter each home without it looking broken into. Either the victims know the unsub and trust him enough to let him in, or they didn’t lock their doors. Tell them this unsub would have had to be social with them in order to establish that rapport. Also, have we found out what trophy is being taken? The unsub has a personal attachment to these men, and has a sadistic fantasy he’s playing out with each kill, though rape doesn’t seem to be a part of the fantasy just yet. Obviously he’s getting off on the torture alone for now, but given the long gap between kills, he’d need something to hold him over. He’d definitely be taking a trophy.”

One month between each kill. The time frame hasn’t been changed, and it doesn’t look like the unsub is falling apart any time soon, if ever. I was hoping for a rapid devolution that would cause him to start slipping up by now.

“We’ve checked the bodies over. All the flesh is left behind, and the hair is intact. Also, none of the males were missing jewelry or other personal items, but we can’t know for sure, since they all lived alone and had no one to account for their belongings.”

We’re missing something, damn it. And it’s driving me crazy.

“Go home and get some rest. You’ve been here all night,” Elise goes on, placing her hand on my shoulder. “A mind works better after some rest.”

“Dig deeper into the town’s past. Something has happened there that we don’t know about, and—”

“Rest,” she interrupts. “I know how to do my job. You’re useless if you don’t sleep.”

Cursing, I stand up and close the file, packing it up as Elise leaves with Leonard to head up north to Delaney Grove. It’s an odd town name, and I know I’ll have to see it for myself to get any real answers.

Just as I reach the door, Craig catches up to me.

“Did frostbite girl ever give you a call?” he asks, sounding bored. But I know it still pisses him off that she blew him off and chased me down. Even though he viewed the facts out of context and refused to take in the real process of those events.

Again, that’s why he sucks at profiling, but he’s good at public relations—his place on our team.

I open my mouth to tell him no, knowing it will make him feel vindicated and delighted, but my phone rings. My brow furrows when I see the unknown number, and I answer.

“Bennett here,” I answer.

“You use your last name when answering a phone, as though the person on the other line might not know whom they’ve just dialed. It’s a very impersonal greeting, which makes me wonder if you also struggle with detachment issues, Agent Bennett,” a familiar, feminine voice drawls.

My smile immediately forms, and I wink at Craig as he watches me, waiting for me to put him out of his nosy misery.

“So you really waited the standard three days to give me a call back?”

“Technically, I waited a nonconventional four days.”

Right. I haven’t been to sleep since we found the latest victim yesterday morning. I’m running on caffeine and sugar.

“Sorry. I’ve been up all night. It’s not another day until I’ve slept, so I’m still on day three. Will I have to wait four days in between all your calls? Or am I allowed to use this number when I want to?” I ask her, watching as Craig groans and huffs, pouting as he moves out of my way.

“Why have you been up all night?” she asks, diverting the question I asked her.

It’s a typical reaction from someone with detachment issues.

“My job. I miss a lot of sleep, and spend a lot of time on the road. I guess I need to say that now before asking you out on a date I may or may not have to cancel because of said job.”

I decide to toss everything out there right away, knowing she’s already skittish and leery of trusting. The second I read her, she went from cold to haunted in a blink, and those haunted green eyes have been seared into my memory.

With her defenses down, she was lost, almost worried about being hurt just from speaking to me. Call it a hero complex, but I found myself drawn to her right then.

“Good to know. I miss a lot of things too, and I keep weird hours.”

My smile only grows, since she’s opening up.

“What do you do?” I ask her.

She laughs lightly, and it’s a damn good laugh to hear. It doesn’t fit her. And it’s an easy, free laugh, as though she’s not even the same girl I spoke to a few days ago.

“I have an online buy, sell, and trade store. I take a cut from each sell or trade made, and I have to vet some of them if the deal looks too good to be true. For instance, I might have to take a spontaneous trip in the middle of the night if someone in Florida is trying to trade a million dollar yacht for ten thousand dollar car. I can’t approve a trade like that until I physically inspect the merchandise and see the proper paperwork. For sales, I can just hold the money paid until the property gets transferred. Trades, however, have to be done by the customers. I’m just a third party arranger who occasionally inspects.”

Listening to her talk with such ease is a little confusing to the way I had her depicted… I profiled her as detached and defensive, not easy-natured. Maybe I’m off my game because I’m tired and hearing ease when it’s really strain.

“Sounds like fun though,” I say lamely. Again, I blame sleep deprivation.

“Not always. Once I had to go inspect one of those ‘real’ dolls. You know? The sex dolls that are realistically made, unlike the blowup dolls. They’re worth like five grand and the guy was trading it for a small pony… Don’t even get me started with the concern there.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and I feel her smile.

“Is that the weirdest thing you’ve ever inspected?”

“While examining the vagina of a synthetic woman made complete with suction in all holes wasn’t the highlight of my career, it surprisingly wasn’t the weirdest.”

Again, I laugh, wondering why her switch has flipped from defensive to charming over the course of four days.

“So what was the weirdest?” I ask her.

“Tit for tat. What’s the weirdest case you’ve ever worked?”

I think about that as I get in my car. Most of the cases I work are serious, violent, and sadistic. But when I first started…

“I got recruited while I was in college after taking a test I didn’t realize was for the FBI. They decided I needed to come work for them, and I didn’t see any reason to argue. Anyway, my first case was a small one in Indiana. It was a perv who was collecting panties. At first glance, the guy was a sexual deviant who would eventually escalate to harder crimes than panty thieving. It’s why they called us in, because all these women were terrified of a stalker breaking into their homes and stealing their underwear. But the deeper I delved, the more I realized it was actually a juvenile kid. I still thought he was having sexual fantasies. It wasn’t until later we discovered he wasn’t stealing the panties for him. He was stealing them for his mother, because she always griped about her ‘cheap underwear riding up into the crack of her ass.’ You don’t even want to know how horrified the mother was when we finally found the kid. He hadn’t given her the underwear yet. He was putting them all in a box to give her for Christmas.”

She gasps then laughs, and I relax in my seat while driving out of Quantico, heading toward my house.

“Sounds awkward. But at least the kid wasn’t a sexual deviant.” There’s a tense note to her tone, but then she clears her throat while I yawn. “You really do sound tired. I’ll let you go.”

“I’m driving home. I have thirty minutes of free time. Keep me company.”

“Hmm, I guess you still want me to be your entertainment.”

My smile spreads. “I’d ask for more than just an amusing phone conversation, but I have to head back in as soon as I get some sleep. We had something new turn up in one of our cases, which means the workload is fresh again.”

“Hmmm, what would you ask for if you were able to ask for it?” she asks, sounding like she’s flirting now, which negates the defensive stance she held just days ago.

“I’d ask for dinner. Maybe even a movie if dinner went well and you didn’t have any deal-breaking faults.”

She snickers softly. “What faults would those be? Inquiring minds and all that.”

“The usual. Eating boogers. Drinking urine… Strap-on fetish where you’d be the one fucking me. I’m not into any of that.”

She starts laughing harder this time, and I listen, soaking it in. I don’t know why it feels like I’ve accomplished something by making her laugh. Then again, something tells me she probably doesn’t do it too often.

“Well, I never adopted a booger-eating habit. Drinking urine doesn’t appeal to me. I’ll just have a beer if I’m in the mood to drink something akin to piss. And I’ll hide my strap-on until you’re a little more comfortable with your sexuality to give it a go.”

“Taking a jab at my sexuality. Nice,” I state dryly, listening to her laugh some more as I continue to smile.

“So how do you profile people?” I muse when her laughter tapers off.

“How do I do it? Or why do I do it?” she counters.

“Both.”

“Well, I do it mostly based on body language in person, and micro-expressions, of course. I pay attention to the wording when it’s in writing. I listen to tone and wording over the phone. I do it because I run that online site, and you have to know the bull-shitters from the legitimate users.”

“You run the store alone?” I ask, hedging for more personal info.

“I have a business partner. He handles all the tech work, and developed a program to flag potential fake accounts. It cuts out a lot of hands-on work, even though we still sift through the accounts personally.”

“And this male partner is just a friend?” I ask, prying farther.

She hesitates, but then she sounds amused. “If you’re asking if I’m single, the answer is yes. Have been for a while. I wouldn’t have called you and flirted if I was with someone else.”

“Well, it sucks that I can’t take you out tonight before you get tired of waiting on me to have a free second. I’ll be working overtime in search of new leads. But if you’re up for coffee, I can meet you in the same place we met on my way back into the office in a few hours. Say five or so?”

“I prefer coffee in the mornings, but you can buy me a muffin. They have excellent muffins.”

“Coffee in the mornings,” I echo, my grin growing. “Duly noted.”

“Are you flirting with me, Agent Bennett?”

“Maybe a little. Are you ever going to tell me your name?”

“Oh, that’s right. You don’t know my name. It’s dangerous to talk to strangers, you know.”

“I’m aware. I profile serials for a living.”

She’s a somewhat tiny thing with haunted eyes, yet joking I should be wary of her. I’m sure the fact she knows I have a badge puts her at ease; she assumes all law officials are good souls with clean intentions. That tells me she’s never been in trouble with the law or had any issues with them at all.

“Serials?” she asks, her voice hitching a little, reminding me what I’ve said.

“Serial offenders. I graduated from serial panty robbers to serial killers. Hope that’s not an issue. I’ve had problems in the past keeping a relationship because of that.”

She clears her throat. “Um, no problem. But shouldn’t you keep things like that quiet from strangers?”

“It’s not classified. I’ve been on the news a time or two speaking. And besides, I’d rather we weren’t strangers. So what’s your name?”

She pauses for longer than I’d like. I’ve gotten her wrong and right, but I’m not sure to what degrees on either front. So I don’t even bother guessing why she’s quiet.

“It’s Lana. Lana Myers. Feel free to investigate me, Mr. Profiler.”

The light tone is back, and I cut down the final road to lead me home.

“I’d rather you surprise me, Lana Myers. I only run a non-invasive background check to make sure you’re not a felon or fugitive. That could be an issue, given my job,” I say, laughing lightly.

She laughs as well, then sighs. “Coffee later?” I ask her.

“Muffin, remember?”

“Right. Sorry. Sleep deprived.”

“I’ll see you later, Agent Bennett.”

“Definitely,” I tell her around a yawn as I pull into my house.

She hangs up, and I immediately type in her name in a text to Hadley.

HADLEY: What am I looking for?

ME: A criminal record only.

HADLEY: Done and done. She’s clean.

ME: That was fast.

HADLEY: That’s what she said.

Chuckling, I put my phone away, and I walk inside. My mind is tired, but I’m still running facts of the case over in my head, thinking of anything we might be missing.

The unsub tortures his victims for days, but not for the same amount of days. Three days this last time. Two days apiece on the first two victims. Four days on the third and fourth victims. The lack of consistency doesn’t make sense, neither does the targeted skin that is removed. It’s always different, except for the damn dick removal. Sometimes all the fingers are cut off. Sometimes they’re not.

My house is empty, quiet, and somewhat eerie, considering the case I’m working on. All the victims are a reflection of myself. Single. Alone. Physically fit. Living in a secluded area. Workaholics.

My closest neighbor is a mile down the road.

No one notices the victims missing for days on end. They all call into work. It’s a taped recording of a man’s voice, from what we can surmise, considering the words are exactly the same. None of the businesses record those calls, obviously, so we’re having to trust the person who received the call.

The last body was only found because one of his work colleagues came to find out why he didn’t come to work on the fourth day and never called in for that day.

It’s depressing to know that no one outside of work notices them missing. The same would hold true for myself.

My eyes scan my house out of habit, looking for anything out of place. Once I feel confident nothing has been disturbed, I take off my gun, set my alarm, and then I drop to the bed.

My eyes close, and I expect to see the images of dead bodies like I always do.

Instead, I’m lost in a set of haunted green eyes I’ll be seeing later.