for him, for his pain. She understood his motive for coming today—sitting back and waiting would be hell on earth for a take-charge man like Andersen.
When the door clicked shut behind him, several moments of awkward silence ensued. Then the mayor cleared his throat and called the meeting back to order. After chastising Parks for the tone with which he had addressed the victim’s father, he opened the floor to the two chiefs of police. They shared every step of the investigation so far—who had been interviewed, what had been gleaned from those interviews—and they assured the politicians no stone was being left unturned.
“I don’t want to hear about turning over stones,” Pinkston snapped. “I want to hear about a suspect. I want to hear you tell me you’re going to catch this sick bastard and I want you to tell me how you’re going to do it.”
Chief Lyons of the CMPD turned to Pete Harrison, his lead investigator. “Harrison?”
The man nodded. “We have a suspect. Apparently, the night Joli was murdered she spent the early part of the evening in a club with friends. There was a guy there who was hitting on her most of the night. Really coming on strong. She wasn’t interested and humiliated him in front of a group of people. Called him loser and told him to crawl back under whatever rock he’d emerged from.
“He blew his top. Told her he’d make her sorry and stormed off. A witness, one of the club’s patrons, says she saw the guy in the parking lot later that night, around the time Joli left. Unfortunately, nobody knew who he was. He’d never been in that club before, paid with cash. And nobody’s seen him since.”
Andersen’s attorney made a sound of disbelief. “You’re saying you can’t find this guy?”
“Haven’t found him yet,” Harrison corrected. “We will, trust me. We’ve got descriptions of him with every bartender in Mecklenburg County. He’ll resurface.”
“And when he does,” Harrison’s partner, Roger Stemmons, added, “we’ll be there.”
“I hate to rain on anyone’s parade, but I don’t think we should pin our hopes on this guy,” Agent Parks offered. “He sounds like a disorganized inadequate, same as our UNSUB, but the—”
“Excuse me,” Mayor Pinkston interrupted. “Our what?”
“Unknown subject. As I was saying, the other descriptions we have of him and of his behavior don’t fit the profile.”
For the second time that morning, all attention focused on Connor Parks. “Profile?” the mayor asked.
“Mumbo jumbo,” Stemmons muttered, tossing his pencil onto the table.
“A psychological portrait of a killer,” Connor told the mayor. “We create this portrait by comparing what we know about criminal behavior to the details of a particular crime scene. They’re quite accurate.”
Connor looked at Stemmons, his expression bland. “Actually, there’s nothing metaphysical or mystical about profiling. Our conclusions are based on data collected from actual crimes and hundreds of hours of interviews with known serial killers and rapists.”
Stemmons scowled. The mayor settled more comfortably in his chair. “So, tell us about this UNSUB, Agent Parks. What kind of man are we dealing with here?”
“He’s a white male,” Connor began. “Twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. He’s handsome and in good shape. He works out, most probably at a health club.
“He’s a professional man, doctor, lawyer, accountant,” he went on. “If not successful, he has the trappings of success—the clothes, the car. A BMW is my guess. But one of the smaller ones, a 300 series, maybe. A few years old.”
One of the SBI guys inquired about Connor’s reasoning; he responded with the same theory he’d presented to Melanie at the scene a week ago—Joli Andersen had been both beautiful and rich and since it appeared she had gone with this UNSUB willingly, he would have had to meet certain requirements.
Melanie spoke up. “He’s right about that. From interviews with her friends and co-workers, I learned that although Joli was an outrageous flirt, she was picky about who she dated. She had real high standards. He had to be good-looking. And he had to be well off.”
“Exactly,” Connor murmured, then continued. “His neighbors would describe him as nice. Quiet, maybe even shy. He lives or works near the crime scene, he picked the Sweet Dreams Motel for that reason.”
“How near?” Chief Lyons asked. “Three or four miles is my guess. But no more than ten.”
That caused a ripple of interest at the table, but Connor ignored it and moved on. “As evidenced by the whore/madonna aspects of his ritual and the fact that he didn’t penetrate the victim naturally, he had a strained but obsessive relationship with his mother. He has a history of broken relationships with women. If married, the union is an unhappy one.”
“What about priors?” Bobby Taggerty asked.
“Good question. If there’s anything, it’s nothing serious. No convictions. He frequents prostitutes, you may find a charge for soliciting.” Connor fell silent a moment. “This UNSUB hasn’t killed before, but he will again.”
A buzz moved around the conference table. Harrison spoke up first. “You sure about that, Parks?”
“Positive. He’s been nurturing his fantasy for a long time. With Joli the fantasy got out of control, because unlike the hookers he’d experimented with, Joli stopped behaving as he wanted her to. In an effort to control her, he killed her. Killing her provided him with a powerful sexual jolt. He’s going to want that again. He’s going to crave it.”
“We could check out the hospitals,” Harrison murmured, “the doctors’ and lawyers’ offices in that area, start putting together a list of names of guys who fit this description.”
“Do the same with the health clubs, cross-reference the lists, see how many matches we have,” Stemmons added.
Connor nodded his agreement. “I also suggest questioning the area prostitutes. Like I said, our UNSUB’s been working out the details of this fantasy for some time. He’s practiced it on hookers. There are girls out there who know this guy by his ritual.”
The man with Connor stood and introduced himself as Steve Rice, the Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, of the Charlotte field office of the FBI. “We should stake out the cemetery where Joli’s buried,” he said. “Set up video cameras. This kind of killer routinely visits his victim’s grave as a way of reliving his fantasy. It’s so stimulating for them, we often catch them masturbating.”
“Jesus,” Braxton muttered, looking as sickened as he sounded.
“If the stakeout yields nothing,” Rice continued, “try flushing him out by engineering a big story about Joli in the Charlotte Observer, a human-interest piece. Get them to run a couple good pictures. Get him stirred up, excited. And keep those cameras trained on her grave. Trust me, it works.”
For several minutes various other investigative avenues were discussed. When the discussion died down, Mayor Pinkston stepped in once more. “I’m encouraged by what we’ve done here today,” he began, the consummate politician easing into his shtick.
While
