Blown Away (16 page)

“That's comforting.”

“You want comfort, get a pet,” he said. “If it's one of your own people, we need to know.”

“It's crazy talk, Ellis,” she muttered. “Let's get back to the Unsub.”

“That's the first time you've used my name,” Marwood pointed out. “I appreciate the confidence that implies.”

She stopped to pull up her socks. “I have to trust you. Who else is left?”

He grinned, and they resumed running. “The Unsub shoots accurately under pressure, steals cars, picks locks, plants explosives. Murders people without raising alarms, sweet-talks a kid into stripping naked in front of cops. That kind of expertise practically shouts ‘commando.'”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Plus he'd learn to kill in Special Forces.”

“Kill professionally,” Marwood corrected. “Any moron can kill. Commandos kill objectively and dispassionately. They're every bit as professional as doctors, lawyers, and accountants.”

“Except they hurt people and break things.”

“Tools of the trade in an uncertain world,” Marwood said. “Of all the commando units in the U.S. military—Delta Force, Navy SEALs, Army Green Berets, Marine Force Recon—his specific skills suggest Green Berets. They blow up stuff like all the others but also have to blend in with their targets for years at a time. Anywhere on the planet, under any conditions. That makes them experts in human psychology. This guy is long haul, Emily, not quick hit. So I say he's a Green Beret. That narrows our search considerably.”

“But that's an elite unit, Ellis. Crème de la crème,” Emily argued. “Wouldn't he be tested? You know, psychologically? How could he get into any commando unit if he's a psycho?”

“Yes, yes, and not easily,” Marwood replied. “But it's not impossible, either. Here's why.”

 

“Son of a bitch,” Cross groaned when Benedetti dropped the
Chicago Sun-Times
atop the mountain of reports on his desk. “I thought this task force was leakproof.”

24
HOURS TILL CHECKMATE
!

KILLER ISN'T ‘SORRY'—MAYHEM

TIED TO COP'S BOARD GAMES
!

Benedetti shrugged. “It is. I think the Unsub called the
Times
to ratchet up the pressure on us. We'd better catch this man fast.”

Cross leaned back. “Gee. Now I know why I made you chief investigator.”

“Hey, I could have said, ‘We're pursuing any number of promising leads, and we're confident an arrest is imminent,'” Benedetti shot back. “But then you'd fire me, and I'd miss out on all this fun.” He sobered. “There's tons of good people on this task force, Ken. Any one of them can do my job. I'm renewing my request to join Emily's bodyguard detail.”

“Denied. Again.”

“Goddammit, why not?” Benedetti said. “It won't take long to train my replacement.”

“Because you like her too much. That's why.”

Benedetti stared. “You know?”

“It's my job to know.”

“How could you? I don't even know—”

“Yes, you do,” Cross said. “It's all over your face, tough guy. You light up like a Christmas tree whenever her name comes up.”

“Bullshit!”

“Don't kid a kidder, Marty. You like Emily a lot. Which is great. She's a damn good woman, and, well, you're OK for an old fart.” He motioned for Benedetti to sit. “I won't put you on the bodyguard team. You're too anxious to protect her from everything, like the other night in her basement, when you were unhappy she volunteered for the midnight shift. Your judgment is impaired when it comes to Emily. In a good way, but still impaired.”

Benedetti slumped into the chair. “I guess you're right. It shows, huh?”

“Worst-kept secret in the building. So forget bodyguarding. The Unsub provides all the risk I need right now.” He smiled. “Besides, someone's got to do my shit work.”

 

“Commando units attract men a little on the edge, anyway,” Marwood said. “Who else would volunteer for such life-threatening jobs? As for psychological testing, a determined enough psychopath—”

“‘Can break through any firewall,'” Emily said, quoting him. “My memory's not so bad you have to repeat every single thing. Shelby!” Her heart soared as the beloved neighborhood yellow Lab emerged from behind a family mausoleum. “C'mere, boy!”

“You know this dog?” Marwood said, slowing to a jog.

“Sure. Shelby's my favorite guy in Naperville besides you.” She squatted to clap and whistle. The big dog charged her way. “He belongs to one of my neighbors, but everyone's family to him.”

Marwood clapped his hands. “Come here, boy! Let's play!” He sounded so awkward, Emily laughed. “Not much experience with dogs, huh?”

“None. Except for those yappy little dust mops, Manhattan's not exactly dog country,” he said. He clapped louder. Shelby slowed, cocked his head.

“He usually likes strangers,” Emily teased. “He must sense you're up to no good.”

“Au contraire, Detective,” Marwood said. “He knows all about Calamity Em, and he's not getting near either of us.” Shelby woofed a couple times, then disappeared.

“Can't blame him,” Marwood said, sniffing theatrically. “If your bad karma didn't get him, your armpits would.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” she said. “Onward, Doc.”

“Right. Our Unsub is an only child. If not, then firstborn, the most independent of the clan. He grew up in a northern state, speaks American English perfectly. He spent time in Naperville doing research. Might even have landed a job on a local police department—clerk, dispatcher, something anonymous to the public—to gain an insider's perspective on you.” He kicked a loose stone. “Crooks profile us, we profile them. Helluva world.”

She told Marwood how Sheriff's Sergeant Rayford Luerchen acted toward her at the cemetery and library. “Then again,” she said, “Luerchen might hate me only because I embarrassed him.”

“That's probably it. I talked to the man, and frankly, he's not smart enough to pick his own nose. But let's have Commander Benedetti roust him, anyway, make sure it's not an act.” He scratched his head. “Hmm. That's the same Benedetti who claims—”

“I don't want to hear it,” Emily warned.

Marwood shook his head, flinging drops of sweat. “Defending your friends is admirable, Detective, but everyone's guilty till proven otherwise.”

“Including you,” Emily challenged.

“Of course, including me,” he replied. “Everyone knows if the butler didn't do it, the shrink did.”

“You can't be the Unsub,” she said, pointing out Jack's tombstone. “You weren't in the military.” She grinned at Marwood's startled expression. “I had nothing else to do waiting for physical therapy, so I profiled you, too. Now tell me how you deduced all this nonsense.”

 

Cross pointed to the printouts in Benedetti's arm. “Good news from Iraq?”

Benedetti nodded. “I took the download on my own computer and encrypted it so deep that God couldn't source it to Annie's friend.”

“Excellent. How fast can we sort through the names?”

“That's the bad news. He sent the complete personnel abstract of every American soldier since the Civil War. Not just Special Forces, but everyone.”

Cross winced. “That's millions of names. The captain really does love Annie.”

Benedetti nodded. “This business sucks sometimes.”

“Yes. But you know the stakes. Annie, knew, too, or she wouldn't have agreed.” He took the printouts, fanned them like a deck of cards. “Let's sort these by distance from Emily's home addresses,” he suggested. “Nearest to farthest away, every place she's lived.”

“Because she'd more likely know someone from the old neighborhood than from Fairbanks or Guam,” Benedetti agreed. “I'll get the computer guys on it. One other thing. I'd rather Marwood not know we have this.”

Cross looked surprised. “Why not?”

“I know he's your guy and all. But he's not a cop and doesn't have to play by our rules.” Benedetti tapped the newspaper as case in point. “Soon as these are sorted, we'll call her in. She finds a name, I'll tell the doc so he can add it to the profile. Till then, let's keep it to ourselves.”

Cross considered that. “I'm trusting Ellis Marwood with Emily's life, Marty. But she trusts you with hers. Handle it as you see fit.”

 

“Naperville's a white city,” Marwood explained, running backwards a few yards, then turning. “Which means the Unsub is.”

“White man scopes out a residential neighborhood, and everyone assumes he's a builder looking at teardowns,” she said, following his reasoning. “Black man does it, and the neighbors call 911.”

“Correct. That's also why he's from the Midwest or another northern state. The y'all speech pattern of Dixie would stick out like a sore thumb here.”

The heel strikes of her fast gait sparked her bruises like tiny cattle prods. She slowed. “Why do you think he's retired military?”

“If he was active, he'd be overseas hunting Osama. So our guy's retired. Honorable discharge, of course. Anything less would have limited his career options too much.”

Her brain grappled with the overload of information. “You said he hunts,” she said, recalling her own Winchestertoting weekends with her father. “What? Deer? Birds?”

“Big game. Grizzly bears, Cape buffalo, warthogs—animals that bite back. Even better, banned animals, like elephants and hippos. Eluding the poaching police adds to the rush.”

“Like this guy needs more adrenaline,” she said.

“He does, actually. To practice controlling it. Going after dangerous animals is the best way to mimic hunting a cop—you miss, you die. That's also why he climbs mountains. Successfully managing the adrenaline rush bolsters his confidence.”

She looked at the popcorn clouds, not knowing what to say.

Marwood slowed to match her pace as they crested the cemetery hill. “The naked kid is most interesting. When you were his age, didn't you assume adults were always on the up-and-up?”

“Sure.”

“Me, too. But that's changed. Today's youth assume a con job unless proven otherwise.”

“But the naked kid said yes,” Emily said.

“Uh-huh,” Marwood said. “That makes the Unsub normal-looking, probably handsome. If he was short, fat, ugly, bald, crippled, or cross-eyed, had crooked teeth, bad breath, or acne, the kid would've told him to get lost. We all avoid doing things for people we don't like. Conversely, if the person's good-looking, muscular, intelligent, and mesmerizing, we do what he or she asks. We like to please the people we're attracted to.”

“I arrested a con man once,” she said. “He could charm the scales off a snake.”

“Their livelihood depends on earning the trust of their victims,” Marwood said. “So they work hard at being attractive, charming, and helpful. Ask the women who survived Ted Bundy. They wanted to bring him home to meet the folks.”

The Unsub was becoming more alive. “Someone mentioned classic markers of a serial killer,” she said, irritated she couldn't recall who said it. “What are those, and how do they fit this guy?”

 

Benedetti closed the interrogation room door and dialed Emily's cell phone. Hardly the stuff of the gritty homicide dick he prided himself on being, but he didn't care. He needed to hear her voice.

He got voice mail.

“Dammit,” he grumbled, recalling that Annie had confiscated Emily's phone on the way to the safe house. “I miss you, toots,” he said after the beep. “I hope you're all right.”

 

Marwood stretched his arms back. “Virtually every serial killer did three things when they were boys,” he said. “Wet the bed, set fires, tortured animals.”

“What kind of animals?” she said, anger welling.

“Puppies, kittens, mice, squirrels. You name it. He feeds them rat poison and watches them convulse. Clubs them with baseball bats. Sets them on fire. Sticks them in a microwave till they explode. If real animals aren't available, he catches flies and rips off their wings. Drops goldfish into gasoline. Crushes the backs of ants to see the front ends squirm.”

“Gross!”

“Sure is. But show me a little boy who does all three things consistently—tortures animals, wets the bed, and set fires—and I'll give you a future serial killer.”

“If it's so obvious,” Emily objected, “then why aren't these monsters stopped early?”

“Because we don't see little Hannibal Lecter eating corn-flakes at the kitchen table. We see little Johnny in a sailor suit, rehearsing his lines for the Easter pageant. The rare times we notice something disturbing about their behavior, we say boys will be boys, we all played with matches, I wet the bed myself, no big deal, he'll grow out of it. But a psychopath doesn't. Not without early, forceful intervention, and even then it's only fifty-fifty.” Marwood tacked in behind her. “The man behind us doesn't look familiar,” he said. “He's one of ours, right?”

Emily whirled to the figure half blocked by a tombstone. “That's not a man, you goof,” she chided. “That's Annie!” She tried not to flinch at the long-barreled Remington in Annie's hands.

Marwood moved back to her side.

A minute later they reached Jack's grave. “This is it, Ellis,” she wheezed through pounding ribs. “The goal of my fun run. Hope it's everything you wanted.” She grabbed her ankle to stretch, turning her head to hide the sudden tears.

“Why did you decide to become a cop?” Marwood asked.

Not trusting her voice, she inspected Jack's headstone. She spotted a spiderweb inside the first
K
, dug it out with her little finger. She wiped the sticky thread on her T-shirt, brushing the Glocks underneath.