The Profiler (11 page)

A low keening wail started from the pit of his belly, his muscles cramping and twisting and flinching as the howl made its way up his windpipe and out through his clenched teeth. The pain in it hurt his ears and his hands came up around his head in an effort to block out the noise.

“Sally…Sally…Sally… Why?”

He’d loved her with everything that he was. He’d have given her the world. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. He hadn’t meant any of it.

But now she’d disappeared. The cops had been there. They’d told him so.

He howled again and swiped at the snot hanging from his nose. Tears had soaked into his T-shirt, turning the dirt that streaked it a muddy gray. His hair hung lank and unwashed around his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. Not since Sally had gone, that was for sure.

Taking another deep breath, he pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the bag of white powder that sat on the lid of the toilet. He picked up the belt and tightened it around his arm with a hand that shook. It took him four attempts to make his lighter work, but finally, he held the bluish-orange flame to the blackened, old teaspoon.

With the fingers of one hand, he drew the drug up into his last syringe, careful to drain every last drop. Crazed with need, he sank the sharp tip into his vein and pushed the dispenser home.

Relief surged through him. Oblivion was only seconds away.

* * *

Ellie strode into the squad room and came to a halt in front of Clayton. He glanced up from the file spread across his desk.

Her normally arrow-straight hair looked mussed and untidy as it curled riotously around her face. She grabbed at the wayward strands and tucked them impatiently behind her ears, a frown marring the smooth skin of her forehead.

He busied himself shuffling papers around on his desk while he brought his traitorous pulse rate under control. She leaned toward him, peering at the file opened on his desk.

“What have you got there?” she asked.

“Good morning to you, too, Detective Cooper.” He leaned back in his chair and stacked his hands behind his head. The movement took him further away from her and he sighed under his breath, unsure if he felt disappointment or relief.

She blushed and glanced down at her feet. “Yeah, well, good morning, Fed.”

He let that go. “It’s the old file on Wayne Peterson. I’m sure you remember him? He got released about three months ago.”

Her eyes widened. “You think that piece of scum could be responsible for our girls?”

Shaking his head, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Who knows? Maybe. It’s just something I’m looking into. After all, the bastard’s just done ten years for violent assault and rape—perhaps he’s upped the ante?”

“Yeah, well they usually learn how to hone their skills inside, don’t they? Not many, the likes of Collins, come out better off.” She propped her hip on his desk. “What made you finger him? I thought you liked the professor?”

“Yeah, I did. I still do, but I’m just canvassing all angles. I think it’s worth checking Peterson out.” With a grimace, he leaned over and picked up the file. “Where do you want me to start?” He flipped over the first couple of pages and began reading.

“First arrest, twelve years old. Stealing women’s underwear off clotheslines.” He looked up at her. Ellie raised an eyebrow. He shrugged unapologetically. “I got hold of his juvie record.”

“What else?”

“Next arrest was when he was fourteen. A bit more serious that time. Caught setting fire to a neighbor’s cat. He was let off with a good behaviour bond. A string of arrests for assault—all before he turned sixteen. He finally landed in juvie just before his seventeenth birthday. He put a bloke in hospital for a month after a fight over a girl. Seems like he wasn’t happy with the way the victim looked at her.”

Ellie’s lips thinned. “And the rest of it, as they say, is history.”

“You got it in one.” He consulted the file again. “Got into drugs while he was in detention—just grass, by the look of it, but by the time he’d hit the big time, he was hooked on some pretty heavy stuff.”

With a sound of disgust, he closed the file and threw it onto his desk. “At least, that’s what his barrister tried to argue at his trial for the rape of that nineteen-year-old. The one he tied up and raped so many times she nearly bled out internally.”

Ellie’s eyes darkened with anger. “Let me guess. Now he’s out on the streets again?”

“Yep. He was let out of Long Bay in April. Out on parole and free to come and go as he pleases. The address he gave to his parole officer is in Penrith. That’s what got my antennae up.”

A frown creased her forehead as she picked up the file and opened it. “Is that where he’s from?”

“Somewhere around there. I think his parents lived at Cranebrook. Seems like they disowned him years ago.”

“They should have drowned him at birth and done us all a favor.”

“You won’t get any arguments from me, babe.”

She tensed and her eyes widened on his momentarily before she looked away. A faint blush stole into her cheeks.

His heart accelerated and he cleared his throat, casting around for something to say. “Are you up for paying Peterson a visit this afternoon?”

Suddenly, she turned on him. “I want to hear your take on all this. After all, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To give us some idea about who this monster is?”

Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came fast. Clayton looked away and gave her time to compose herself.

“I take it you don’t think Peterson could have done it?” he murmured.

Frustration rolled off her in waves. “How the hell do
I
know? You’re the expert. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

Clayton forced himself to remain calm. The tone of his voice belied his inner turmoil when he said, “You’re right. And I wouldn’t want you to think you’re not getting your money’s worth.”

He ignored the narrowing of her eyes and the glare she shot his way. She was gorgeous when she was all fired up. Hell, she was gorgeous anytime.

“Does Peterson fit the profile?”

“Yes.”

Temper flared in her eyes. “So, you’ve put something together and haven’t even bothered sharing it with the rest of us.”

Anger seared through him at her inference. “You think I care more about my ego than I do about putting away an animal that doesn’t even deserve to share the oxygen on this planet? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She had the grace to look embarrassed and lowered her eyes to concentrate on the stapler that sat on the end of his desk. “I’m sorry; I was out of line,” she mumbled.

Clayton tugged loose his tie, frustration making his fingers clumsy. “The truth is, I have prepared a profile—well, a rough one, anyway. I haven’t shared it with anyone because I only put it together late last night. You’ve only just arrived for the day. I thought you’d be upset if I started without you.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. A spurt of satisfaction pulsed through him, but he didn’t persist. Instead, he continued with his explanation.

“While I chewed my way through Chinese take-away left over from the night before, I decided to pull any file relating to ex-cons with similar MOs. I didn’t find an exact match, but there were three I found that were pretty interesting.”

“Three?” She sounded surprised. “But you only said—”

“Yeah, I know. Peterson was one. Then there’s a bloke by the name of Bobby Cutmore who’s been in and out of the slammer for years for rape and some pretty violent assaults. The third one’s a serial rapist by the name of Duncan Brown.”

“But you don’t think either of them did this?”

He shook his head. Seeing she was about to argue, he cut her off. “They’re both in the big house.”

Ellie deflated. “How long?”

He picked up two other files from a crowded corner of his desk. Opening the first one, he flipped over a few pages and read aloud.

“Duncan was put away a couple of years ago for a particularly vicious rape. He still has three years to run on his sentence.” He opened the second file. “Cutmore’s due for release next month.”

A sigh escaped her lips. Okay, Peterson it is.” She leaned back against his desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me about your profile.”

He opened his eyes wide. “What, without the others? Ben’s on the phone and Luke’s gone out for coffee. You really want me to start before they get back? Because that would be kind of rude, you know.”

Ellie grinned. “Okay, okay. I get it, but I still don’t care. I want to hear it. Now.”

Clayton’s lips twitched and he made a production of pushing back his chair and sighing before he stood and wove his way through the clutter of largely vacant desks to the whiteboard that retained the information Ben had written on it nearly a month ago.

Picking up a marker, he spoke, making notes as he went. “Okay, based on what we know, here’s what I think. We’re looking for a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and forty. Not too young—a young guy might not appear trustworthy enough for a young girl to climb into their car—but maybe even a bit older. He’s someone so ordinary, nobody even notices him. I also think it’s safe to assume the guy’s a local to the Penrith area. It’s his territory. He’s familiar enough with the area that he feels comfortable. So comfortable, he can pick up young women off the street and make them disappear and nobody even notices.”

He paced around the cluttered confines of the squad room. “He’s invisible to most of us. He goes about his daily excursions without raising the least suspicion. He’s someone any one of us could pass by on the street and not even notice. He’s someone Josie Ward would trust.”

Ellie shuddered. Images of a smiling Ted Bundy flitted through her mind. Dread prickled her scalp. “So, he’s like a cop or someone like that?”

“Yeah, possibly. Although Josie Ward went missing fairly late at night. It would be unusual to see a copper on his own doing a patrol that late. They’re usually out in pairs. It would be a risky move for him. People would probably remember something like that.”

Her frown was fierce. “That’s if Josie’s one of his victims. We don’t know that yet.”

Clayton opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Okay, okay; what else?”

He let that pass. It was true, they didn’t have proof Josie was a victim of their killer, but in his gut he knew things weren’t looking good for her.

He turned back to the whiteboard. “Well, we know he likes to use a saw. So some kind of handyman—a builder or a carpenter—or even just someone who likes to play with timber in his spare time.”

“Gee, that really narrows it down.”

Her voice was as dry as over-cooked steak. Clayton ignored it and continued to write points on the whiteboard. “If we work on the theory that the missing girls are connected to Angelina’s killer, he’s either unemployed or has flexible working hours. He might even be a shift-worker.” He turned around and held her gaze. “There doesn’t seem to be a consistent time when any of the girls disappeared.”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “Josie Ward was after ten at night. Angelina Caruso we’re not exactly sure, but my guess is late afternoon or early evening. Her last class finished at five. No one saw her after that. For Sally Batten, it’s also unclear, but I’d back the girlfriends who thought they saw her at class, to the dope-smoking boyfriend who wasn’t sure when she’d last been home. One thing we do know is that they all disappeared on weekdays. Which means he’s either at work on the weekends or he’s tied up with his own life, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he could have a family of his own. Don’t forget, this guy appears to the rest of the world as just another average citizen. Maybe he leaves town on the weekends and goes to his holiday house. A lot of psychopaths lead typically normal lives during their downtime.” He grimaced, his frustration evident. “Who knows? Despite what you see on TV, there’s still a lot of guesswork involved.”

“The art professor definitely ticks some of the boxes,” Ellie said. We’ll have to get a copy of his timetable. Find out when he has free time. I’d also like to know where he lives.”

Clayton nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, at the moment, he’s up there with Wayne Peterson and I can’t wait for him to step off that plane. But there are still a vast number of other possibilities. Even a taxi driver could fit the profile. Flexible working hours, unobtrusive, generally trusted at face value.”

“Except none of our girls caught a cab.”

“As far as we know… Josie Ward was supposed to catch one,” he added.

Ellie opened her mouth to protest and he held up his hand, knowing what she was about to say. He gritted his teeth against another surge of frustration at how little he had to go on to develop the profile that could make all the difference.

He drew in a deep lungful of air and blew it out slowly through his lips. Ellie walked over and took the whiteboard marker out of his hand.

“Okay, let’s assume our girls are connected. One thing I definitely agree with is that he lives around here.” She drew a red circle around the suburbs of Greater Western Sydney displayed on an enlarged map taped to the whiteboard. They included Penrith, Cranebrook, Mt Druitt, Auburn, Fairfield and Blacktown.