Chapter 22

After we'd digested the autopsy reports, and not come up with anything else that might be useful, Lt. Stubblefield said, "Now I'm going to turn things over to Agents Gordon and Frank. They've had the FBI profiling unit working on this, and they've got a report for us."

I rolled my eyes. I already knew, in all but the little details, what the profile would be. Serial murderers don't vary much – each one may think he's absolutely unique, but the fact is that it takes a specific set of mental flaws to create such a person, and the result is tediously similar every time.

The profile made its way around the table, everyone again getting a copy. As I got mine I placed my palm on it and said, "I don't gamble, but if I did I'd be willing to bet a thousand bucks that I know pretty much what's in here already."

Agent Frank gave me a nasty look. "If you're so smart, Mister Carpenter, why don't you tell us."

I gave him a grin. "Sure, why not? This guy's probably a white male, not likely to be over 50 and he's probably younger than that, maybe 30s to 40s. He probably has no stable relationships with women, probably has trouble achieving sexual pleasure or even excitement in normal situations, and wet the bed significantly longer than usual. He probably set fires when he was a kid, and killed animals. We haven't – so far anyway, unless forensics gets something from Chief that I don't know is there – found any evidence on or around any of the bodies of sexual release, but almost certainly at some point in the process of snatching, killing, and displaying the victims he experiences that release. He is of course a psychopath – sociopath if you prefer the current term. He consequently possesses no conscience, and no emotions which do not center on himself. He views other people as objects, to use for his own benefit, and literally doesn't understand that we are people with rights and desires and wishes and hopes. He is incapable of feeling remorse, though he may be very capable of pretending he does. And he believes that every one of us is just like him – a psychopath, though he doesn't refer to himself by that term, faking normality just as he's been doing all his life."

I took a breath, for I was speechifying again, just as I'd done for Cecelia when she'd asked me about Indians and work. "He's playing a game with us. He's following the case as best as he can. He no doubt has been at some of the scenes, if not all of them, when we've been working, and he's following reports in print and on TV – and these days, online as well. He's superficially intelligent, and may even possess a high IQ. He is not, however, smart in the usual sense, for simple intelligence would lead him to conclude that what he's doing is going to be bad for him in the long run. He doesn't think very far ahead, as that implies. When he feels like doing a thing, he just does it.

"And his only concern in all of this is that he get his pleasure, preferably without getting caught – though serial murderers are almost unique in the way they don't experience terror at the thought of detection, capture, and imprisonment."

Frank and Gordon were staring at me with their mouths open. "It's just basic knowledge, guys," I told them. "Anyone who reads about the subject knows that much. And this," I said, holding up the profile, "while it may perhaps be useful, is in the end likely to be the least important factor in catching this critter. It's gonna take police work, not profiles."

The State Police officer, Jones I remember his name was, applauded – not just my performance, but in the slow way he did it he was also mocking the FBI agents and their clear dismay at having their pride and joy revealed as not so special after all. "Guys," he told them, "I understand the necessity of your organization, and profiling isn't all useless, but Mr. Carpenter's right. We know already what we're dealing with. What we don't know is who, and until we know that, these autopsy reports, and forensics reports, and just plain legwork, is what we need."

I held up a hand before anyone else could pile on. "Okay, I done showed off, now let's actually do some police work. Cecelia, I know you've got a recommendation."

"I do," she said. "You all are of course aware of the source who advised me of Chief's abduction – though at the time we were not certain that it was Chief or an abduction. I interviewed him and obtained the information which I then passed on to Lt. Stubblefield, but I am no police officer – I have been one, but only in a small town, and I only participated in one major investigation. I suggest, therefore, that someone from this task force speak with my source and attempt to elicit further information. As you all will remember from my report, I was unable to obtain much detail regarding the person who apparently forced Chief into a vehicle, nor about the vehicle itself; I believe that a fundamental point here will be developing, if at all possible, a better description of both the individual and the SUV."

"Good idea," Stubblefield said, making a note on his legal pad. "Do you have contact information for your source?"

"Yes," Cecelia said, pulling out papers from her own pad. "This information is in the report I prepared, but this will save everyone from having to flip pages."