The Profiler. Lori May A.
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detective crosses his arms across his chest, looking to me first, then smiling at Cain. “They’re still working on the bulk of things, but it looks like we’ll have an ID.”
“On the killer?” I ask, intrigued to peg our man.
“They pulled two sets of prints from the crematorium. My guess is when the killer was roasting our victim, he got caught in the flames and lost a little flesh of his own.”
Cain gets up to stretch out his muscles. “Good job. Did AFIS bring anything up?” I look to him, knowing I should recognize the acronym, but he quickly clarifies. “Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
“They’re running the prints now,” Severo says, topping up his stale office coffee. “If this guy’s got priors, we’ll get a name, address and anything else you want to know about him. Just one thing we need to figure out though… Why?”
Cain wraps an arm around my shoulders, grinning. “And that’s where you come in, my dear protégée. Welcome to the land of profiling.”
Chapter 4
Cain and Severo have gone to check on the AFIS results, so I take the opportunity to do what any self-respecting agent would do—spy on the competitor’s turf.
Severo’s desk is a mishmash of unruly paperwork, discarded fast-food containers and personal effects. I was hoping his work space would reveal more of his personality, and I can’t say I’m disappointed.
A couple of coworkers nod at me, acknowledging my trespass into the apparent boys’ club. I think one even puckers his lips in a chauvinistic display, but I just nod and say “How’s it goin’?” before turning my back to their curiosity.
The beaten, old oak desk is layered with all the official stuff, but right now I’m more interested in the quirky photos, gadgets and stress relievers. As I lay a finger on the head of a windup toy chicken, it begins to peck with every stunted step of its mechanism. When its progress is halted by a glitter-trimmed picture frame, I lift the image to inspect it further.
The wooden square is decorated as though it’s made for a child, but when I look into the young girl’s eyes, I wonder if it was simply made by her, for Severo. A daughter? A friend? A friend’s daughter? No identifying marks lead to an answer.
There’s a stack of CDs on the corner of Severo’s desk, yet I don’t recognize any of the artists’ names. Sea of Is. My Dad vs Yours. Mike O’Neill. Who are these bands? They’re certainly not the tunes I was raised with.
My father found his passion with jazz and blues. Sunday breakfasts of sausage and eggs, when we would linger over the city stories found in newspapers, were accompanied by old records by Louis Armstrong, Thelonious Monk and Muddy Waters. Heck, Dad even named our dog after his favorite. It seemed to suit the bloodhound perfectly.
My memories are set aside as I inspect a group photo that undoubtedly provides pleasant memories for the detective. The group of men, all in casual attire, sit around a table with half-full glasses in what is apparently a neighborhood pub. Third from the left is Severo, giving a slightly inebriated grin to the camera. They all seem a little happy and under the influence, if you ask me.
“You won’t find a better group of guys,” Severo says, startling me as he approaches, before eyeing the surrounding onlookers. “Unlike this crew. Don’t you guys have work to do?”
Content with his boyish authority, Severo sidles up beside me, putting a finger to the glossy image as he begins to name the strangers. When his finger stops at the last man, he says, “And that there, well, that’s our friend Cain.”
I peer at the slightly younger version of my mentor and can’t help but gawk. “Really? God, he’s so…happy.”
“It was a good day. We’d just cracked a very large case, and that night we all went out to celebrate. But I gather you figured out the celebration part.”
Pushing a few unorganized stacks of files out of the way, I take a seat on the edge of his desk. “Now, this may seem like a dumb question, but I have to ask. How is it you and Cain work together so much? If I believed everything I saw on TV, I’d say the PD and the FBI don’t always get along so well as the two of you. What gives?”
“The Violent Crime Task Force,” he explains, flopping into a tattered chair identical to all others in this office. “The task force brings together some of the PD, a few feds, a sprinkle of DEA…a little bit of every law enforcement agency. It’s the state’s way of combating serious crime, in a very serious way. It’s actually how I met Cain.”
“So that explains why you feel so at home in the Plaza?”
“Yeah, you could say that. I get a few extra privileges, like being able to use the gym and some of the resources. Now how about you. Why’d you hook up with Cain?”
“He’s the best,” I state matter-of-factly. “He knows my history, my style. If it weren’t for him, I might still be stuck in the Virginia office. But Cain agreed to be my mentor, and when the paperwork for my requested Hardship Transfer was approved, well, the rest is history.”
“Hardship what?”
“The FBI has a bit more compassion than you might think, Detective. If an agent has a sick parent, or family emergency,” I say, tapping the windup chicken for kicks, “they can transfer to an office closer to home, wherever that may be.”
“So after your father died…”
“I wasn’t officially an agent yet. But once I made it through training, I immediately asked to come to New York. No offense to Virginia, of course.”
“Of course.” Severo’s breathy chuckle stirs the stale office air, and his intense eyes focus on mine for a moment. His irises are like liquid dark chocolate, glimmering, yet slowly cooling into an even darker center.
As Cain approaches us, Severo’s warmth disappears as though a switch has been flicked. For the life of me, I can’t put a finger on him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s complex, but he certainly seems to have a few crossed wires. One minute he’s mouthing off and shooting his gun at the sky, the next he’s quiet and contemplative. I can’t figure it out, but I guess we all have multiple dimensions to our personalities.
Standing in front of us now, Cain unpleasantly scratches his chest, letting an unruly hair or two peep through the cotton of his shirt. “It’s for certain,” he acknowledges, hands in his pockets as he teeters back and forth, rolling on the balls of his feet. “AFIS positively identified the mystery man from the crematorium. We got fingerprints, evidence, so now we go knock down our fire starter’s door. Jean something or other.”
“Forensics find anything else at the men’s mission?”
“Nope. That place was clean as a baby’s ass. We’re dealing with someone who knows his stuff, gentlemen.” My glance at Cain does little to shake him. I guess anyone with a badge is a man to him, so I let it slide.
The three of us gather our gear and head off to the identified address. I hop in with Cain, as usual, and I watch as the detective takes the lead in a sporty Jeep Liberty.
“What’s the suspect’s name? You said it was Jean?”
Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Cain slides some files to me and I sort through the findings. Jean La Roche.
“I gotta hand it to you, kiddo. Yeah, you got a long way to go for NCAVC, but you’re doing all right. I imagine it’s overwhelming to get back into the city and dive right in, but it’s looking like I made a good choice.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it, you know. Virginia was fine, and I’m sure I would have done okay there, but it was important that I come back here and be with my uncle.”
“You all settled in?”
I grimace wryly as I look to my mentor. “Um, no? Let’s just say there’s lots to be done