The Profiler. Lori May A.
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Cain, “I have to ask my neighbor to check on my dog.”
Returning to Mrs. Schaeffer, I ask for the favor. “I’m real sorry to do this again, but it seems I’m going to be a while. Still. Again. I dunno. Would you mind—”
“Sure, sure, Angela. He’s actually still with me, you know. Sleeping at the foot of my bed, if you can imagine,” she says, happy to oblige.
“Yes, I can definitely imagine that. Thanks so much, again. I really do appreciate it.”
Mrs. Schaeffer has been our neighbor for as long as I can remember, and she was all too pleased to find out I was moving back into the old apartment, instead of selling it off after my father died. We reside in a tiny, three apartment walk-up, with Mrs. Schaeffer living just below me on the second floor. It’s quaint and small, and if you don’t like your neighbor it can feel even smaller. But Mrs. Schaeffer, she’s fantastic.
I didn’t realize it at the time, growing up, but I’m so lucky she’s always there. I love that dog about as much as my father did, and I hate that I am away from him so much. Once I get settled in, and between hot cases, it may not be so bad. In the meantime, though, she’s really coming to the rescue for me. Well, for Muddy, too.
“You gave her a key?” Cain asks after I hang up.
“Actually, my father did years ago. It’s tough being on the job and having a dog at home. But Mrs. Schaeffer loves Muddy and swears she looks forward to spending time with him.”
Thoughts of my father push my gaze to the outside world passing us by. It’s a crisp day, and the sun has faded behind a collection of dense clouds. The evening streets are occupied with New Yorkers bundled up in sweaters and jackets, oblivious to the crimes occurring around them just one day after eating their turkey and stuffing.
Sometimes I wish I felt how they do. Content to discover life through cafés and museums, rather than through corpses and trails of blood. But I’m like my father in more ways than one. I didn’t just get his genes, I also inherited his passion for wanting to understand the motivations behind people’s crimes.
For the first time in what seems like days, I notice my appearance in the reflection of the side-view mirror. The sleepless hours have taken a toll and my skin has turned a muted color. Even my hazel eyes are looking a little foggy. I pull at my elastic hairpiece and tidy up the loose knot clinging low against my nape. With a few facial stretches, I try to bring some life back to my tired skin.
Cain lowers his foot to gain more speed, and I press back in the seat for stability. He takes corners as if the car’s on rails. I know we’re on our way to take someone down, but sometimes I have to question Cain’s driving skills.
As we round a corner, the little keepsake picture frame dangling from Cain’s rearview mirror sways violently. I hadn’t really paid much attention to it before, but now that its swift movement has caught my eye, I have to ask.
“Who are they?”
“Ugh, well…they’re my kids.”
“What?” I take a good look at them, then twist in my seat to gaze at him full on as I analyze my mentor and this unexpected statement. “I didn’t know you have kids.”
Cain reaches a hand to steady the swaying photo, and clears his throat before smiling with pride. “Gregory is eleven and Gracie’s nine. Good kids.”
“Wow. I had no idea you were married.”
“Were is right, kiddo. Got divorced nine years ago, one month after Gracie was born, in fact.”
“I’m shocked.” This is an understatement. I had no idea Cain had a family, as he hasn’t brought them up in conversation this past week. During our telephone interview, Cain asked most of the questions, and though I had no reason to assume one way or the other, I just figured he must be a bachelor with the way he carries on. “What happened?”
Cain lights up a smoke and drags on it before rolling down his window a bit. “Shelley didn’t like my job. Well, she did at first, mind you, ’cause she thought it was so damn exciting. Sure enough, though, she grew to hate it. Every bit of it. That included hating me, of course.”
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