Moving Target. Lori May A.
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was the nonvisual clues he gave, such as his scent, his body temperature, and his reaction to her teasing that would matter most. And with what little headway they had made with this case, these variables would not only help her plan a maneuver away from his grasp, they would also lend a hand in solving the identity of their prey.
She closed her eyes, banning their sense from interrupting her analytical intake. She filtered in a deep breath, letting the combination of scents register within.
Ignoring the aroma of a nearby Laundromat, bypassing the scent of rain in the air, she centered on the slight trace of chicory and breathed it in from the cuff of his sleeve.
The sleeve itself belonged to a blue-collar worker. She could tell by its wear and tear, the threads of cheaply made industrial fabric worn with sweat stains and something dark—oil, perhaps?
She inhaled deeply, pinpointing the smell.
It was oil. Like that used on machinery, perhaps in a factory or even an auto mechanic shop.
Knowing what trace evidence could do for fine-tuning such variables, Francesca made a minuscule movement within her captor’s grasp, aiming to transfer even a hint of the physical evidence to her body. If she made it out of there—when she made it out—the lab would be able to study every fiber of her clothing, each thread where this man had left evidence of his identity.
“It won’t be that easy,” he said, no doubt presuming her maneuvers were an attempt to flee his grasp. “You and I are friends now.”
That was it. The first time his voice made contact with her sense of hearing. She listened to each syllable he projected, to what was being said and how, not once overlooking the quiet beat of a pause between each word he selected.
“Is that what you wanted from them? Friendship?” she asked, opening up dialogue with the man her team had been tracking for several weeks.
It started with one body, as it usually does, but it quickly became obvious someone was on the hunt for more action with the discovery of the second victim.
The most disturbing element to the case was that he was a smart criminal, relatively speaking. He knew how to disguise himself, how to leave little trace of evidence, and thereby bring the forensics team to a standstill, waiting…for him to mess up.
“I am not who you think I am,” he said, his one arm holding tight against her neck. The other arm reached around, wrapping against Francesca’s midsection as though this were a perfectly natural position for him. There was no trembling, no jittery movement. He felt completely at ease clenching his ownership around her body.
“Then tell me,” she said aloud while inside her mind a thousand thoughts scrambled for a plan on how to make her move.
An agent from the Baton Rouge resident office had accompanied her to the crime scene, though he remained at the car guarding the scene from the outset. His presence would do her no good at such a distance. “Tell me who you are. How you see yourself.”
He scoffed at her. “What—you some kind of shrink?”
Francesca registered the curve in vocal pitch, his agitation showing fluctuation in the short response. She had hit a nerve, without trying much at all. His own suggestion was fueling his irritation, based on one simple request for him to explain his assumed persona. And now she would use it against him.
“I like to help people, with their thoughts,” she began, noticing the heat rise from his body.
The dewy evening air, signaling an early April rain shower was on its way, carried his scent swiftly to her senses, and she was able to detect a rising pulse. “I could be your confidante. Listen to what you have to say. I bet you feel as though no one understands you, but perhaps I could. If you let me.”
It didn’t mean she would like him or appreciate his actions, but Francesca could use her skills in understanding human behavior to at least empathize with him, see what it was that motivated him to strike out against humanity. It was something for which she strived every day, with every criminal she came across.
Her pursuit had begun as a young child, during events she rarely cared to recall. It was those events, however, that prompted her pursuit of understanding why people do the things they do, and led her to study behavioral science.
At first it was simply a curiosity, one she explored through watching others, even as a child. Then she became enthralled by the lessons learned in psychology classes at the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women, a prep school that encouraged the study of such scientific interests.
By the time Francesca earned her graduate degree in forensic psychology, profiling personalities had become an obsession. One for which she was quickly recognized within the field, handling seemingly impossible cases for the FBI, even those reaching far beyond her home base in Richmond, Virginia.
“I don’t need a shrink.” His voice, increasingly harsh, told her she needed to make a move. Fast. His agitation would only escalate and there was only so much fire she wanted to tempt within him. He was, after all, a serial killer.
One who baited young women, dragged them out to isolated buildings, beat them, assaulted them and finally killed them.
Above all else, Francesca needed to remember that one obvious trait within a killer’s personality—they liked to kill.
Although her own preference was for capturing her suspects and wielding information about their psyche, to analyze and put them through a tougher sentence than death, she had to admit to having a simpler fantasy as his tongue traced the outer edge of her earlobe.
Though she wanted to put an end to his existence when he said, “Maybe you have something else I want.” There had to be a better way for her to flee his entrapment and bring him down.
Killing was what she studied, not what she did. There had to be something she could do to not only escape his captivity, but also ensure he was stopped from ever committing another crime again.
And then she spoke.
“Maybe you have something I need,” she said, playing on the notion he was a sexual predator and using that to her advantage as she slowly, carefully reached her hand around to settle into the small groove of space between her behind and his crotch.
Earlier, as he attacked her in surprise, the man had quickly removed her handgun from her person and tossed it far from her reach.
But what he didn’t know was about to hurt him.
Under the guise of giving him what he wanted, Francesca began to move her hand over the small bulge in his pants, twisting her gesture until her palm faced the small of her back, and while she listened to his breathing accelerate under her touch, she slowly moved one finger, then the next, into the gap between her flesh and her jeans until she felt it.
“I do, don’t I?” he asked of her.
“You most certainly do,” she cooed to egg him on, as she cautiously slid out the small knife from the sheath buried in the back of her pants. Within a heartbeat, she twisted its edge into him, stabbing the blade into his left hip as she said, “Your DNA.”
Caught off guard by her attack, the suspect stumbled back to let the moment register, but he quickly set off on foot.
As she began the chase after him, slowing only to pick up her discarded handgun, she let out a contained breath, one she didn’t realize she had been holding.
Not familiar with this abandoned dumping ground of rotten buildings and wasteland, Francesca called for help by shooting one bullet into the ground, knowing this would alert the watchdog FBI agent that something had gone terribly wrong.
They had not expected to encounter their suspect today. This was simply an outing to gather mental evidence, its sole purpose to comb the area and turn thoughts inside out, hoping to accumulate enough information to pinpoint where the next victim might be saved.
Then it occurred to her.
Why would the