It was approaching 4:15 AM when they walked into Homicide with several coffees and a selection of pastries from Sparky’s all night diner.
Vail, Burden, and Dixon greeted Friedberg, who looked pallid and drawn, but otherwise appeared to be holding his own.
While the others settled in for an all-staff conference to review the latest developments and relevant case points, Vail called the profiler at the BAU who had written a number of research papers on brain injuries and their impact on violent behavior: her new partner, Frank Del Monaco.
“Frank,” Vail said, moving away from the commotion of gathering inspectors and interns. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“You mean you need something from me,” Del Monaco said. “Admit it and I’ll be more than happy to help you. Well, I’ll help you. Let’s leave it at that.”
Vail rolled her eyes. “Yes, Frank. I need your help.”
“Isn’t it like the middle of the night in California?”
“Now there’s the perceptive man I’ve come to know and loathe.”
“Karen, I know you have a hard time with this. But when you call someone to ask a favor, you shouldn’t start the conversation with an insult.”
“Goes to my point, doesn’t it? Your perceptive powers are truly exceptional. So. My question pertains to the research you’ve done on brain injuries. We’ve got a suspect we really like who suffered substantial head trauma that resulted in damage to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe. I remember you telling us about the inhibitory effects-”
“Wait, wait. Hang on. You mean you were actually paying attention to what I was saying?”
“I know,” Vail said, “as hard to believe as that may be, sometimes you say something intelligent. So I have to be on my toes for that rare moment. Now, can you help me or not?”
“You know we’re going to be working together, right?”
“If you’re trying to piss me off by bringing that up, you’ve succeeded. Now, your research.”
“There’s actually a new study out of Israel that I’m incorporating into a paper I’ve been working on. I won’t bore you with the details of the trial, but the bottom line is that the impairment patterns we see in the personalities of psychopaths are mimicked in individuals who’ve sustained frontal lobe damage. Very aggressive and highly impulsive and uninhibited violence.”
“You’re shitting me. You wouldn’t joke about that, right? I’m serious-this could be huge.”
“First of all, the frontal lobe symptoms they observed in the study were a bit different from the typical psychopath’s instrumental, cold-blooded, and predatory violence. Second, just because such an injury can cause psychopathic-like behaviors, doesn’t mean it has to. Third, no. I’m not yanking your chain. The study was conducted out of the University of Haifa and-”
“Was it good research? I mean, do you trust it?”
“The sampling’s smaller than I’d like, but the study’s sound, Karen. I think you can take this to the bank.”
“All right, listen up, Frank, because you’re not going to hear this often: Thank you.”
Before Del Monaco could come back with a sharp retort, she disconnected the call and shoved the BlackBerry in its holster. She rejoined the group, related the information, and explained the implications of the new research. “I’m thinking this changes our focus. Or at least my assessment. It seems that MacNally could very well be exhibiting psychopathic-type behaviors.”
“So you think he’s our guy?” Friedberg asked.
Vail hesitated. “Could be, Robert. It’s not a definite. But I’m fairly certain he’s involved. Is he the offender? He fits the profile. I would’ve pegged the UNSUB to be a younger guy, no later than his mid-fifties. But given his long history of incarceration and everything that happened to him, the age can be adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?” Carondolet asked.
“First of all, incarceration retards social growth, so even though we’re looking at a seventy-nine year old, given that he spent almost twenty years in prison, that takes us down to the late fifties. And if we consider that the first murder we might attribute to him occurred in ’82, I think we are definitely in the ballpark.”
“Can a seventy-nine year old do the murders we’ve seen?” Dixon asked.
“Depends on the person,” Burden said. “Some guys that old are frail, others are fit and pretty freaking spry. Done right, he can control the victim with a gun or a knife or even his words. The only question would be the way he’s gotten the males tied to the columns and poles. But the rope and pulley setup he used could explain that.”
“And he could’ve had help,” Yeung said.
“Karen,” Dixon said, “you mentioned Scheer could be his son. If so-”
“Negatory on that,” Carondolet said. “I kept reading the file on the way back here. His son was placed in an orphanage in ’59, committed suicide in ’63. Jumped from a suspension bridge in upstate New York.”
Friedberg said, “Another son, then? A nephew? Maybe on his wife’s side of the family. Or he had a son by another woman and he didn’t find out till later in life.”
“See what you can find out,” Burden said.
Friedberg conferred with an intern, who began tapping away on the inspector’s keyboard.
Forty minutes later, they informed the others that there was no record of other children fathered by Walton MacNally. “At least, none in the available databases that can be traced to MacNally.”
“So we’re back to our two suspects, MacNally and Scheer,” Burden said.
Carondolet’s phone rang. He slid off the worktable and, forcing down a yawn, answered the call. A moment later, he said, “The teams are leaving the island. They just wrapped up their search. It’s clean. Our guy’s not there.”
“No surprise there,” Dixon said. “He killed a federal agent… He’s gotta know the heat’s been jacked up to the max. Why the hell would he stick around?”
“We had to check,” Yeung said. “Now we know for sure.”
“Here we go,” Friedberg said. “Just got an email from the cop I asked to track down the detective who handled Scheer’s case. The sealed juvie record.”
“And?” Burden asked.
“And he was more than pissed we woke him in the middle of the night. But he remembered the case, even though it was thirty-something years ago.” Friedberg scrolled down with the keyboard. “Scheer was sixteen when he raped a girl.” He swung his eyes over to Vail.
“Two teens having a good time and then she said no and he didn’t listen?”
Friedberg read a bit, then said, “Well, the detective didn’t so much as remember the details of the rape as much as what the kid did to him. Guy said Scheer went into a rage when they arrested him, kicked him pretty badly trying to get away, and broke his wrist. Had to get it pinned and was on medical disability for a year before he was able to fire a handgun.”