"Okay, once again we are missing one," Doran said. "Baltimore. I understand the case was not a child, but a teacher. Polly Amherst. Ligature strangulation and postmortem mutilation."
She waited a beat in case people were writing notes.
"We are still in the process of having files and data faxed in on these cases," she continued. "This was just put together for the meeting. But, preliminarily, what we are looking at as far as these secondary cases go is a commonality involving children. Three victims were children, two worked directly with children and the last one, Manuela Cortez, was a housekeeper who was abducted and murdered at some point while going to the school her employer's children attended to walk them home. The extrapolation is that the intended targets in this chain were children but in half the cases perhaps something went wrong, the stalking pattern was somehow interrupted by the adult victims, and they were eliminated."
"What is to be made from the mutilation?" an agent on the outer rim asked. "Some of it's post and with the kids… it wasn't."
"We're not sure, but a guess at this time is that it might be part of his cloaking. By using different methodology and pathology he has been able to camouflage himself. On this page these cases may look similar but the more complete the analysis the more different they are. It is as if six different men with differing pathologies killed these victims. In fact, all the cases were submitted on VICAP questionnaires by the local agencies but none drew matches to the others. Remember, the questionnaire is now up to eighteen pages.
"Bottom line, I think this offender's read up on us. I think he knew how to do things differently enough with each of these victims so that our trusty computer never scored a match. The only mistake he made was the kapok fibers. That is how we have him."
An agent on the outer rim raised his hand and Doran nodded at him.
"If there were three incidents of kapok fiber being recovered, why didn't we get a match on the VICAP computer if all cases were entered like you said?"
"Human error. In the first case, the Ortiz boy, kapok was indigenous to the area and dismissed. It wasn't put on the questionnaire. In the Albuquerque case, the fibers were not identified as kapok, the survey was not updated. An oversight. We missed the match. We only got that from the field office today. Only in the Denver case was the kapok seen as significant enough to include on the VICAP request."
There was a groan from several of the agents and I felt my own heart sink a bit. The possibility of confirming that there was a serial killer at work as early as the Albuquerque case had been missed. What if it hadn't been missed, I wondered. Maybe Sean would be alive.
"That brings us to the big question," Doran said. "How many killers have we got? One who does the first string and another who does the detectives? Or just one? One who does them all. For the moment, based primarily on the logistical improbabilities associated with two killers, we are pursuing a theory of linkage. Our assumption is that in each city the two deaths are linked."
"What's the pathology?" Smitty asked.
"We're only guessing now. The obvious one is that he sees killing the detective as a way of covering his tracks, ensuring his escape. But we have another theory as well. That is that the first homicide was committed by the offender in order to draw a homicide detective into the frame. In other words, the first kill is bait, presented in such a horrific fashion as to attract a homicide detective's obsession. We are assuming that the Poet then stalked each one of these officers and learned their habits and routines. That enabled him to get close and carry out the eventual murder without detection."
This silenced the room. I got the feeling that many of the agents, though surely veterans of numerous investigations of serial killings, had never before encountered a predator like the one they were calling the Poet.
"Of course," Brass said, "all we have is theory for the time being…"
Backus stood up.
"Thank you, Brass," he said, then addressing the room added, "Quickly now, because I want to do some profiling and get this wrapped up, Gordon, you had something for us."
"Yes, real quick," Thorson said, standing up and moving to an easel with a large drawing pad on it. "The map in your package is outdated because of the Baltimore connection. So if I can have your attention up here for a moment."
He quickly drew the outline of the United States with a thick black marker. Then, with a red marker, he began to draw the Poet's trail. Starting in Florida, which he had drawn proportionately small compared to the rest of the country, the line went up to Baltimore then over to Chicago then down to Dallas then up to Albuquerque and finally up further to Denver. He picked up the black marker again and wrote the dates of the killings in each of the cities.
"It's pretty self-explanatory," Thorson said. "Our man is heading west and he's obviously pissed off at homicide cops about something."
He raised his hand and waved it over the western half of the country he had drawn.
"We'll look for the next hits out here unless we get lucky and get him first."
Looking at the terminus of the red line Thorson had drawn gave me a strange feeling about what was ahead. Where was the Poet? Who was next?
"Why don't we just let him get to California, so he can be among his own kind? End of problem."
Everyone laughed at the joke from one of the agents seated in the outer rim. The humor emboldened Hazelton.
"Hey, Gordo," he said, reaching back to the easel and tapping a pencil on the small rendering of Florida. "I hope this map wasn't some kind of Freudian slip on your part."
That brought the loudest laughter of the meeting and Thorson's face reddened, though he smiled at the joke at his expense. I saw Rachel Walling's face light up with delight.
"Very funny, Hazel," Thorson loudly retorted. "Why don't you go back to analyzing the poems. You're good at that."
The laughter dried up quickly and I suspected that Thorson had taunted Hazelton with a barb that was more personal than witty.
"Okay, if I can continue," Thorson said, "FYI, tonight we'll be alerting all the FOs, particularly in the West, to be on watch for something like this. It would help us a lot if we could get an early notice on the next one and get our lab into one of the scenes. We'll have a go team ready. But right now we are relying on the locals for everything. Bob?"
Backus cleared his throat to continue the discussion.
"If nobody has anything else, we come to profiling. What can we say about this offender? I would like to put something on the alert Gordon sends out."
Then came a procession of throw-out observations, a lot of them free-form non sequiturs, some of them even bringing laughter. I could see there was a lot of camaraderie among the agents. There was also some strife, as exhibited by the play between Thorson and Walling and then Thorson and Hazelton. Nevertheless, I got the feeling that these people had sat around the table in this room doing this before. Sadly, many times before.
The profile that emerged would be of small use in catching the Poet. The generalities the agents threw into the ring were primarily interior descriptions. Anger. Isolation. Above-average education and intelligence. How do you identify these things among the masses, I thought. No chance.
Occasionally, Backus would step in and throw out a question to get the discussion back on course.
"If you subscribe to Brass's last theory, why homicide cops?"
"You answer that and you've got him in a box. That's the mystery. This poetry stuff is the diversion."
"Rich or poor?"
"He's got money. He has to. Wherever he goes, he's not staying long. No job-killing is his job."
"He's gotta have a bank account or rich parents, something. And he's got wheels and he needs money to put gas in the tank."