Beverly Barton - Silent Killer

“Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “Guess I’ll learn as I go. And I did bring in an expert to help us out, didn’t I?”

Derek chuckled. “Yes, so you did. That probably earned you a few brownie points with your boss.”

Jack grinned. “So tell me, Mr. Expert, all about how you can’t pigeonhole our killer.”

“Be glad to. It’s simple. The killer planned these murders, chose his victims in advance and personalized the victims, all characteristics of an organized killer. But on the other hand, he probably knew his victims or at least knew who they were. He left his victims in plain view at the scene of the crime, and with the use of gasoline and the Pocket Torch lighters left at the scene, the weapon couldn’t be hidden. Those are all characteristics of a disorganized killer.”

“A killer with a split personality?”

“Our killer is what we refer to as a ‘mixed personality,’ which is actually fairly common.”

“Are you saying that in trying to come up with a profile of our killer, you’ve struck out?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Derek grinned. “How about that cup of coffee?”

“Cream? Sugar?” Jack asked.

“Black.”

Jack got up, went to the coffeemaker and poured two Styrofoam cups three-fourths full of the strong, black brew. He returned to his desk, handed Derek one of the cups and sat back down.

After taking a couple of sips, Derek said, “We assume the same person killed the two ministers and the priest. Why?”

“All three victims were clergymen. All three lived within a fifty-mile radius of one another. All three were doused with gasoline and set on fire, using a torch lighter that enabled him to lock the flame before using it. And all three murders occurred within an eighteen-month time span.”

“It’s unlikely that the similarities of the murders were coincidental. So think about it. What other similarities were there?”

“So far, all the victims have been white. All have been between thirty and fifty years old, and all have been Christians.”

“Charles Randolph had been accused of stealing from his congregation. Had the other two committed any type of crime?” Derek asked.

“No. If they had, I’d have included that information in the files I sent you.”

“Hmm…Stealing is a sin, right? So what if the other two ministers didn’t commit crimes, but did commit sins?”

“And just how would we go about trying to discover what sins these men might have committed, if they actually did?”

“Talk to people who knew them.”

Jack tapped the manila folder on his desk. “That’s been done. Family and friends were interviewed extensively after each murder. Mark Cantrell was a saint according to everyone who knew him. His only weakness seems to have been his love for golf. And so far, Father Brian is coming across as damn near perfect.”

“No one is perfect.” Derek took another sip of coffee. “All humans have numerous weaknesses, and few are true saints. Perhaps our killer either knew something no one else knew or he projected someone else’s sins onto these men. In his mind, our offender is probably killing the same person over and over again, perhaps punishing him for his sins.”

“How does this help identify our killer?”

Derek picked up his cup and took a couple of swigs of the cooling coffee.

“Using the info we have at this point, it’s likely that our killer is a young, white male with a ‘mixed’ personality who is punishing his victims for the sins of someone who possibly harmed him in some way. He’s also mobile. His victims, though living within a fifty-mile radius, did not live in the same town, which means he probably either owns a car or has access to one.”

“That certainly narrows it down,” Jack said sarcastically. He finished off his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket atop the morning’s newspapers.

“Profiling is not an exact science. It’s mostly putting puzzle pieces together and coming up with an educated guess. I hate to say this, but the more murders the offender commits, the more clues we’ll have, and that means a more thorough profile.”

Jack huffed. “I suppose I expected too much from you.”

“Sorry I can’t pinpoint your guy and hand him to you on a silver platter. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over all the files again and stick around, maybe talk to a few people.”

“Who do you want to talk to?”

“People who knew the victims. Friends and family.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think the families have been through enough without being questioned again?”

“Even if it might help catch the killer?”

Jack looked Derek square in the eyes. “Can you promise me that it will?”

“No, of course not, but-”

“Run your request by Sheriff Birkett,” Jack said, reasonably certain that Mike would say no.

“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Derek dropped his empty coffee cup into Jack’s wastebasket, paused, eyed the newspapers and then glanced at Jack. “I’ll put my official report in writing and give it to you before I leave Dunmore.”

Elliott Floyd met Cathy in the middle of his tastefully decorated office. He glanced over her shoulder, smiled at his secretary, who closed the door, and then he reached out to take Cathy’s hand.

“Come in and sit down, Mrs. Cantrell.”

After they shook hands, he led her to one of two leather armchairs facing his large, mahogany desk. Once she’d taken a seat, she subtly studied him from the top of his thinning dark hair to his expensive Italian leather loafers. Probably in his late forties, Elliott Floyd dressed the part of a successful lawyer, his suit no doubt tailor-made to fit his trim, five-nine body.

“My friend Lorie Hammonds recommended you, Mr. Floyd,” Cathy said as she folded her hands together in her lap.

“Yes, Lorie’s a friend of my wife.”

“I had hoped not to have to do this-hire a lawyer-but I realize that I don’t actually have a choice, and, according to Lorie, you’re the best lawyer in Dunmore, possibly in the whole state.”

Elliott smiled, creating dimples in his apple-round cheeks. “I see. So, tell me why you need my services.”

“A year ago, I had an emotional breakdown. I checked myself into Haven Home in Birmingham and underwent extensive psychiatric care. I was released as an outpatient six months ago and then given a clean bill of health last month. I have a fifteen-year-old son who has been living with my in-laws for the past year. They have legal custody of him.” She leaned forward, her hands entwined in a prayerlike gesture. “I want custody of my son.”

“I take it that his grandparents are opposed to your having custody.”

“Yes.”

“What does your son want?”

“Seth is torn between wanting to please his grandfather and not wanting to hurt me.”

“Is there any reason why your in-laws are not proper guardians for your son?”

“No. J.B. and Mona are good Christian people. They’re well liked and well respected by the community. J.B. is an elder in the church.”

“I take it that you’ve tried talking to your in-laws about this and making some type of arrangement that-”

“My father-in-law has made it perfectly clear that he believes I’m emotionally unfit and he has no intention of allowing Seth to live with me now or ever.”

“Will your psychiatrist testify to your emotional stability?”

“Yes.”

“Can you financially support your son?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything in your personal life that would make you an unfit mother?”

“Other than the entire town knowing I’ve been at Haven Home?”

Elliott nodded.