Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“I think the reason for these two is that the location of the crimes was circumscribed by where our mugger knew there were likely to be late-night victims,” she continued, pointing to the aberrant blocks of crimson. “But look what happens when I amalgamate both sets of results and we look at the vandalism and the mugging together.”

Fiona clicked the mouse a couple of times. Now the larger of the original two red blocks was the only bright-scarlet patch on the screen, the others fading to deep purple. “If I were a Toledo police officer looking to clear up these instances of vandalism and mugging, I’d focus my attention on people who live right there, around the bottom end of Calle Alfonso the Tenth.”

“Fascinating,” Berrocal acknowledged. “But what happens when you consider the murders too?”

“It’s far from clear cut,” she admitted. “We’re looking at two instances, which is a very small base to work with. And, as I said to you before, because these crime scenes have historical rather than specifically personal significance, that could distort our results.” Again she cleared the screen. “On their own, they don’t provide us with anything like pinpoint accuracy.” This time, there was no small red block, just a jagged purple mass that go covered most of the west of the old city and spread like a port-wine birthmark out towards the suburbs.

“However, I’m working on the principle that my theories of crime linkage and the escalation of violence are correct. Now, if I’ve got it right and these three groups of crimes have all been committed by the same person, then when I add the murder sites to the other two series, I should still have my red block in more or less the same place. But if I’m wrong, then the resulting picture will show a significant distortion.” She looked up at Berrocal and gave a wicked grin. “Ready?”

“The suspense is killing me,” he said.

Fiona hit a couple of keys and the screen reconfigured itself. The red block was still there, though not in quite such a strong shade. But the purple areas had spread and become noticeably more blue. Fiona circled the red block with the end of her pencil. “It doesn’t significantly distort the key area. Which indicates that the person who committed the murders could well be the same person as the vandal and the mugger. But you see this purple zone?”

Berrocal nodded. “That’s the fallback zone, is it? If he’s not in the red zone, he might be in the purple?”

“That’s right. Now, the way that has changed with the murder input may not mean much in itself, given how specific he is about the body dumps and given that the places where he displays his victims are central to the nature of his crimes. But I’m tempted to go out on a limb here and suggest that he might possibly have moved house in between the muggings and the first murder.”

Berrocal frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“It doesn’t matter how high-tech a system is, there’s still room for gut instinct when it comes to interpretation. I’d defend myself by saying that I’ve used this geographic profiler a lot now, and I’ve developed a sense of what the pictures mean that goes beyond what’s in the manual. And there’s something about the shape of this that makes me wonder if we’re looking at a change of address. I’m sorry, I can’t be more scientific than that.”

“So what we have learned is useless.”

“No, far from it. If he has moved, it’s been relatively recent. Between the last of the muggings and the first of the murders. There must be civic records that would reveal who lives there and if anybody’s gone in the last couple of months. I could be wrong, he could still be living there. But if I was the investigating officer here, I’d make it my first priority to look at residents inside the red block who have moved out.”

“You think he moved to make it harder for us to find him?” Berrocal asked.

“No, I don’t think he was planning that far ahead. And he may not have left his home from choice. He may have been forced out because the building was being developed for some tourist-related business. He’ll have seen this as a terrible provocation. If that’s what happened, it could have been the factor that tipped him over the edge into murder. He’s been nursing his hatred for a while now, judging by the length of time these earlier offences cover. Perhaps this tourist development has been on the cards for a long time and he’d been fighting it. Then finally, he lost. And he decided to take revenge on the people he thought were to blame.” Fiona leaned back in her seat. “I know it might sound far-fetched, but as psychopathic motives for murder go, it’s as coherent as any. And it makes sense of these events in a way that conventional theories of sexual homicide don’t.”

“The way you explain it is certainly logical,” Berrocal acknowledged. “Can you print these maps out for us? I’d like to get started on this line of inquiry as soon as possible.”

Fiona nodded. “No problem. I’m also in the process of writing a full report for you that incorporates all my reasoning. I’ll include a basic behavioural profile of the perpetrator.”

Berrocal frowned. “I thought you didn’t approve of behavioural analysis?”

“Taken on its own, I think it has limited value. But when you incorporate it with crime linkage and geographical profiling, it can be helpful.”

Berrocal looked dubious. “So, when will your report be ready?”

“I should finish it today.”

“Good. Then I can distribute it among the investigation team. First thing tomorrow, I’d like you to attend a briefing with them to answer any questions and deal with any objections?”

Fiona nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

Berrocal got to his feet. “And then I presume you will want to return to England?”

Fiona smiled. “You presume correctly. There’s nothing more I can usefully do for you right now, so I may as well go home.”

He nodded. “I’ll let you get on with your report,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said absently, her mind already on the next task. The sooner she finished this, the sooner she could start to think seriously about going home.

He never knew how long it would last. That was why he had to savor every moment of it, like a kid opening Christmas presents, unsure which garishly wrapped parcel held the gift that really mattered. The trick was to arrange it so that everything built to a climax. But sometimes it didn’t, and he hated that loss of absolute control, hated the rage that boiled through him when those sluts let him down, when they failed to hold out long enough for him to extract each single possible drop of pleasure from their pain. Death should be the final moment in the crescendo, not a sad diminuendo leaving the spirit dissatisfied.

That was why he worked with such dedication towards perfection. Experience had taught him that every stage released its own particular flavor, from the first moment he chose her to the final moment when he abandoned her. The secret was to plan. The taste of anticipation was almost as good as the spectrum of sensuality supplied by the execution of his perfect scheme. So too was the satisfaction of watching the small minds pitted against him as they struggled through their skirmishes with his handiwork into ultimate failure.

At first, his opponents had been as insignificant as the crickets that chirped the night away outside this safest of safe houses. Dumb sheriffs officers who’d never investigated anything more complicated than a fucked-up raid on the local Seven Eleven had no chance of coming anywhere near him. He knew the chances of them even managing to complete a VICAP report and file it with the FBI were remote. All that paperwork, interfering with the consumption of Dairy Queen hamburgers and brew skis no chance.