Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

“I think the final straw was a case that several of us profilers were assigned to.” Kingsley gestured with his hands, then put his fingertips together. “We were called in on a series of rapes. There were nine of them. In each case the victim was tied with her hands behind her and had a hood put over her head or a large blindfold over her eyes. The rapist used a condom and bathed the victim in the shower or bathtub afterward, so there was little forensic evidence.” Kingsley settled back in the chair again and relaxed. He took another sip of his coffee.

“Want me to warm that for you?” asked Frank.

“No. This is fine,” he said. “Not all the rapes took place in the same city. Five were in a college community and four were in a suburb about forty miles away. The rapist was never seen by the victims. We went back and forth on the profile. We were throwing out ideas left and right. But most of us decided he worked at the university and lived in the suburbs and was raping in his comfort zone. We had an elaborate profile that I won’t go into except to say that when unsubs do things like cover the victim’s face, it has meaning. We’d look at the other elements of the crime and decide which set of meanings made sense. We had it figured that he was young, not experienced with women, and didn’t want them looking at him, either from inadequacy or to hide his face, et cetera.”

He paused a moment. “See, that’s the problem. Different unsubs do the same things, but for different reasons,” he said. “Anyway, we were pretty sure of our profile.”

“And?” asked Frank.

“The case was broken by two detectives working separately: one from the suburbs and one from the campus police. It turned out there were two rapists who had no relationship to each other, but who had more or less similar MOs, but different motivations for their respective methods. One blindfolded the women because he didn’t want to be identified and washed them because he wanted to get rid of any trace evidence. He chose his victims from the university because there were lots of young women there and they were easily available. He did not work at the university. He worked at a car repair shop.

“The other rapist started out as a stalker. His stalking victim committed suicide and he was overcome with grief. He made an iron-on transfer from a photograph of her and attached it to a hood. He fantasized about her when he was raping his victims. The washing of his victims was part of his ‘romantic evening’ with them. He was a delivery guy and actually lived somewhere else. He delivered in the area and chose victims from there because he was familiar with all the streets and houses. Both of the rapists tied their victims because they didn’t want them pulling their blindfolds off. Not one of us guessed there were two unsubs, because the rapes were so similar. We were driven by our profile. The detectives who ended up solving the case had more open minds.”

Kingsley paused. “We had actually been encouraging the detectives to look at another guy who came up on the radar because he fit our profile. Fortunately, the detectives didn’t get around to pursuing our suspect before the cases broke in both locales.” Kingsley shook his head. “First, do no harm,” he said.

“Remember the guy accused of the Atlanta Olympic bombing? Turns out he was innocent. But just because he had wanted to be a policeman and failed, it looked like he fit a classic profile and was made out to be the perp. His life was turned upside down and just about ruined. Terrible. Anyway, it all just fell apart for me.” He took a sip of coffee. “So here I am.”

“What are you doing now?” asked Diane.

“I work for a detective agency in Atlanta-Darley, Dunn, and Upshaw,” he said.

“I’ve heard of them,” said Diane. “Big firm. They do a lot of client defense work. What do you do? Tear down profiles in court?”

He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have, but that’s not my goal. What I would like is for profiles to be used as a simple tool, a guideline, and not to drive the case.”

“What brings you here?” asked Diane, staring at the briefcase that Kingsley put his hand on.

“I have a case I’m working on. It’s pro bono. The firm likes to do a few freebies when they can. Makes them look good. It’s a case where I think the police misused profiling techniques we taught them. I was hoping you would help.”

“This is going to need more coffee,” said Diane. She took their cups and disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of cups of fresh coffee.

Frank had cleaned off the coffee table to make room for the files Kingsley pulled from his briefcase. Diane put the tray on an end table and passed around the fresh cups of still-steaming coffee. Ross Kingsley took a sip, then another one, and Diane had the fleeting impression he was numbing his tongue against the upcoming narrative contained in the folders he’d set on the table.

“This isn’t pleasant,” said Kingsley.

“When you find murder that is pleasant, please come and share it with me,” said Diane. “You are talking about murder, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. That is why I’ve come to you. The firm I work for-although they like and encourage pro bono work, they don’t put the entire staff on it. That’s why I need to consult. How do you feel about pro bono?” he asked, looking up at her with a thin smile.

“I’ve done my share,” said Diane, smiling back.

Kingsley pulled a file off the bottom of the stack and opened it. “I have to start with a murder that took place nine years ago. That’s where the story begins.”

Diane looked down at an eight-by-ten mug shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had straight blond hair and brown eyes. His face was thin. He had a narrow, crooked nose and full lips. He looked frightened.

“This is Ryan Dance. He’s serving a life sentence for the murder nine years ago of Ellie Rose Carruthers. El, as her friends called her, was fifteen years old. She was reported missing on a Saturday. She had been left alone at home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood while the rest of the family visited her grandmother in a nursing home. When the family returned, El was not at home. They called all her friends, drove to all her favorite spots looking for her, and finally called the police. She was discovered two days later when an anonymous caller reported a possible body on the side of the road near I-85. She had been strangled and there was an attempted rape. She apparently fought and was killed before the assailant could complete the rape. At least, that was the analysis.”

Kingsley stopped speaking and took another drink of coffee.

“Who was the anonymous caller?” asked Diane.

Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t know.” He set down his coffee cup and continued the story.

Diane looked at the stack of folders and sensed it was going to be a long one. She stared at the picture of Ryan Dance.

“This is not a cold case. They made an arrest,” said Diane.

“Yes. They found cigarette butts near the body and matched the DNA to Ryan Dance,” said Kingsley.

“He stuck around and smoked cigarettes after he dumped the body?” asked Diane.

“I found that a little odd too, but it was an out-of-the-way place, and God knows, perps do strange things,” he said. “Besides, as I was told, the cigarette butts could have been carried there when he carried the body.”

“Is there more evidence?” asked Diane.

“The police searched his car and found strands of her hair, a button from her dress, and a smear of her blood in the trunk,” Kingsley said.

“Then this was a slam dunk,” said Diane.

“Ryan Dance’s sister, Stacy, didn’t think so. Stacy Dance was fourteen years old when her brother, Ryan, was arrested, tried, and convicted. She always believed him to be innocent. When she turned twenty-one, she started an investigation on her own. Four weeks ago, Stacy Dance, age twenty-three, was found dead in her apartment over her father’s garage. Her father came to see me last week, and that’s why I’m here.” Kingsley closed the file and picked up another one. He started to open it, then stopped. “As I said, it’s not pleasant.” He opened the folder.