Mariah Stewart - Dead End

“Shouldn’t take you more than a day or so,” he said to Annie while authorizing her to provide an analysis of the killer’s psychological profile to the chief of detectives in Avon County. “What’s on your calendar right now?”

“The Ohio case. A case out in Michigan. Something that came in last night from Oregon; I’m taking that with me to read on the plane. I have a meeting in Seattle next Tuesday. Otherwise, I’m okay.”

“Great. See if you can shed some light on this case.” John pushed his chair back from his desk, his habitual nonverbal notice that the meeting had concluded.

Annie stood and gathered her bag and her briefcase, noting that John’s job was clearly taking its toll.

“You okay, John?”

“As okay as I’ve ever been, I guess.”

“Genna okay?” She asked, referring to John’s wife of two years.

“She’s fine.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“You just look a little tired, that’s all.”

He laughed. “When have I not been tired?”

“You just look a little more worn-out than you normally do.”

“It’s just the job, Annie. But I appreciate your concern.”

“Maybe you should be the one going to Pennsylvania and out of here for a few days.”

“Well, actually, I’ll be doing just that. Genna’s got that cabin out on that lake up in the northeastern corner of the state, you know. We’re supposed to go for a week, starting on Tuesday.”

“Do it. Make it your priority. Don’t let anything come between you and that time off, John. Seriously. I can’t remember the last time I called this office and you were on vacation.” Her voice softened. “You need the time, John.”

“You been talking to my wife?”

“Just looking out for you, pal.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” John told her. “You keep in touch, and have a safe trip.”

“You, too.”

She left John’s office and headed straight for her own on the seventh floor. She was gathering up files she’d left on her desk when Brendan Shields appeared in her doorway.

“Hey. Where’s the fire?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m on my way to Pennsylvania to look into that serial killer they have on the loose, and I need to take some of these notes with me.” Where was the file she’d started with her own notes on Dylan’s case? She checked her briefcase and found she’d already tucked it away.

“I heard Mancini’s sending a couple of agents up there,” he said. “I heard Miranda Cahill, Mike Hoffman, and Kevin Muller were going.”

“Oh, great. I love working with all of them. I should check with Miranda and see when she’s leaving. Maybe we can fly up together.”

“She’s in Maine right now. I think she’s heading down there tomorrow.”

“Word travels fast around here.”

Brendan shrugged. “I had lunch with Will a while ago. Miranda called him while we were eating.”

“I can’t believe how incestuous this place is. And how quickly news travels.” She laughed and added one more file to her briefcase. “Gotta run.”

Brendan backed into the hall to allow her to pass.

“See you when I get back.” She stepped around him and started down the hall, then stopped and turned around. “By the way, do you know an agent named Melissa Lowery?”

“Name sounds familiar, but I can’t place her. Why?”

“She was on the scene the night Dylan died, but her report is missing from the file.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“It probably dropped out at some point, or got stuck to something else and misfiled. Happens all the time.”

“Anyway, I was just wondering what was in the report, if she might remember what she’d written, but no one seems to know where she is.”

“I can ask around, see if anyone knows.”

“Thanks, Brendan.” She smiled and resumed her quick trot to the elevator, calling to the woman who was just about to enter the car, “Hey, could you hold that for me, please…?”

Anne Marie sat on the black leather sofa in the office of the Avon County district attorney and read through the letter she’d been handed almost immediately upon entering the room.

“This is what we’re dealing with, Dr. McCall,” the District Attorney, Art Sheridan, told her. “We think this is, in fact, from the killer, but we want your opinion. On the author of the letter as well as on the contents.”

Annie took her time reading, then read it through a second time.

“I agree this is from your killer. There’s so much going on here…” she told the men who had gathered in the office and appeared to be waiting for some revelation from her. “But this isn’t like a psychic reading. I need a little time to think this through. But I can tell you up front, I do believe it to be genuine. He fancies himself as very intelligent, very much in control of this situation; he’s very cocky about having you all on the ropes, and is quite proud of that. Yet, at the same time, he’s telling you a great deal about himself.”

“Such as…?” Sheridan asked hopefully.

“This is not a very young man. I’m thinking he’s in his late twenties, perhaps his early thirties. He’s not well educated, but he believes he’s quite smart and is annoyed that everyone doesn’t recognize his brilliance. He’s in a low-level job-I think he has been for years, which is why I think he’s in his thirties-a job that makes him subservient, and he hates that feeling. He knows he’s better than everyone else, so he’s smug, even as he’s humiliated by the menial tasks his job requires of him.” She looked up at Sheridan. “I wrote a preliminary profile for Detective Crosby. This was all in that memo.”

“Anyone have that memo?” Sheridan looked around the room.

“I have it.” Malone passed it to Sheridan, who glanced at it, then asked, “How come I didn’t get this?”

“I, ah, sent you a copy,” Malone told him. “It might still be in your interoffice mail.”

“In any case”-Sheridan gestured to Annie-“continue, Dr. McCall.”

“You’re looking for someone who does menial work for a lot of people who are much better off financially than he is, or who comes into contact with such people on a regular basis. He resents what they have, doesn’t understand why he hasn’t been able to make as much or to have the kind of life that they have. His resentment is deep-seated and has been building inside him for a long time. He thinks he’s as worthy as they-more so, actually-but they don’t recognize this. They probably don’t see him at all. So he’s forcing them to look at him, to stand in awe of him, by taking something precious from them, something they value greatly, to prove to them how much control he has over their lives. He’s stealing their daughters, defiling them, taking their lives. And flaunting what he’s done.” She looked from one man to the other. “He will not stop. He will keep on going for as long as he can.”

“Are you saying this is socially motivated, that this is a class thing…?”

“If you want to use those terms, Chief Malone, but this goes so much deeper than that. Look here, in his letter. He’s incensed that you would think that he would be bothered with these other victims, these nameless girls. He’s infuriated that someone is trying to copy what he’s done, but even angrier that this copycat killer has targeted girls that he feels are so beneath him. It’s bad enough that someone is copying his style, but to have the deaths of these girls who he feels are inferior and therefore so unworthy of his attention-well, he’s just not going to take that. Uh-uh. He wants you to make sure the public knows his standards are much higher than this copycat. And he wants this copycat caught.”