Moving Target

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

He pulled tight around her throat, choking her.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Francesca Thorne was accustomed to gathering information from criminals in what wasn’t said, whether it was through a look, a nervous tic despite attempts to mask such a giveaway, or simply a change in vocal pitch.

It was what an opponent did not say that aided in the patchwork of piecing together a personality. Her role was simply to watch. Observe. Filter the subtleties of the subconscious into her puzzle-solving mind.

Whereas she would normally calculate facial expressions and measure the pupil dilation of her suspect, waiting for a flinch to reveal so much more than well-selected words, the opportunity had not been given with this particular hunt.

Instead, she had to count on the sound of his breath, the weight of his grasp as he held one arm tightly around her neck, choke-holding her into submission with her back facing him, unable to meet his eyes.

He had snuck up on her.

Though she had returned to the scene to analyze its meaning, determine why the killer had chosen this location for his latest victim, Francesca had not been counting on his presence. Not yet.

His attack had caught her by surprise.

The killer had demonstrated an odd pattern of returning to the scene of his crimes only to enact another, but in between he always committed a murder at a different location. That was his MO. Or at least the first five murders had suggested as much with his leapfrog style.

One location, then another, then back again.

By their calculations, he should have been somewhere else preparing to commit the sixth. She had chosen to come here with the hopes she could piece something together about his selection process, quickly enough to determine where the next crime would take place.

But his MO had changed.

It was inevitable he would switch it up.

Knowing his back-and-forth actions as she now did, he would have been caught sooner or later, with the FBI knowing to stake out his previous playground. And, really, it was just child’s play for him.

“You like taking risks,” she said, holding her voice steady, not allowing even a shred of fear to show as the pressure of his grip grooved over her esophagus. “Yet you refuse to show your face. Slightly passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

When in close contact with a serial killer, Francesca Thorne—lauded forensic psychologist for the FBI—pulled no punches in calling it as she saw it. That included tempting fate by asking somewhat dangerous questions, or igniting a suspect’s volatile nature. It was a trait for which she was known.

Setting herself up for increased risk was part of the job. The very act of trying to diagnose the criminal mentality meant opening up a whole world of unknown psyche. But it was within that very process that she was able to collect the critical data needed to prove or disprove a profiling theory, much like a forensic scientist would test the boundaries of physical evidence.

In this case, mocking her captor only made sense. Her action would cause a telling reaction on his part.

His breath, moist as he exhaled along her ear where his lips barely slid over the curve of her skin, was calm, masking any trace of anger or excitement.

With his body held snug against hers, she could begin to create an image of his physical presence in her mind. Not the specifics such as eye or hair color, but from his stance she could estimate his height.

From his breadth against her, she could make calculations of his weight.

It was the nonvisual clues he gave, such as his scent, his body temperature, and his reaction to her teasing that would matter most. And with what little headway they had made with this case, these variables would not only help her plan a maneuver away from his grasp, they would also lend a hand in solving the identity of their prey.

She closed her eyes, banning their sense from interrupting her analytical intake. She filtered in a deep breath, letting the combination of scents register within.

Ignoring the aroma of a nearby Laundromat, bypassing the scent of rain in the air, she centered on the slight trace of chicory and breathed it in from the cuff of his sleeve.

The sleeve itself belonged to a blue-collar worker. She could tell by its wear and tear, the threads of cheaply made industrial fabric worn with sweat stains and something dark—oil, perhaps?

She inhaled deeply, pinpointing the smell.

It was oil. Like that used on machinery, perhaps in a factory or even an auto mechanic shop.

Knowing what trace evidence could do for fine-tuning such variables, Francesca made a minuscule movement within her captor’s grasp, aiming to transfer even a hint of the physical evidence to her body. If she made it out of there—when she made it out—the lab would be able to study every fiber of her clothing, each thread where this man had left evidence of his identity.

“It won’t be that easy,” he said, no doubt presuming her maneuvers were an attempt to flee his grasp. “You and I are friends now.”

That was it. The first time his voice made contact with her sense of hearing. She listened to each syllable he projected, to what was being said and how, not once overlooking the quiet beat of a pause between each word he selected.

“Is that what you wanted from them? Friendship?” she asked, opening up dialogue with the man her team had been tracking for several weeks.

It started with one body, as it usually does, but it quickly became obvious someone was on the hunt for more action with the discovery of the second victim.

The most disturbing element to the case was that he was a smart criminal, relatively speaking. He knew how to disguise himself, how to leave little trace of evidence, and thereby bring the forensics team to a standstill, waiting…for him to mess up.

“I am not who you think I am,” he said, his one arm holding tight against her neck. The other arm reached around, wrapping against Francesca’s midsection as though this were a perfectly natural position for him. There was no trembling, no jittery movement. He felt completely at ease clenching his ownership around her body.

“Then tell me,” she said aloud while inside her mind a thousand thoughts scrambled for a plan on how to make her move.

An agent from the Baton Rouge resident office had accompanied her to the crime scene, though he remained at the car guarding the scene from the outset. His presence would do her no good at such a distance. “Tell me who you are. How you see yourself.”

He scoffed at her. “What—you some kind of shrink?”

Francesca registered the curve in vocal pitch, his agitation showing fluctuation in the short response. She had hit a nerve, without trying much at all. His own suggestion was fueling his irritation, based on one simple request for him to explain his assumed persona. And now she would use it against him.

“I like to help people, with their thoughts,” she began, noticing the heat rise from his body.

The dewy evening air, signaling an early April rain shower was on its way, carried his scent swiftly to her senses, and she was able to detect a rising pulse. “I could be your confidante. Listen to what you have to say. I bet you feel as though no one understands you, but perhaps I could. If you let me.”

It didn’t mean she would like him or appreciate his actions, but Francesca could use her skills in understanding human behavior to at least empathize with him, see what it was that motivated him to strike out against humanity. It was something for which she strived every day, with every criminal she came across.

Her pursuit had begun as a young child, during events she rarely cared to recall. It was those events, however, that prompted her pursuit of understanding why people do the things they do, and led her to study behavioral science.

At first it was simply a curiosity, one she explored through watching others, even as a child. Then she became enthralled by the lessons learned in psychology classes at the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women, a prep school that encouraged the study of such scientific interests.

By the time Francesca earned her graduate degree in forensic psychology, profiling personalities had become an obsession. One for which she was quickly recognized within the field, handling seemingly impossible cases for the FBI, even those reaching far beyond her home base in Richmond, Virginia.

“I don’t need a shrink.” His voice, increasingly harsh, told her she needed to make a move. Fast. His agitation would only escalate and there was only so much fire she wanted to tempt within him. He was, after all, a serial killer.

One who baited young women, dragged them out to isolated buildings, beat them, assaulted them and finally killed them.

Above all else, Francesca needed to remember that one obvious trait within a killer’s personality—they liked to kill.