When No One Is Watching

“Criminal profiling. I’ve provided some insight on cold cases that has led to convictions.”

Gray squinted at the simple business card with disinterest before handing it back to her. “With all due respect, none of that answers my original question. What’s your role in this investigation?”

Her mouth twitched. “In my experience, when someone says ‘with all due respect,’ they actually mean the opposite.” She nodded curtly at the business card. “Keep it. I have plenty of them. And as to your question, I was asked to be here.”

Gray’s eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

“Me, sir.” Officer Langley stepped forward, bobbing his head nervously. “She was working with Lieutenant Mathieson last summer on the Valentine case, and I heard this was a young woman, so...” He stood dumbly in place.

“So what, Officer?” Gray knew he didn’t have to do much to appear physically imposing, and now he just pulled up to his full height, rested his hands at his sides and waited for the explanation. “You thought this woman might be one of Valentine’s victims? He hasn’t killed in nearly a year.”

“About ten months,” said Mia. “Serial killers often take breaks in between killings. Officer Langley called me to the scene because this vic fit the profile, and because I might be helpful if this was Valentine’s scene.”

Valentine. Blame the media for the stupid moniker. A little over a year ago, bodies began to pile up in Boston. Three bodies and one missing person later, a reporter started calling the perp Valentine because an anonymous source let slip that a single killer was suspected, and that this killer left flowers at the scenes. What the reporter couldn’t know was how apt the name truly was, because the police hadn’t disclosed that Valentine had removed the heart from each of his victims. A vile souvenir, no doubt.

Officially, Valentine was a bogeyman, a figment of that reporter’s imagination. “Do we think this is the work of a single killer? It’s too soon to tell,” said the chief at a press conference when the Valentine article came out. No one at the Boston P.D. was prepared to utter the words serial killer, and a year later, no one had. Serial killers didn’t just generate hysteria in the public—they attracted the FBI, and Gray needed federal involvement in his cases like he needed another homicide file on his desk. When his predecessor retired, Gray inherited the Valentine file and the sleepless nights that came with it. All of his worrying amounted to squat, because once the chief denied Valentine’s existence, Valentine stopped killing.

“Like that fairy in Peter Pan,” an officer quipped one day. “He dies if you don’t believe in him.”

Someone should have named him Tinker Bell.

“Valentine doesn’t exist. Not officially.” Gray kept his side to her and spoke to Officer Langley instead. “And we bring profilers on board only after CSU has had the chance to process the scene.”

“That’s not always the best idea, Lieutenant.”

He spun to face her, and Mia continued. “I’ve pointed out evidence that CSU has missed on more than one occasion. Once CSU leaves the scene, this evidence can’t be used in court because the chain of custody has been broken.” She shrugged. “That’s why it’s better if I see the scene while it’s being processed rather than later.”

Gray bristled. No one told him what best practices were. “Now, wait a damn—”

“I made a mistake,” said Officer Langley. “I shouldn’t have invited her without your knowledge. Lieutenant Mathieson would have...” He shook his head. “But I should have run it by you first.”

“Lieutenant Mathieson is retired. Valentine is my case now.” He glanced at Mia, who was watching him intently. “We’ll talk about this privately, Langley. Later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her mouth was pulled into a tight straight line. “I haven’t caught your name, Lieutenant.”

“Gray Bartlett.” It came out as more of a growl. He pointed to her travel mug. “What’s that? Coffee? It’s not allowed at the scene.”

“Sorry, I got the call while I was out and I came right away,” she said, setting the mug on the lowest step. “It’s monkey-picked oolong. Do you drink tea, Lieutenant?”

Gray rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. This all had to be some kind of bad dream. That, or someone was pranking him. “No, I don’t drink tea.”

“I drink it for the antioxidants, though I load it with sugar.” She smiled. “That probably defeats the purpose, wouldn’t you think?”

He was certain he didn’t have any opinion whatsoever about the interplay of sugar and antioxidants in her monkey tea. “What, exactly, have you been working on with regards to the Valentine case, Ms. Perez?”

“It’s ‘Doctor,’” she said, “and I’ve been working on a profile of Valentine—assuming he exists.” The corner of her mouth quirked at the little jab. Cute. “Mostly I’ve had to rely on police files, but there’s nothing like seeing a scene firsthand.” She brushed her hands together, apparently eager to begin work. “Don’t worry, this isn’t costing taxpayers a dime. I volunteer my time with the department. It complements my academic research.”

“Dr. Perez has consulted with me on some of her academic work,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Fascinating.”

“Oh?” Gray’s interest was only mildly piqued.

“I’m researching biological origins for psychopathy,” she said. “Other researchers have examined brain scans of psychopathic criminals and found an abnormal structure that may correlate with criminal activity.” She paused, and then a smile, slow as honey, spread across her lips. “I see I’m boring you, Lieutenant.”

She was awfully perky for this hour of the morning. Maybe there was something to that weird tea of hers. “You lost me at biological origins. And I don’t see what brain abnormalities have to do with homicide.”

“So you were listening.” She squared off with him and began talking animatedly. “It’s the old ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. How is it that so many people can experience bad childhoods, but only some of them will engage in criminal activity as a result?”

“Not all criminals come from broken homes. Some serial killers came from loving families.”

“Exactly.” Her hands moved when she spoke, her body lit with passion. “Just like not all psychopaths become criminals. I’m trying to understand why we behave the way we do. Wouldn’t it be interesting to isolate a brain structure that predisposes a person to criminal activity? Then we might begin to truly understand the criminal mind. It doesn’t stop there. We may be able to identify physical characteristics of the brain that influence other behaviors, as well.”

He made a valiant effort not to roll his eyes. Hadn’t he seen some brand of similar optimism a thousand times? And each was equally grating. “Don’t tell me. You’re the kind who thinks it’s possible to know another person. To truly know and understand them.”

“Of course. To an extent.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I believe we operate within certain reasonably predictable parameters,” she said. “Our lives are comprised of stressors and responses. It’s my job to try to understand why individuals respond in a particular way to the stressors they encounter.”

“I’ll save you some time. I’ve worked in this job for long enough to know that you can never understand,” Gray said flatly. “You want to boil human behavior down to brain structure? People will surprise and disappoint you.” He shook his head. “No one knows who they are or what they’re capable of when tested. Not me, and not you.”

She stood in place, locking his hidden gaze with her own. Slowly, a smile worked at the corners of her lips, and she took a step forward, closing the space between them. “Anyway, Lieutenant, I promise I won’t distract you or anyone here from their work. I know how to make myself invisible. But while I’m here, I might be able to help you with this scene.”

Gray dragged his gaze across her figure again, making no attempt to hide his appraisal. She was long limbed, curvy and attractive, with high cheekbones and a gracefully arched nose. He had the utmost faith in the men and women who worked beneath him, but any woman who looked the way Mia did was going to present some kind of distraction. “I only allow law enforcement professionals at my scenes,” Gray said. “Stand right where you are, take a good look and then leave the way you came. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Fine,” she said, to his surprise. “I’ll take what I can get.” She calmly snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “I may not have graduated the police academy, but I promise you I know how to behave around a dead body.” Her hands found her hips, and she faced him in a silent challenge. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you’re blocking my view.”

He didn’t move, except to fold his arms across his chest. “What’s your interest in the Valentine case, anyway?”

In all the years Gray had worked with Lieutenant Mathieson, he’d never known him to work with profilers. In fact, Mathieson had referred to profilers with derision more than once, calling them charlatans and “tea-leaf readers.” Gray wanted to know how Mia had managed to convince Mathieson not only to allow her onto the Valentine case, but to put her on the list of persons to call anytime someone matching the profile of one of Valentine’s victims turned up. It was no small feat.

Mia grew quiet. “It happens to be a very personal matter for me.”

“Personal? How?”

This time, she didn’t flash a smile. “My sister was one of Valentine’s victims.”

* * *

Mia should have taken the pill, because her bones and viscera already trembled inside of her skin. Instead she’d nestled it in her pocket, full of good intentions. She’d take it if she needed it, but not a second sooner. Even more than the sometimes-crippling anxiety, she hated those pills and the way they clung to her esophagus, but sometimes she needed help functioning.

It’s not Lena, she thought, releasing her breath from the vise in her chest. She couldn’t have handled seeing that, and yet part of her desperately wanted the not knowing to end. That was the worst part about having a loved one go missing: not knowing whether she would one day pass Lena on the street or pick up the phone to hear her voice. Or open the front door to see police officers charged with delivering the worst possible news.

It’s not Lena.

Mia fingered the pill in her pocket, clutching it against a wad of lint. She hadn’t touched police work in the months since she was injured, and she couldn’t exactly say she missed it. Still, she felt its tug on her, perhaps from some need to bring order to her small corner of the universe or to feel useful again. Here I go, she thought wryly. Her illustrious return to normalcy, where normal meant poring over the handiwork of psychopaths in her spare time. She let the pill fall again to the bottom of her pocket and stared at the stiff body of the woman in front of her. Was this Lena’s fate, too?