By Blood Written

since the Psychological Profiling Program became a part of what was then called the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, we’ve carried psychological profiling a long way. I can’t give you this guy’s name and address, but I can give you a very accurate estimate of the type of individual that commits this type of crime. This is a tool for you to use, but it’s only one tool. You have to use every other tool and investigative technique in your arsenal to solve this crime. And if you do, you hit the jackpot, guys. You get the grand slam.”

“So who the fuck we dealing with?” Gilley asked.

“I’ve got complete, detailed handouts for all of you, but to quickly summarize, the Alphabet Man is a classic, organized, psychopathic sexual sadist. This means that he is not-I repeat, not-a raving maniac who’s going to go nuts in the middle of traffic and start slashing people during rush hour. A psychopathic sexual sadist is, above all else, a person who is completely amoral and asocial. He has no capacity for remorse, guilt, or shame. He’s a sociopath, without a moral compass or any sense of ethics or responsibility.

He’s a charming person; if you met him at a party you’d like him, even gravitate to him, especially if you’re female. He’s intelligent, well-read, perhaps well-educated, although he’s more likely to have lots of excuses as to why he’s not well-educated.

“The Alphabet Man thinks entirely too much of himself.

His particular disorder is what the shrinks call paraphilia; sexual deviations that are marked or characterized by per-sistent sexual arousal patterns in which unusual or deviant sexual situations are required for the perp’s arousal. His fantasies revolve around completely dominating and objectify-ing his victims. While he’s torturing, having sex with, and then slowly killing his victims, he’s experiencing a kind of euphoria.”

Powell paused, his eyes roaming the room as some of the investigators frantically took notes while others sat staring, almost in awe, at the description of the man they were now hunting. Powell had seen all these reactions in hundreds of faces in his career, and yet it never ceased to fascinate him.

“On a more specific note, ladies and gentlemen, get your pencils out. First of all, he’s male and he’s Caucasian. He’s around thirty-two, give or take a year or two, and he’s good-looking, maybe even GQ quality. Somewhere around five-eleven, one-seventy-five, maybe one-eighty, with a body that he works hard to keep in shape. He might be married or have a serious girlfriend; in any case, he’s sexually competent and may frequently enjoy what we would consider normal het-erosexual relationships with a variety of partners. In fact, women may chase him, and those that he doesn’t torture, rape, and kill probably have a good time. He’s intelligent, maybe extremely intelligent. As I said, he may be well-educated, but-and this is probably an important key-he may have in his academic background a history of disciplinary problems. He was a firstborn child and probably an only child. His mother adored him and his father was present when he wasn’t working at his good, stable job. However, if he got any discipline at home as a child, it was inconsistent.

He wet the bed until about the age of twelve and probably was torturing cats and puppies before he graduated to college coeds and night-shift clerks. He’s spoiled, wants what he wants when he wants it, and he’s a thrill seeker. He aspires to fame and glamour and attention. He’s probably interested in cops and criminology as well. In fact, if you get any leads or communication about these two murders, I’d take a good look at where the tips are coming from.”

Maria Chavez piped up, her voice strained: “How do you guys know this?”

Powell smiled. “Years of interviews, hundreds of hours of conversations, piles of statistics, and great big computers.

But keep in mind, this is a profile. Statistically, this is what he should be like, but there may be some variations.”

“Amazing,” Gary Gilley mumbled.

“We’re just getting started,” Powell said. “He makes good money. If he drinks Scotch-and we think he does- then he drinks the best Scotch whisky. And he drinks when he kills, but never enough to lose control. He’s highly mobile. Either his job allows him to travel a lot or for whatever reason he doesn’t have to worry about money. Maybe he’s rich; maybe he married well. He plans his crimes well, but handles unexpected circumstances-like finding an extra victim-with some style. He drives a nice car, but probably doesn’t drive it when he’s on a kill. Maybe a rental, or he’s got a kill car stashed away somewhere. He almost certainly has assembled a ‘murder kit,’ and you should search very hard for it if you find him. If he’s ever caught, he’ll feign innocence so effectively you’ll be tempted to believe him. When he’s finally nailed, he’ll express remorse, but always remember: He’s not sorry for what he did; he’s only sorry he got caught.”

Woessner’s hand shot up again. “Speaking of catching him, what are the chances that he’s still around so we can nail his sorry ass?”

“Virtually nil,” Powell admitted. “He’s already on the move, long gone. But what’s left behind is his detritus. He didn’t kill those two girls, then take a cab to the airport. As organized and planned as these murders were, they were also damn bloody and messy. He’s never left fingerprints, so somewhere in the vicinity of that strip mall are a pair of bloody latex gloves. Probably coveralls and other articles of clothing as well, not to mention a weapon of some kind and perhaps a discarded small bag full of duct tape and rope and perhaps a pair of handcuffs. Find it. Find his garbage.

And use it to track his sorry ass down.”

Powell stopped, closed his notebook. “And on a personal note, I happen to ascribe to that branch of psychiatry, psychology, philosophy, theology, whatever, which factors in the component of human evil. The murders committed by this person transcend our ability to understand them or in any way rationalize them. This man is not an animal; animals don’t rape, torture, sodomize, and kill. He doesn’t kill for food or survival. He kills because he’s a predator. Remember that, above all else. He kills for one reason and one reason alone.”

Powell paused once again, this time plainly and openly for dramatic affect.

“He likes it.”

CHAPTER 5

Monday afternoon, Manhattan

Taylor Robinson’s office at Delaney amp; Associates was on the northwest corner of the second floor of the renovated East Fifty-third Street brownstone that Joan Delaney’s second husband had left her. Joan’s third husband had tried to get a piece of the brownstone in their divorce, but Joan’s attorney-who later became her fourth husband-managed to chase him off. After the fourth died two years later, Joan’s claim on the house was forever uncontested due to her resolve to never marry again.

The four-story brownstone, located on the north side of East Fifty-third between Second and Third Avenues, was a short two-block walk from Sutton Place, where Taylor often sat on a bench and ate a sack lunch on warm days. She would stare out over the East River, the Queensboro Bridge towering over her left shoulder, and for a few short moments leave Joan Delaney’s shrill voice behind her. The screeching of modems and fax tones, the smell of toner and burnt coffee, the background din and chatter of a busy office became just a memory blocked from her mind, at least for a while.

As Taylor sat in her tiny, high-ceilinged office on a Monday that had already seen more than its usual share of crises, she longed for a warm spring day and the benches of Sutton Place that overlooked the blue-gray ribbon glimmering in the sun that was the East River. Unfortunately for her, this was still February. A bitter wind poured down the av-enues, its momentum only slightly broken by the concrete and plate-glass forest of Manhattan. The temperature wasn’t expected to reach twenty degrees today, and the wind chill/

agony factor was well below zero.

Taylor was frazzled and already weary before her normal one o’clock lunchtime. She felt as if she had been locked in a room full of hungry, yapping Chihuahuas, not one of which could actually bring her down and finish her off, but all of whom together could wear her down and frustrate her nearly to the point of screaming.

Her state of mind and morale weren’t helped by having a houseguest all weekend. It wasn’t that Michael Schiftmann was such a bother. In fact, he was the most low-maintenance houseguest she’d had in months. But there had been the party she’d thrown for him Saturday night, and on Sunday afternoon she’d accompanied him down to the Village for his signing at a small mystery bookstore. After the book signing, she had taken Michael, the bookstore owner and his wife, and a couple of other hangers-on out for a dinner that lasted until nearly ten. By the