so far. In other words, if you were surrounded by violence when young, if you were abused or mistreated as a child, chances are you’ll reflect that in your adult life by becoming a violent person. Are you with me so far?’
Garcia nodded, leaning back on his chair.
‘OK, so quick and dirty, the profiler’s job is to try and understand why a criminal is acting the way he is, what makes him tick, what drives him. Profilers try to think and act just like the offender would.’
‘Well, I figured that much out.’
‘OK. So if the profiler can manage to think like a criminal, then he might have a chance of predicting the criminal’s next move, but the only way he can do that is by deeply immersing himself in what he thinks the criminal’s life is like.’ He paused for a swig of his beer. ‘Disregarding the first theory because if being evil is something like a disease, there’s nothing we can do about that. There’s no way we can go back in time to reproduce an offender’s aggressive or abusive childhood either, so the only thing left is the offender’s present life, and here comes step one of profiling. We take a guess at what his life might be like. Where he’d live, places he’d go, things he’d do.’
‘A guess?’ Garcia looked incredulous.
‘That’s all profiling is, nothing but our best guess based on the facts and evidence found at the crime scene. The problem is that when we walk in the footsteps of such deranged criminals for long enough, acting like they do, thinking like they do, immersing ourselves so deep in such dark minds, that unavoidably leaves scars . . . mental scars, and sometimes the profiler loses track of the line.’
‘What line?’
‘The line that keeps us from becoming like them.’ Hunter looked away for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was sad. ‘There have been cases . . . profilers that have worked in investigations of sadistic sexual offenders becoming obsessed with sadistic sex themselves, or going the opposite way, becoming sexually inadequate. The simple thought of sex being enough to make them sick. Others that have worked brutal murder cases have become violent and abusive. Some have gone as far as committing brutal crimes themselves. The human brain is still pretty much a mystery, and if we abuse it for long enough . . .’ Hunter didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘So I chose to abuse my brain in a different way, by becoming a Homicide detective.’ He smiled and finished the rest of his beer.
‘Yeah, and that is some abuse.’ They both laughed.
A mile from Rusty’s Surf Ranch a well-dressed man checked his reflection against the full-size mirror in the entrance lobby of the Belvedere restaurant. He was wearing a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and his blond wig suited him perfectly. His contact lenses gave his eyes an unusual shade of green.
From where he was standing he could see her sitting at the bar, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looked beautiful in her little black dress.
Was she nervous or excited? He couldn’t really tell.
All that time at the supermarket, all those months he’d been working her, feeding her lies, getting her to trust him. Tonight his lies would pay off. They always did.
‘Hello, sir, are you here to meet someone or will you be having dinner by yourself this evening?’
In silence he stared at the maitre d’ for a few seconds.
‘Sir?’
He glanced at her once again. He knew she’d be perfect.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend. That lady by the bar,’ he finally replied with a pleasant smile.
‘Very well, sir, please follow me.’
Forty-Five
Friday night at the Vanguard Club produced a lively mix of people, but tonight the place was busier than usual. Tonight the club was hosting the only Los Angeles appearance of the renowned Dutch DJ – Tiesto.
The club was full to capacity and the main show was due to start at midnight, but everyone was already having a great time. It was a perfect place for what he had in mind. The more people around, the less anyone would notice him.
He’d been growing his beard for six days, just enough to make him look different. He completed his disguise by wearing a trendy cotton baseball cap, a professional-quality wig of pitch-black hair, together with a very colorful designer shirt. His youngish-looking outfit was a far cry from his usual businessman attire with his Italian designer suit and his leather briefcase. But tonight he was no businessman.
Tonight he had only one thing in mind, he had to deliver something. He’d had it for six days and for six days he’d been debating what he should do with it. Businessmen are not best known for being honest, and God only knew he hadn’t been the most honest of businessmen, but some things are just plain wrong, even for him. He had to do something about it.
He stood in a corner on the opposite side of the VIP area observing the vibrant crowd, his eyes sailing the dance floor, searching for anyone that could recognize him – he saw no one. He placed his hand inside his trouser pocket and ran his fingers over the object inside. Immediately a cold tingle started at the base of his back and ran up through his spine all the way to the back of his neck. He quickly moved his hand away.
‘Hey, man, do you need something?’
A young, dark-haired kid, no older than twenty-three, stood in front of him. He squinted his eyes as if trying to see better. ‘What?’
‘You know, man, it’s a rave . . . are you looking for a trip?’
‘Oh no, I’m good,’ he replied, finally understanding what the kid meant.
‘You better get it now, man, before the show starts,’ the kid said, flicking his head towards the stage, his dark hair flipping around just like in a shampoo commercial.
‘No . . . really, I’m fine.’
‘If you change your mind, I’ll be around.’ The kid made a small circular movement with his finger before moving away.
He had another sip of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke and scratched his itchy beard.
The music came to a halt and the lights and lasers went into overdrive on the dance floor. Gusts of smoke coming from the high ceiling filled the place up with a colorful haze. The crowd jumped and screamed and applauded. They were ready to welcome tonight’s special guest.
This was his chance. Everyone’s attention would be on the stage, no one would notice a person dropping a small packet over at the bar. He left his drink behind and quickly squeezed his way through the thirsty customers to position himself against the wall on the far right end of the nearest bar. Even the barmen had stopped serving for a few seconds.
The crowd went berserk. The colored lasers switched their aim towards the stage.
He quickly pulled the small squared packet out of his pocket, leaned forward and dropped it. As the packet hit the floor, he rapidly moved away glad to have finally disposed of it. He was sure no one had seen him do it.
Fifteen minutes later, the second barman finally came across the package. As he rushed to one end of the bar to serve a very loud customer he felt something uneven under his feet. Looking down he noticed the square wrap. He bent over and picked it up.
‘Yo, Pietro!’ the barman called.
Pietro finished serving two attractive young girls and walked over to the other end of the bar.
‘Is this yours?’
Pietro took the small packet from Todd’s hands and stared at it with intrigued eyes. ‘Where did you get
