Tucker’s fist hit the table, startling Tripp out of past mistakes and regrets. “You want to tell me what’s going on, Junior Agent?”
Shaking the shock of this odd coincidence off, Tripp waved Tucker’s attitude aside. “Just asking questions, shit.” But bile welled at the back of his throat, and a hollow pit had bloomed in his gut. Saving others, even Ashley, didn’t make up for the cold, hard fact that he’d failed these three other women during his late-night patrols. He should’ve been there for each of them. Why hadn’t he?
“They were found by an APD officer, no doubt,” Jameson said thoughtfully, his fingertips lightly drumming the tabletop in front of him.
“Yes, they were,” Chase admitted tersely.
“The killer’s taunting the police, which means he’s escalating. He thinks he’s smarter than they are, but he’s most likely got an average IQ. Chances are he’s handicapped. Killing women, demeaning them by displaying them, is his way of proving his masculinity, that he’s just as good as a police officer. He wants the world to see that side of him, which is why I believe he’s disabled, somehow. This guy doesn’t want to be looked at. He wants, no, he needs to be seen without being seen. He’s an introvert, but violently passive aggressive. I’m guessing he’s shy around women, intimidated by them. Could our killer be a retired officer or a detective who was injured in the line of duty? Or someone who works closely with the police department? Maybe a consultant?”
“Spot on, Tenney,” Chase replied gruffly. “Problem is we’ve looked at all APD employment records. Hell, we’ve even looked at any and all companies and their staff, that might have provided service to that office building. Haven’t found anyone that stands out yet.”
Okay, so that was another lucky guess, that the killer might be taunting Alexandria’s police department just because he’d dumped a couple bodies in the middle of their stomping grounds.
“You’re that profiler Alex hired?” Chase’s dark eyes glazed over Jameson as if he found him wanting. Which Tripp certainly did. Could the guy even fire a weapon and hit something besides the broad side of a really big barn? Could he hit anything at all? Protect anyone?
“What else do you know about our killer?” Jameson asked without answering.
Chase huffed, then rolled one massive shoulder and loosened the knot in his black tie, as if he needed more air—or patience. He shot his next question at Mark. “Honestly, this is all the help you’re going to give me? I’ve got a psycho in town, and you think dumping a visually impaired agent on me is going to—”
“The word is blind, Director Chase. Visually impaired is just PC speak. May I call you Tucker?” Jameson asked evenly, his face devoid of emotion, his round dark glasses now facing Chase. “And yes, I’m blind as the proverbial bat. So, ask me how I knew your victims are all female?”
Chase raked that same hand over his head. “Jesus Christ, call me shithead for all I care. I don’t have time for this bull—”
“Excuse me, but I’d never disrespect another former SEAL by calling him names.” Jameson leaned into the bigger, wider man standing across from him. “Asshole, maybe. Never shithead. I’ll be honest, sir. It’s in the tone of your voice, the way you and every other male around this table breathed while you clicked through those slides. But mostly…”
He paused and turned, aiming those dark spectacles at Tripp, almost as if he could see him sitting across from him. “It’s in your heart rates. All of you. Decent men react differently when the victim is female. You’re offended and disgusted by what you’re seeing, which means each murder scene is brutal and graphic, because face it. We’ve all seen our share of death. Simple observation. Nothing magical or mysterious about it. I’m offended, too, but I’m missing the visual stimuli that makes a decent man stiffen with rage, makes him breathe hard, or stop breathing all together. Makes him sweat, crack his knuckles when he clenches his fist, so tight, he could scream. When he’s angry enough to want to kill.”
Tripp looked down at his white knuckles, blown away that Jameson had pegged him so accurately. “I would kill to protect women,” he admitted quietly. “Any woman. Any child. Young men, too.” But especially Ashley and my mom. Okay, Trish, too.
Jameson cocked his head onto his other shoulder. “Trust me, Tripp. I would, too, though I suspect your reasons are more… personal.”
He paused, his nostrils flared, as if he could scent Tripp’s real reason for wanting to put this mad dog down. As if he sensed Tripp’s need to avenge the crime against Abdul Ikram, and Tripp’s love for his stupid, missing sister. His sudden feelings for Ashley. He moved his fists under the table, in case Jameson could scent his sweaty palms, too.
“I pick up on things only an observant, dumb, blind man can, Director Chase.” Jameson had turned back to Tucker. “Which is why I also know this murderer lives or works in the immediate area. This location means something to him. It’s important, maybe because he can see it from wherever he lives or works. We’re definitely looking for a male.”
Man, that was the wildest guess. Tripp looked to Mark, expecting a quiet rebuff for Jameson’s speaking to an FBI director like he had. But Mark was leaned back in his chair and smiling, one long leg sprawled alongside the table, and tapping the eraser end of a mechanical pencil on the tabletop.
Tucker’s eyes turned black as sin. “You’re the one who took out Lucy Delaney during that sting
