Moving Target. Lori May A.

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Although her own preference was for capturing her suspects and wielding information about their psyche, to analyze and put them through a tougher sentence than death, she had to admit to having a simpler fantasy as his tongue traced the outer edge of her earlobe.

      Though she wanted to put an end to his existence when he said, “Maybe you have something else I want.” There had to be a better way for her to flee his entrapment and bring him down.

      Killing was what she studied, not what she did. There had to be something she could do to not only escape his captivity, but also ensure he was stopped from ever committing another crime again.

      And then she spoke.

      “Maybe СКАЧАТЬ