Foley & Rose Mysteries Collection - Books 1-4

Chapter 6-2

“Really?” Sam leaned forward.

“Victims of serial killers almost always have something in common,” Ann continued. “They’re all hitch-hikers for instance, or they’re all prostitutes, young boys, young girls, or elderly women. These three men all had an association with the law. There is a difference here however.”

“I think I know where you’re heading,” Sam said.

“Good, we’re on the same wavelength,” Ann flashed that captivating smile. “In most cases, while the victims have something in common, they are usually chosen at random and are, in fact, strangers to their assailant. I don’t see that as being the case here.”

“Oh?” Sam uttered curiously. “That’s interesting. What makes you think that?”

“Again,” she said, “we are working with limited specifics, but its common knowledge Richter was killed at Police Headquarters. Costello was killed in a public park in broad daylight, and Roland Henderson at the Supreme Court building. In each case the killer must have taken considerable risk of being caught, or at the very least, seen by someone in the vicinity. That suggests to me he chose his victims specifically. If he fitted the usual profile and selected his victims at random, he could surely have found easier targets with much less risk of being observed.”

“Perhaps the risk is part of the thrill for him?” Sam mused.

“Yes,” Ann agreed, “that is often the case, and it very well could be here. It could also be that it is his way of taunting the police. It’s been known to happen.”

“What about the man himself? You know, age, physical characteristics, all that stuff?”

“We have to look at history for that,” Ann answered. “We have to stereotype him. Statistically the majority of serial killers are male, white, aged between thirty and fifty and are of average build. They are generally as nondescript in appearance as the chap next door. They go to great lengths to ensure nothing about their appearance will attract undue attention.” She paused. “I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that, but if we take the mean average, you will be looking for a white man, about forty years old, unspectacular in appearance. And,” she added, “when he’s not killing judges or police officers, he will be the friendly next door neighbour who volunteers to collect your mail and feed your cat when you are away on holidays.”

“Well,” Sam responded, “that would be about half the population.”

“I’m afraid so,” Ann agreed. “That’s about as specific as I can be without resorting to wild speculation. I prefer to leave that to the media, they are much better at it.”

“So,” Sam summarised, “I’m looking for a forty-year-old, average looking bloke with a grudge against authority; that should be easy.”

Ann ignored his sarcasm. “There are examples of serial killers who extract vengeance against those who represent authority because they feel authority has wronged them somehow. The identity of the victim is usually irrelevant to the killer. His grudge is against the authority as an organisation, as opposed to a specific individual within the organisation. I can’t help thinking though, that in this case, the killer is choosing his victims because of who they are rather than who they represent.”

“A link between the victims other than the fact they all represented the law?”

“I’m sure of it,” Ann said. “Because of the risk involved in each case, it would suggest the victims were specifically targeted. If you find what else was common to all three victims, it may give you a motive, if nothing else.”

“Is it likely the victims might have known the killer?”

“Given what I’ve already said about carefully choosing his victims, I think it is a distinct possibility.”

“Could he be suicidal?” Sam posed.

“When he’s finished, assuming he’s not caught first, he might take his own life. If he does, he’ll leave no explanation, and his family and friends will be taken completely by surprise. The killings will mysteriously stop, and probably remain unsolved. Such cases are rare however, because again, generally speaking, serial killers are cowardly and weak by their very nature. Suicide is not an option they would consider. In some cases, for inexplicable reasons, the urge to kill leaves him, and he no longer feels the need to impose his violence on others. This man will, I think, continue until he has completed the task he has set himself. Only then will he feel vindicated and stop the killing.”

“He sounds like a delightful chap,” Sam offered.

“He’s the worst kind of serial killer, Sam. Most of them have a deep, basic emotional instability about them. I think this man is quite sane; at least that’s how he appears to others, and that makes him even more dangerous.”

As if by pre-arrangement, the telephone on her desk rang once. Ann excused herself and picked it up.

“Yes, Margaret?” she said into the mouthpiece. “Thank you, we were just finishing.” She lowered the hand piece to its cradle. “Sam, I’m sorry, I have another meeting in a few minutes.”

“No,” Sam said, getting up. “It’s my fault. I’ve kept you from your work. I should have made an appointment.”

“That’s all right,” Ann said, also rising. “I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to discuss aspects of my work on a one-to-one basis, as opposed to in front of a class room of students, half of whom sleep through my lectures anyway.”

“Somehow, I can’t imagine anyone sleeping through one of your classes,” Sam smiled.

“Now you’re flattering me,” she laughed as she followed him to the door. “But don’t stop, I love it.”

Sam turned and faced her. “Thank you, you’ve been a great help. I guess that’s why you’re the professor and I’m just the lowly private investigator.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. Remember, I’m familiar with your reputation. I suspect you are far more astute than you let on.”

“Now you’re flattering me!” Sam laughed.

you’re me“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more specific,” Ann continued, “Serial killers are a breed of their own. A lot of it is assumption, speculation and ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. I only hope you catch this fellow before he kills again, because if you don’t, he will.”

“At least I have an idea of who I’m looking for,” Sam offered his hand. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” she said, taking his hand and holding it perhaps longer than she needed to.

As he left, Sam thought she said it as though she meant it.

* * *

As he walked slowly to his car, something nagged at the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. An indefinable thing, a question, a fact, something sitting there, somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, but omnipresent enough to tweak a nerve of… of what, remembrance perhaps? He didn’t know. It wasn’t something that concerned him sufficiently for him to agonise over, it was just… well… something.

He unlocked his car, climbed in, and for a few minutes, he sat in the campus car park mulling over the things Ann Curtis had said. Now he had a better picture of what the killer might look like. Scant as that description might be, it was a start, at least. A mental image, albeit speculative, was better than no image at all.

When finally, he started the car and drove from the university grounds, he wished he had asked her out to dinner.

* * *

Ann Curtis returned to the chair behind her desk. She should be on her way to the opposite end of the Administration block by now if she was going to be on time for her next meeting. For a few moments, she allowed her thoughts to linger on Sam Rose. What was it about him that intrigued her? He was good looking, she supposed, without being drop-dead gorgeous. He had an air of strength and self-confidence about him that could not be mistakenly interpreted as arrogance, and she was sure, somewhere beneath the image he presented, she detected a gentleness she suspected not many people ever got close enough to see. What was it? What was it about Sam Rose that left her feeling ever so slightly girlish?

There had been men in her life, too damn many of them, she often thought; a legacy of her looks she supposed. Most of the relationships she entered into were superficial at best, and based on the physical needs of both the man she was with at the time, and those of her own. Only twice had she ever considered herself on the verge of falling in love, and both times, her heart was broken. The experience left her burdened with no small amount of cynicism in regards to the whole love, life-long commitment thing. It was her job. She knew that now, and had long ago come to terms with it, even though it sometimes left her with feelings of loss and inadequacy. Most of the men she met who were of eligible status, were intimidated by her position and by the nature of her work. More than one of her partners expressed concerns he felt he was being analysed during their relationship. It was a failing in her character, she knew that, but as far as her work was concerned, she was simply not prepared to compromise; not at that time. Not back then, when she was still on the way up, on the way to being the best in a profession still considered in many circles to be exclusively a man’s domain.

It was different now. She had the job she wanted, and she was content, at least professionally. It had not been easy. Along the way, she paid a price for the career choices she made, and these days, she seemed unable to embark on anything other than platonic relationships. It had been a long time since she felt that light, feather soft fluttering low in her belly. What was it about Sam Rose that stirred those vague but not totally forgotten feelings deep inside her now?

She wondered if she might get the opportunity to see him again, hoping she would, and hoping it would be soon.

Her secretary poked her head around the door, and reminded her she was late for her meeting. She gathered documents from her desk, and pushing aside thoughts of Sam Rose, for the moment, she hurried from the room.