Taboo (11 page)

The lecture hall was full but not a soul moved. Their eyes were all fixed on the man at the front of the room. Daniel Forrest cut a slight figure; his thick, dark hair was turning
gray at the sides, but behind his glasses his eyes burned with a fierce intensity. He moved restlessly around the stage as he talked.

‘Serial killers are among
the
most reckless of murderers. Their need to keep killing far outweighs their need to be cunning or discreet. In fact, what allows most serial killers to keep killing is that their carelessness is dwarfed by police and investigative incompetence.’ Forrest looked up as a low ripple of laughter filled the lecture hall. ‘Don’t believe me?’ he said, cocking an eyebrow at his audience. ‘Let me tell you the story of Henry Louis Wallace, and see if it’s something you recruits can learn from.’

As he spoke, he flicked through a series of pictures on the projector.

‘When he was arrested on 4 February 1994, in Charlotte, North Carolina, Henry Louis Wallace had already raped and strangled to death five young black women. Each of his victims worked in the fast-food industry and, more significantly, each knew Wallace and was a friend of his girlfriend. In fact, his name appeared in the address books of several of the deceased.’ He paused and gazed out at the sea of rapt faces.

‘In addition, at the time of his arrest, Wallace had a burglary record and a prior charge of raping a woman at gunpoint. Add to that a connection to all five murder victims. Pretty compelling, you’d think?’ He looked around the room and waited for the nods from the eager students.

‘Unfortunately for Wallace’s next four murder victims, all this meant nothing to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg police and the prosecutor’s office – they released Wallace from custody that same day. Wallace had not, after all, been arrested for murder. He had been arrested for allegedly shoplifting at a mall.’

Another low murmur ran through the room.

‘How could this happen, you may ask? Because at the time of Wallace’s arrest on the shoplifting charge, the police didn’t consider the string of murders of the young black women related,’ Forrest continued. ‘They had no significant leads on any of them. Emboldened by his release, Wallace killed again just sixteen days later, and would continue to kill until he was finally arrested a full two
years
later, at which point he confessed to eleven murders in all.’

Forrest returned to the podium and rested his hands lightly on it. He had no need to refer to his notes. ‘On 29 January 1997, Henry Lewis Wallace was given nine death sentences and is currently on death row in Raleigh, North Carolina. One of the reasons the police department gave for its inability to catch him was its inexperience with investigating serial murders.’

He paused and looked up. ‘Now here’s the interesting bit. Early in 1994, when the rate of murders in the area was at an all-time high, the department sought the help of the FBI, who erroneously declared that the rash of murders in the area was not the work of a serial killer. Why? Because Wallace didn’t fit the profile: He was black, whereas most serial murderers are white. Also, serial killers are expected to kill strangers, whereas Wallace killed friends and co-workers.’ Daniel smiled at his audience. ‘Needless to say, I was not working on behalf of the Bureau at the time,’ he added, and again, the students laughed.

‘So, what’s the point I’m trying to make?’ He paused and waited for a response.

Finally a hand shot up. ‘Don’t make assumptions?’

Forrest’s face lit up.
‘Exactly. When it comes to serial murders, there are no hard and fast rules or answers. In fact, don’t presume to know
anything
when it comes to these people. Of course, to a certain degree we need to work from an existing framework – that’s why they call us profilers – and sometimes the profile fits just fine.’

He moved out from behind the podium to the front of the stage to get his final point across. ‘Most of the time, serial killers are reckless, haphazard individuals who just enjoy killing. On the other hand, some of them are extremely cunning, have a set plan, a point to make. Who can tell which you might be dealing with? But what you have to remember, what links them all, is that ultimately they make mistakes. What we need to do, people, is spot those mistakes when we see them.’ He pointed up at the screen behind him, upon which was displayed a blown-up mug shot of Wallace. ‘Don’t make the same error the Charlotte-Mecklenburg police did when dealing with Henry Lewis Wallace. Recognize those mistakes, those tiny seemingly insignificant mistakes, the things that, in the end, will help us find our killer.’

Daniel switched off the projector and shuffled his notes. ‘That’s it for today, guys. See you next week.’

As the students headed toward the exits, chatting excitedly to each other, Forrest made his escape through a side door.

One of the secretaries waylaid him in the hallway as he returned to his office. ‘Eight messages for you, Agent Forrest, all of them urgent,’ she said, thrusting the slips of paper at him.

‘Is there any other kind?’ he replied with a sigh, taking another sip of coffee from the paper cup in his hand.

She gave a polite smile and hurried off down the hall.

Forrest pushed open the door to his office, pitched his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin, and sat down behind his large oak desk. The office was immaculate, shelves lined with books and case files, a couple of specimen jars, one small shelf of family photos.

He ran a hand through his hair and flicked through the messages. Most got just a cursory glance, but when he got to the fourth piece of paper, Daniel paused, and a look of surprised pleasure crossed his face. Checking his watch, he picked up the phone and, peering at the paper for reference, dialed a number.

‘GFU, Reilly Steel speaking.’

‘Good afternoon, Reilly,’ Daniel said warmly. ‘How are you? I just got your message. Is Dublin treating you well?’

‘Daniel, hey, thanks for getting back to me so soon.’

‘You’re welcome. What can I do for you?’

‘Well, I wanted to talk to you about a case if you have a moment …’

Daniel’s door opened and his assistant stuck her head around it. ‘Agent Forrest? Dr Williams is here to see you—’ He held up five fingers – a plea for five minutes. The woman nodded and withdrew.

‘Of course, Reilly.
What’s up?’

‘What would you say if I told you there was an apparently coincidental Freudian connection between two different crime scenes and that we’d found a cigar at a third?’

Daniel sat forward, intrigued. ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,’ he said, quietly.

‘That’s what I thought. Not so coincidental anymore, is it?’

He said nothing for a moment, and wondered if the Irish authorities had any real idea how lucky they were to have Reilly Steel working alongside them. She’d always been unbelievably smart, and had made sense of what was in reality a completely obscure connection. And so typical of Reilly to use a psychological challenge to get him interested.

‘It’s clever, that’s what it is – clever and very subtle,’ he said eventually.
Although perhaps not so subtle to someone like him.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
One of Sigmund Freud’s most famous quotations, and one that served to poke fun at his own self-confessed obsession with all things phallic. While Daniel was extremely familiar with the works of the famous psychologist (in his line of work he couldn’t
but
be familiar) he was decidedly impressed at how Reilly had so easily grasped the cigar’s significance. But of course, the girl had always had excellent instincts, hadn’t she?

‘How did you know?’ he asked her.

‘We found identical trace evidence at two otherwise unconnected scenes – that provided our first connection. In addition, one of them had a copy of Freud’s
Interpretation of Dreams
on the bedside, while the other – a supposed suicide – left a quote from Freud as a farewell note.’

‘Coincidental?’ Daniel threw it out to her as a challenge, despite knowing that Reilly was too clever to fall for something that simple.

‘You sound like the detectives here,’ she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘A couple of days ago we again picked up similar trace matter at the third scene, and I knew without question that all three had to be linked. But I still needed to know for sure, so I took another a look at the inventory for the most recent site, this time actively looking for something Freud-related. The cigar stood out.’

‘I didn’t know you were that familiar with Freud—’

‘I’m not,’ she responded quickly, ‘but the cigar is a classic phallic symbol now, isn’t it? You know, thanks to Bill and Monica …’

Daniel had to
smile, he’d been forgetting how influential popular culture could sometimes be.

Reilly continued, ‘When I researched it further, I came across Freud’s cigar quote, and figured that we’d found the killer’s calling card – the Freudian connection.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Not this time.’

‘Good work,’ he said, admiringly.

‘Maybe, but that’s about as far as we’ve got,’ Reilly said, her tone growing anxious. ‘We’ve got a solid investigative team here, and I know we can find this guy, but without specialist help, I’m not sure we can do it before he kills again.’

‘What’s your pattern, your timeline?’

‘Three – possibly four – killings, one a double homicide, all within the last ten days. One body took a while to discover so it’s difficult to pin down a definitive timeline, but that’s a lot for this town and it’s got the authorities spooked. The media are circling, and while they haven’t got hold of any connection just yet …’ Forrest rocked back in his chair, nodding as he listened. ‘You know how these things go, Daniel. If he’s using a calling card, then it’s likely he’s toying with us, testing us. It’s also likely he’ll start to escalate soon, and when he does …’

The remainder of her sentence trailed off. ‘Look, the reason I’m calling is because we need outside help – fast. As I said, people are getting nervous around here; the force have limited experience with this kind of thing, and while they usually work with behaviourists from the UK, I’ve convinced them that you’re the best man for the job – probably the
only
man for the job.’ She paused. ‘Would you consult with us on this? There’s no one here remotely experienced or qualified enough – actually, I don’t think there’s anyone other than you who
could
provide insight into something this complex.’

‘Well, you’re right, of course,’ Daniel joked, but then his tone grew serious. ‘But I don’t know, Reilly. I’ve got a lot going on at the moment. Anyway, I’m not even sure if there’s a precedent for my coming in on something like this—’

‘It would only be on a consultancy basis, we don’t expect you to travel here or anything.’ She spoke quickly. ‘I know it sounds presumptuous, but I’ve already spoken with the relevant people here and they’re going through the motions as we speak. The top brass want this guy found and stopped as soon as possible, particularly before the public get wind of it.’ At this, there was a note of resignation in her tone. ‘But still, there’s no point in us trying to arrange it unless you’re interested in helping. Frankly, Daniel, we don’t have any time to waste.’

Still in two minds, Daniel sat forward in his chair, his face thoughtful. ‘How about you send me what you’ve got so far then maybe we can decide whether having me on board would be of any help?’

‘Believe me, it would.’

His curiosity had already got the better of him. OK, so he was busy with a multitude of government agency stuff at the moment, and he had his weekly lectures here at the Academy, but this case excited him more than he cared to admit. Not to mention that he owed it to Reilly, didn’t he? After all she’d been
through, he owed the poor kid something at least.

He sat up straight, his voice suddenly decisive. ‘All right then, I’ll see what I can manage,’ he told her. ‘Do whatever you have to do to get the paperwork sorted at your end and I’ll do what I can from here.’

‘I appreciate this, Daniel –
we
really appreciate it,’ she replied, the relief in her voice palpable. ‘I’ll get the relevant people here to iron out all the technicalities.’

His door opened again and an overweight man in a long blue overcoat poked his head around the door. Daniel waved his visitor to a chair in front of his desk. ‘Send me what you’ve got, Reilly, I’ll have a look over it, and then we can talk.’

But based on what little information she’d already given him, Daniel was already hooked. A killer using Freud as his calling card? What self-respecting profiler
wouldn’t
be interested?

‘She’s done what?’ Kennedy was so outraged that he put his coffee down.

‘That’s what O’Brien said. Apparently, he’s some profiler from the FBI training programme in Quantico – the boss says he’s considered one of the top guys in America.’ Chris didn’t seem bothered by it, but Kennedy was already up on his soapbox.

‘Why don’t they bring the whole fucking FBI over here and just pension us off? Or the CIA and Special Forces too while they’re at it.’

Chris shook his head. ‘I think you’re overreacting.’

‘Do you now?’ Kennedy was boiling, ready for a fight.

But for once, Chris wasn’t in the mood to roll over. He closed the file he was trying to read and spun his chair around to face his partner directly. ‘Yeah, I do actually. I sure as hell have never worked a case like this before, and I’m willing to bet my life savings you haven’t either.’ He looked challengingly at Kennedy. ‘Any recent experience with Freud or cannibalism you might like to share with me?’

Kennedy looked disgruntled. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘Then what is?’

‘The point
is
…’ he replied, adding emphasis with his stubby nicotine-stained finger, ‘… the point is we don’t need a load of Yankee know-it-alls coming over here and telling us how to do our jobs!’

Chris couldn’t help but smile at the outrage his partner managed to muster about anything that didn’t fit into his narrow view of the world. ‘So would it make you feel any better if I told you he
isn’t
coming over here?’ He’s just going to be acting as a consultant and helping out with the profiling. According to the boss, Reilly’s the one who’ll be dealing with him.’

‘Oh.
Right.’ Kennedy snorted, his annoyance somewhat assuaged. ‘Well … of course
you
would think this is a good idea; you already think the sun shines out of Steel’s backside.’

Chris didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned back around and busied himself in his work. As usual, Kennedy was overstating things. He was more receptive to Reilly’s avant-garde way of
thinking, that was all. Still, there was no doubt that the recent brief glimpses of her personality he had grasped intrigued him and there was a guardedness about her that made him wonder what else was going on in that sharp mind.

Not that they all had enough to be thinking about at the moment. This investigation was much bigger than any of them could ever have imagined. A serial killer was a deeply unsettling prospect at any time, and he could completely understand why O’Brien would want this nipped in the bud as soon as possible.

There was even some mutterings about trying to get Jack Gorman to come back early from his anniversary cruise; something that Chris was sure wouldn’t go down at all well with the older forensic investigator. Personally, he saw no need; as far as he was concerned Reilly and her team were doing a fine job and if it weren’t for her, they might not even have made the link between the killings. And getting this FBI guy on board had to be a coup, despite what Kennedy might think.

In the background, his partner was still muttering away to himself about ‘bloody interference’ but Chris knew it was mostly bluster. At the end of the day Kennedy, like himself, couldn’t deny that this was way beyond their limited experience. They needed all the help they could get.

Reilly was busy working in her lab, oblivious to the commotion her request for external help had caused. In truth, she’d been somewhat taken aback by Inspector O’Brien’s ready agreement to her suggestion about bringing a profiler on board – particularly one that the force hadn’t already worked with.

Still, she knew she’d scored some brownie points by connecting all three cases in the first place, and having already got Chris Delaney and Karen Thompson on side, Reilly suspected the top brass would have little choice but to bow to her demands. The authorities just didn’t know what they were dealing with, and in the meantime these grotesque murders would undoubtedly continue. O’Brien was first and foremost a political animal, and Reilly suspected the guy wanted such a situation dealt with as soon as possible – and definitely before the press began baying for blood (and subsequently the head of the Minister for Justice).

With Daniel on the case, surely they would be able to make some kind of breakthrough, and something would emerge that would allow them to get ahead of the killer – find that one mistake, and use it against him.

That morning, she had her team assembled for a briefing, the files from all three cases spread out on the table. It was time to expand their horizons and maybe even find something she herself might have missed.

‘So, who did their homework?’ she asked.

Almost inevitably, Gary was the first to reply. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and stepped forward. ‘Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis, was born on the 6th May 1856, in a small town called—’

Reilly cut him off. ‘The
biog is great and, yes, it is important for you guys to know a little about his background, but how is he relevant to our case?’

Gary looked disappointed and fell silent.

‘Because you told us there was a link?’ Lucy said, tentatively.

‘Actually you’re right, Lucy – that’s the problem.’ As they all gazed at her, Reilly explained further. ‘We know there is a Freudian link – the book, the quote, the cigar – but we don’t know what it means.
That’s
the problem.’

‘You mean the killer is trying to tell us something, but we don’t know what it is?’ Lucy suggested.

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s sort of like a game of cat and mouse and he wants us to catch him,’ Rory wondered.

‘I read that somewhere, too,’ Lucy added, nodding at him.

Reilly pursed her lips. ‘Not necessarily. Serial killers can be highly organized, though they clearly have a disturbance in the way their personality functions. So while they typically have an antisocial personality disorder, they aren’t actually mentally ill,’ she explained.

‘So they’re weird but they’re not crazy?’

‘That’s one way of putting it, Lucy.’

Rory wore his usual serious expression. ‘So if he doesn’t want to be caught, why the clues? Why not just be as careful as possible and leave us nothing?’

‘It usually comes from a psychopathic need to share. They are tremendously excited by what they do, but they can hardly go down to the pub and tell people about it. So, by leaving us little clues – just enough to attract our attention, but not enough to give themselves away – they can reassure themselves that someone is thinking about them.’

Gary peered at the crime-scene photos and moved them around on the table top, studying hard.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked him.

‘Well, I’d imagine you’d have a lot more experience with this kind of thing than we do but I read that serial killers usually have a
modus operandi
, and that it will give you clues as to how they are thinking.’

‘True.’ Reilly couldn’t deny that he was right; she did know a lot more about this particular subject than she cared to admit.

‘So what’s this guy’s MO?’

‘Good question. Anybody got any ideas?’

‘I thought Freud was all about sex,’ Lucy said, eventually. ‘Yet the Clare Ryan murder was the only one in which sex was directly involved.’

There was a long silence while they all absorbed what she had said.

‘That wasn’t about the sex itself though.’ They all turned to look at Gary. ‘It was about getting someone to do something they didn’t want to do.’ He rearranged the photos in a line. ‘Look, the brother and sister – seems like the killer forced them into some kind of intercourse – then Justin was forced to shoot his sister.’ He grabbed a photo of Gerry Watson and slid it across the desk. ‘Then he made this guy – he made Gerry eat human flesh …’ Finally, he picked up the photo of Jim Redmond. ‘We thought this was a suicide, but didn’t you say there was a homosexual angle?’

‘We’re waiting for the results, but it seems likely that Jim Redmond had anal intercourse not long before his death,’ Reilly replied

‘So what if that too was coerced? And then he was forced to commit suicide?’

She nodded; he had made a good point. ‘Whether the sex was coerced or
not we still don’t know.’

The room fell silent for a moment, before finally Julius spoke. ‘So what does all of that tell us? What is he going to do next? That’s the point here, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly,’ Reilly agreed. ‘So we can help the investigation go from being reactive to proactive.’ But based on what little they had, where did that take them? What would the killer do next?