“If they were simply nuts, it wouldn’t be possible for them to carry out their elaborate murders over and over again—to perfect their methods and still avoid getting caught for months, sometimes years. It’s important to recognize them not as deranged crazies, but for what they are. What they are is evil.”

She needed to change the subject before she got carried away with a sermon on the effects of evil. How there was a shadow side to everyone’s human nature; a shadow side that was capable of evil. But to discuss it always led to the question of what made some step over the line, while others dared not. After years of examining evil, Maggie hadn’t a clue what that answer was.

“What about motive?” she asked instead. “What are some of the stereotypical motives?”

“Sex,” a young man in the back said loudly, enjoying the sudden attention and laughs that the single word drew. “Don’t most serial killers get some sexual gratification from killing, just like rapists?”

“Hold on,” the one woman challenged. “Rape isn’t about sex.”

“Actually, that’s not a true statement,” Maggie said. “Rape is very much about sex.”

Immediately there were a few sighs, some disgruntled shakes of heads as though they expected this from a woman.

“Rape is very much about sex,” she repeated, ignoring their skepticism. “It’s the one variable that distinguishes rape from any other violent crime. No, that’s not to say that rapists rape simply for sexual gratification, but yes, they do use sex as one of their weapons to achieve their goals. So it’s wrong to say rape isn’t about sex when sex is definitely one of the weapons they use.

“In fact, rapists and serial killers use sex and violence in much the same way. Both are powerful weapons used to degrade the victim and gain control. Some serial killers even start out as serial rapists. But somewhere along the line they decide to take it a step further to achieve their gratification. They might begin by experimenting to reach different levels, starting with torture, working up to strangulation or stabbing. Sometimes that’s not enough, so they begin different rituals with the dead body. That’s when you see cases like the Pied Piper who sliced up his victims, made stew and fed it to his other captives.

She caught several of them grimacing. Skepticism seemed to be replaced by morbid curiosity.

“Or in Albert Stucky’s case,” she continued, “he began to experiment with different rituals of torture, slicing off victims’ clitorises or nipples, just to hear them scream and plead with him.”

She said these things calmly and casually, yet she could feel the tension in her muscles, an involuntary reflex as her body seemed to prepare for flight or fight anytime she thought of Stucky.

“Or you find more solemn rituals,” she said, trying to expel Stucky from her mind. “Last fall in Nebraska, we tracked a killer who gave his young victims their last rites after he strangled and stabbed them to death.”

“Hold on,” Detective Ford interrupted. “Nebraska? You’re the profiler who worked on that case with the dead little boys?”

Maggie cringed at the simplicity of his description.

“Yes, that was me.”

“Morrelli was just telling us about that case last night.”

“Sheriff Nick Morrelli?” An unexpected but pleasant flutter invaded her already tense body.

“Yeah, we all went out for ribs last night. But he’s not Sheriff Morrelli anymore. Turned in his badge for a suit and tie. He’s with the D.A.’s office in Boston.”

Maggie retreated to the front of the room, hoping the distance would shield her and prevent them from witnessing her sudden discomfort. Five months ago, the cocky, small-town sheriff had been a thorn in her side from the day she arrived in Platte City, Nebraska. They had spent exactly one week chasing a killer and sharing an intimacy so palpable, just the thought of it was able to generate heat. Her class was staring at her, waiting. How was it possible for Nick Morrelli to dismantle her entire thought process by simply being in the same city?

CHAPTER 19

The conference room went silent as soon as Maggie walked through the door. Without hesitating she continued to the front, disappointed to find the room arranged for a lecture. Chairs were set side by side, all facing the front of the room instead of at long, narrow tables as she had requested. She preferred more of a business setting where she could scatter crime scene photos in front of the participants. Where they felt more comfortable discussing rather than simply listening. However, the only table in the room was filled with coffee, juice, soft drinks and an assortment of pastries.

She felt her audience’s stares as she pulled up a chair for her briefcase. Then, she began digging through the contents, pretending to search for something she had to have before she could start. Instead, she was waiting for her stomach to settle. She had eaten breakfast hours ago, and never got nauseated anymore before presentations. But her lack of sleep and several additional Scotches in her room last night, long after Turner and Delaney had left her, now punished her with a fuzzy head and a dry mouth. It was definitely not a good way to start a Monday.

“Good morning,” she finally said, buttoning her double-breasted jacket. “I’m Special Agent Margaret O’Dell with the FBI. I’m a criminal profiler with the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico, which some of you may still refer to as the Behavioral Science Unit. This workshop focuses—”

“Wait a minute, ma’am,” a man in the second row interrupted, shuffling uncomfortably in a chair that was too small to accommodate his considerable size. He wore tight trousers, a crisp, short-sleeved button-down shirt that stretched across his swollen belly, and scuffed shoes that refused to look new despite a fresh polish.

“Yes?”

“No disrespect intended, but what happened to the guy who was supposed to give this workshop?”

“Excuse me?”

“The program…” He looked around the room until he seemed to find encouragement from some of his comrades. “It said the guy wasn’t just an FBI profiler, but an expert in tracking serial killers, a forensic psychologist with, like, nine or ten years’ experience.”

“Did the program actually say this person was a man?”

Now he looked puzzled. Someone beside him handed over a copy of the conference’s program.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Maggie said, “but I’m him.”

Most of the men simply stared at her. One woman in the group rolled her eyes in empathy when Maggie looked her way. Maggie recognized two men in the back. She had briefly met the Kansas City detectives Ford and Milhaven last night at the Westport bar and grill. Both men smiled as though they were in on her secret.

“Maybe they should say that in the program,” the man persisted, trying to justify his objection. “They don’t even use your name.”

“Would it matter?”

“Yeah, to me it would’ve. I came here to learn some serious stuff, not listen to some desk jockey.”

Her evening dosage of Scotch must have desensitized her emotions. Instead of feeling angry, his chauvinism simply made her feel more exhausted.

“Look, Officer—”

“Wait a minute. What makes you think I’m an officer? Maybe I’m a detective.” He shot a smug grin to his buddies, giving himself away and reinforcing Maggie’s initial assessment.

“Let me take a shot here,” she said, walking to the center of the room, standing in front of him and crossing her arms. “You’re a street cop in a metropolitan area, but not here in Kansas City. You’re used to wearing a uniform and not business attire, not even business casual. Your wife packed your bag and picked out what you’re wearing now, but you’ve gained some weight since she last bought anything for you. Except the shoes. You insisted on wearing your beat shoes.”