Everyone including the officer shuffled in their chairs to get a look at his shoes. She failed to point out the subtle but permanent indentations in his close-cropped hair from too many hours spent wearing a hat.

“You’re not able to carry your weapon at the conference, but you feel lost without your badge. It’s inside your jacket pocket.” She motioned to the tan jacket hidden by his hefty bulk and draped over the back of the chair. “Your wife also insisted on the jacket, but again you’re not used to wearing one. Not like perhaps a detective might be used to wearing a jacket and tie.”

Everyone waited as if watching a magic act, so the officer reluctantly twisted around, tugged at the jacket and brought out his badge to show them.

“All lucky guesses,” he said to Maggie. “Whatcha expect from a roomful of cops?”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Maggie nodded as eyes came back to her face, still waiting, still testing. “Most of what I said might be seen as obvious. There’s a certain profile that goes along with being a cop. Just like there’s a certain profile that goes along with being a serial killer. If you can pinpoint what those characteristics are and which ones apply—though some of them may seem obvious—you can use that information, that knowledge, as the beginning foundation for a profile.”

Finally she had their attention, and with their minds diverted from what she looked like to what she was saying, her entire body began to relax, to access some auxiliary energy and override her initial fatigue.

“However, the tricky part is looking beyond the obvious, picking apart and examining small tidbits that might seem insignificant. Like, for instance, in this case—I’m sorry, Officer, would you mind telling me your name?”

“What? You mean you can’t guess that?” He smirked, proud of what he considered a quick comeback and drawing a few laughs from the others.

Maggie smiled.

“No, I’m afraid my crystal ball leaves out names.”

“It’s Danzig, Norm Danzig.”

“If I were to examine your profile, Officer Danzig, I’d try to break down everything I did know.”

“Hey, you can examine me all you like.” He continued to play with her, enjoying the attention, while looking at his buddies instead of Maggie.

“I’d wonder,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “why your wife had bought clothes for you that were the wrong size.”

Suddenly Officer Danzig sat still and quiet.

“I’d ask myself if there was a reason.” From the rising color in his face, Maggie knew the reason was one he didn’t care to expose. Her guess was that he and his wife had not shared a bed for some time. Perhaps there had even been a temporary separation, one that included Officer Danzig eating a few more fast-food meals. That could account for the extra pounds his wife hadn’t expected when she purchased his clothes for the conference. Instead of embarrassing him with her theory, she simply said, “I’d guess your wife finally got fed up with you wearing the same outdated navy blue suit that you keep in the back of your closet.”

The others laughed, and Officer Danzig looked around at them, smiling with relief. But when his eyes met Maggie’s, she saw a hint of humbled awareness. His subtle show of appreciation was the slightest shift in his chair, crossing his arms, facing the front of the room as if finally ready to give her his full attention.

“It’s also important not to get bogged down by the stereotypes.” She began her ritual pacing. “There are a handful of stereotypes that seem to be perpetuated with serial killers. We should start by laying some of those to rest. Anyone care to guess what some of those stereotypes are?”

She waited out their silence. They were still summing her up. Finally, a young Hispanic man decided to take a shot.

“How about the idea that they’re all crazy. They’re total mental cases. That’s not necessarily true, right?”

“Right. In fact, many serial killers are intelligent, well educated and as sane as you and I.”

“Excuse me,” a graying detective from the back of the room interrupted. “Son of Sam claiming a Rottweiler made him do it, that’s not mental?”

“Actually it was a black Labrador named Harvey. But even Berkowitz later owned up to the hoax when profiler John Douglas interviewed him.

“I’m not saying some of these killers are not crazy, what I am saying is that it’s a mistake to believe they have to be insane to do the things they do. When, in fact, killing for them is a conscious choice. They are masters of manipulation. Their crimes are all about dominating and controlling their victims. It’s not usually because they hear orders to kill from a three-thousand-year-old demon living inside a black Lab.

“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.