A Profiler's Case for Seduction(7)

So far their investigation had run in all directions, focusing on enemies a state senator might have, and who might hate a playboy cheater and, finally, why somebody would kill a dirty sheriff. Each of these people could have faced the consequences of their crimes in a courtroom, but instead the ultimate judgment had been meted out by an unknown person or persons.

The FBI had no idea specifically where the men had been killed, only that, within a twenty-four-hour period, each of them had been strangled and buried in shallow graves on private land adjoining the college campus.

Mark knew the other men and woman on his team were leaning toward a vigilante scenario...one or two people getting rid of the dishonest, the disloyal and the mendacious in one single twenty-four-hour killing spree.

He finished up going over the particulars of what they already knew and what they needed to know, and the group of agents dispersed and left the room. The only one remaining, as Mark began to set up video equipment, was the senior agent Richard Sinclair.

Agent Sinclair was the oldest on the team, a veteran who had seen all the ugly that the world had to offer in his many years in the bureau. He was also the person Mark felt closest to on the team.

“Going to view them again?” Richard asked as he once again sank down at a chair at the table.

“And again and again,” Mark replied. He set the video screen so that both he and Richard could watch the “movies” about to play. After loading the DVD into the recorder, he took a seat next to Richard, the remote control in his hand.

“You know that most of the others think you’re crazy about this,” Richard said, his voice deep and full yet holding no judgment. “They believe you’ve become obsessed and refuse to see reality.”

“I know, and that’s okay. I’m just following my instincts. If I’m wrong then all I’ve wasted is my own time. There are plenty of others to do the rest of the investigative work. I’ve got to follow through on my gut, right or wrong.” He turned to look at Richard, seeking not approval but rather simple acceptance.

“I’ve been at this long enough to know that sometimes all we have to go on is our gut instincts, and yours has proven to be right more often than not. Play the movie,” he said.

Mark punched the remote and the screen filled first with blackness and then suddenly she was there, Melinda Grayson, tied to a chair with a blindfold across her eyes.

Mark leaned forward, his gaze focused not on the woman in the center of the picture, but rather on the background, seeking anything that might provide a clue as to where the video had been shot.

In this particular scene the backdrop appeared to be nothing but a black curtain or sheet. Melinda was a stark figure in the straight-back chair, tears shining from beneath the blindfold and trekking down her pale skin. “Please, please help me.” Her voice pleaded with some unknown captor. The screen went black and Mark hit the remote to pause.

“What are you looking for? The tech team has been over these a dozen times trying to figure out where the video was made, if there are any sounds that could be amplified that might give us a clue. They’ve come up with nothing,” Richard said.

“I don’t know. I’m just looking for...” Mark hesitated and then continued, “For something we all might have missed.”

Richard got up from his chair and clapped Mark on the shoulder. “I know you do your best work alone, without somebody telling you what to do. Happy hunting,” he said, and then left Mark alone in the room.

Mark played the recording again, this time with his eyes closed, listening intently for any whisper of sound before she spoke. “Please, please help me.” Melinda’s voice filled his brain, but there was nothing else to hear, no traffic noise, no singing of birds...nothing.

He tried to imagine himself as the victim. He’d been kidnapped, a blindfold over his eyes. He’d been shoved into a chair, a rope tight against his chest, hurting him, making it difficult to breathe. His wrists burned from the rope that tied them to the arms of the chair.

Terror. He felt the simmering, near screaming of terror inside him. He was a prisoner of people unknown, he had no idea why they had him or what they wanted from him. He listened in his head to her voice once again.

“Please, please help me.”

It wasn’t what was there that caught his attention, but rather what he didn’t hear in her plea: a lack of sheer terror in the way she spoke the words. She hadn’t pulled at the binding of her wrists to the chair as she’d spoken, and she hadn’t desperately strained against the rope across her chest. She hadn’t looked or sounded terrified.