The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,24
hasn’t heard about Canter’s Circle.”
Amaia struck back. “You can’t apply the theory of the geographic locus of a serial killer’s action without determining whether additional cases exist.”
“I believe what Emerson is referring to,” Tucker intervened, “is the killer’s reach. He has to be extremely close. Otherwise, in a country as big as the United States, he can’t find his victims and track them in such detail that he knows the type and caliber of firearm in the house. Here he even knew that a nonrelative had assumed the role of grandmother. He has to see them first in order to pick them out. And to develop a hatred for them.”
Amaia shook her head. “He doesn’t hate them—or at least he doesn’t hate them for themselves. The important thing is what they represent to him. He prays for their souls, and he wants them to rest in peace. He erases every sign of obvious violence, takes the cord he used to tie them up away with him, spares them any indignity. The fact that he prays for them shows there has to be a rationale, but I don’t think it’s hatred. He doesn’t want anything from them. He doesn’t take or remove anything—what could he take from people who just lost everything?
“We live in the information age and the era of exhibitionism. The Internet allows anyone at all into our private space. People post information about their private lives with no thought of who might be reading it. I’m not claiming that’s his method, but there are many more ways to track a person or a family than being a voyeur in the shrubbery outside their house.”
“Another point,” Dupree added. “The killer must be someone who doesn’t stick out too much during or after a disaster. He blends in because he’s expected to be there.”
Tucker opened the small laptop she was carrying, placed it on the hood of the sedan, and called up a collection of company and institutional logos. “At the start, we speculated his job gave him access. We’re still checking phone companies, utilities, and Internet providers, hoping to come across a contact the families had in common. Because of the witness, we know that the man looked like someone they could trust. Now we’re checking out police officers, firefighters, rescue teams, physicians and paramedics, ambulance crews . . . in a chaotic situation, our killer could masquerade as any of them.”
“Some firefighters travel to help out in national disasters,” said Johnson. “I know of a canine rescue team that responds to crises all across the country. They even travel abroad to assist after earthquakes and avalanches.”
Amaia agreed and upped the ante. “You could include academic researchers, journalists, reporters, and TV camera crews. People who rush toward a crisis everyone else is trying to escape.”
Johnson tapped notes into his personal digital assistant. “Including volunteer groups who pitch in for disaster relief.”
“Churches, civic groups, and charities,” Tucker added.
And Amaia said, “Don’t forget storm chasers, pseudoscientists, and nut cases who want to film disasters.”
“There’s no limit to the number of idiots out there,” Johnson said with a grin.
“Or the number of fiends,” Dupree said heavily. He looked Amaia directly in the eyes, and this time she met his gaze. Amaia was no stranger to the staring game. She knew men were attracted to her. But Dupree’s attention was different. He was evaluating her spirit. The shadows in his dark eyes contained as much curiosity as suspicion.
She was adept in perceiving intentions and hidden attitudes toward her, but Dupree was all white noise. She’d analyzed each of his reactions, his expressions, and his words, and she still couldn’t decide if he was friend or foe. But she did know one thing: he paid attention.
“‘I’ve got your back,’” he’d told her. She wasn’t depending on that; she was sure of herself and didn’t fear for her safety or reputation. Amaia Salazar was used to working solo. But at that moment, in the huddle beside the sedan, she’d felt like part of the unit for the first time that day. She’d felt the connection and the respect of the team.
Maybe she’d been going at this the wrong way.
“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Dupree said. “The medical examiner promised to do the autopsies right away. The unit will spend the night here. Assistant Inspector Salazar, you go back to Quantico. There’s a plane leaving for Virginia in an hour. Trooper Harris from the Texas Highway Patrol will drive you to the airport.”