CHAPTER ONE
“He’s like, kinda hot, right?”
Well, that was not the first answer I expected to hear when I asked, “What do we know about Ted Bundy?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose as snorts and giggles echo through the lecture hall.
I hate introductory courses. I should’ve never agreed to fill in for Professor Park this semester—a mistake.
They’re young. I have to remember that they’re young.
I can’t expect concise and appropriate language from freshmen.
Only two months ago, they were in high school.
But even high schoolers should know the difference between tenses.
That is basic knowledge. Elementary, even.
The word ‘is’ refers to the present tense.
Something that is currently happening. Seeing as Mr. Bundy has been deceased for over thirty years, he isn’t anything.
He is not hot. He is not smart. He is not alive.
Rightfully so.
I would wager good money that my oh-so-articulate student is referring to the Hollywood biopic version of Ted Bundy, starring none other than a teenage heartthrob.
That’s the problem with the entertainment industry.
They take a vile and sick individual and transform them into a swoon-worthy idol.
Ted Bundy was attractive; that’s a fact.
But hot? Hot refers to lustful, erotic, and amorous.
Does my student find herself sexually drawn to Mr. Bundy?
Let’s find out.
I click the forward arrow on the slide advancer, and Ted Bundy’s true face appears on the projector screen. I stand to the side and lock my gaze on the vocal student.
“Miss…” I check the attendance sheet. “Miss Laird.” I cock my head.
“This is Ted Bundy. He kidnapped, raped, and murdered over thirty women between 1974 and 1978. He would lure women to his vehicle, bludgeon them, and then transport them to a secondary location.” I pause, the freshman squirming uncomfortably in her seat.
“Do you still find Mr. Bundy hot, Miss Laird?”
She presses her lips into a thin line, shaking her head. “No.” Her voice comes out softer, timid.
I don’t want to be the reason why this girl loses her confidence, her fire, but words matter. The way in which we speak about these monsters matters. The way in which we speak about their victims, matters even more.
“Mr. Bundy was attractive,” I say, addressing the rest of the class.
“He was also charming, making it easier for him to commit these heinous crimes. Today, we’ll be discussing Ted Bundy’s modus operandi.
You may know the term in its simplified vernacular— M.O.
Can anybody define and give me an example of a modus operandi? ”
Three hands shoot up from the front row. I rein in a grin. I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I appreciate those who abide by classroom guidelines and participate in discussions.
Miss Laird did not raise her hand.
“Yes, Mr…” I wait for him to fill in the blanks.
It’s a large class. 200 souls. Sitting, waiting, learning. By the end of the semester, that number will be cut in half. While fascination with true crime has exploded in recent years, these students will soon realize they’re not cut out to study the behavioral patterns of serial killers.
Some won’t have the stomach to review crime scene images; others will get lost in the theoretics of psychology. But those who stay, those who make it through the term, are in for a world of intrigue.
“Brown. Mr. Brown,” the student says, shoulders relaxed, posture straight. “Modus operandi is defined as…”
A knock sounds from the lecture hall door, and I sigh. Tardiness is not tolerated in my classroom; I made that perfectly clear in my welcome email. Whoever this kid is, they should’ve stayed home.
My heels click against the laminate floor as I stride to the door, prepared to set another freshman straight. But to my surprise, I find Dean Ambrose standing on the threshold with a T.A. beside him. I don’t know her name. I don’t use T.A.s.
“Dr. Hadid.” Dean Ambrose peeks over my shoulder, glancing at the students quietly waiting for an explanation for the rude interruption.
“I’m afraid I must pull you out of class.
There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.
They are waiting for you in my office. Miss Fleur here will sub in during your absence.
” He gestures down the hallway. “If you will…”
“That’s it? No name? No explanation? Simply ‘someone’?” I cross my arms, eyes narrowed. “What are you not saying, Mr. Ambrose?”
He clears his throat, attempting to maintain authority. I inwardly scoff. “Please, Dr. Hadid. The sooner we deal with this, the sooner you can return to teaching.” He gives me a knowing smile. “We wouldn’t want to delay these students’ education for a minute longer than necessary, right?”
He’s patronizing me. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I can’t blame him for being unable to keep his tongue purely professional. I’m young—the youngest tenure professor in Columbia’s history. I’m sure that bothers him. I‘ve accomplished at 30 what he did at 50. It’s understandable. I’d loathe me, too.
“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Ambrose,” I say, giving a curt nod to the T.A. She better follow my notes and syllabi.
The dean remains suspiciously silent as we maneuver through the university toward the administrative offices.
There’s no point in asking him questions.
My hypothesis will be proven in thirty seconds.
It’s clever of the Bureau to go over my head.
But Dean Ambrose can’t force me to do anything.
He can’t force me to say yes. He can, however, continue to interrupt my classes.
And that is what he’ll have to do because there is no way in hell I am joining another task force. Not after last time.
Dean Ambrose opens the door to his office, and my gaze snaps to a young woman in a black suit hovering by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She doesn’t need to turn around. She doesn’t need to show me a badge.
Her posture, hairstyle, and how her shoes are heeled but adequate enough to run several miles says it all.
Also, I recognize her perfume. Three years is a long time to commit to one fragrance. I appreciate a consistent woman. I’ll give her that.
“Agent Gates,” I say. “You’re wasting your time. I’ve already declined the Bureau's invitation. Does the phrase ‘no means no’ not apply to the FBI?”
Giselle Gates spins around, a nervous smile clipping her youthful lips. My gaze dips to the FBI badge attached to the right lapel of her blazer. Special Agent. No longer a rookie. I’d congratulate her, but then she’d think we were friends or that I care.
“Hello, Dr. Hadid. It’s nice to see you again.” She glances at the Dean, lifting a brow. “Would you please excuse us, Mr. Ambrose? You don’t have clearance for this conversation.”
I stifle a smirk. Definitely not a rookie. The Giselle Gates I met during my last stint working with the New York Field Office could hardly carry two cups of coffee without her hands shaking. I’m pleased to see she outgrew her imposter syndrome. She’s always been capable, but now she believes it.
Dean Ambrose scrunches his bushy salt-and-pepper brows and frowns.
I wait for him to protest, but surprisingly, he acquiesces to Agent Gates's request and exits his office, being so kind as to close the door behind him.
No matter how far you are up the food chain, the Feds will always hold the rank.
“Safia,” Agent Gates relaxes, taking a step toward me, “we—”
“It’s Dr. Hadid,” I state, drawing professional boundaries. It’s a slippery slope, one I have no desire to fall down. “Well, go on. Give me your spiel. I’m sure you’ve practiced it for hours.”
Her lip twitches. It’s not my fault that she’s so easy to read.
“I know Dr. Malcolm approached you several months ago about joining our task force, and you declined, but we urge you to reconsider. As you’re aware, there have been three murders in the last five months. Most recently—”
She turns to Dean Ambrose’s desk and retrieves a folder. She pulls out a crime scene photograph and hands it to me.
“Officer George Burg is the latest victim. He was dumped in the alley outside the 17th precinct. Based on forensics, the M.O. mirrors the previous two murders.” She pauses, swallowing.
“George Burg was a decorated officer, Dr. Hadid. He was weeks away from retirement. He has a wife and two kids. We need your help.”
“Had a wife. Had two kids,” I say, examining the gruesome image.
The other victims were Judge Karl Andrews and Wall Street mogul Tyler Saunders.
Judge Andrews was left in front of the Supreme Court, naked and exposed.
He had fresh wounds from eighteen lash marks.
There was a high dose of drugs in his system, and an arrow that pointed north was carved into his chest. Tyler Saunders was found in front of his office building downtown: same wounds, same drugs, same arrow.
While the elements of these murders are intriguing, and I’d love to dig into the significance of the number of lashes, the arrows, the meaning behind each body disposal, and the escalation of risk, I refuse to cooperate with an organization that prioritizes arrests over facts.
If they listened to me, that poor woman would be alive. Never again.
I give the crime scene image back to Agent Gates. “Dr. Malcolm is a skilled profiler. You don’t need me.”
“Dr. Malcolm is unavailable. He’s currently assisting organized crimes with The Angels trial.
It starts next week.” Agent Gates places the photograph back into the folder, tapping the documents several times.
“We understand your reluctance, Dr. Hadid; trust me, we do. But I can assure you, Agent Reese is no longer employed by the Bureau. His actions were condemned by IA, and he’s been stripped of his badge.
The Supervisory Special Agent leading this investigation is—”