Chapter 5
Profile
Public speaking doesn’t often faze me. I teach in front of two hundred students on a weekly basis.
I don’t get scared. I don’t get nervous.
But there’s a difference between two hundred students and fifteen federal agents.
A sheen of sweat coats my palms as I stand before the assembled task force, seconds away from presenting the initial profile on the unsub.
They’re all staring at me. Waiting. The pressure is undeniable.
They’re looking at me for answers. Given the fact that the team has yet to find a connection between the victims, my job is more difficult.
I don’t think the unsub is picking his targets at random.
Call it a gut feeling. But these men and women need facts not suppositions.
And until we find a connection, and we will, I’m certain we will, the profile is incomplete. But it’s a start.
Out of all the faces in the crowd, Theodore Kane’s is the loudest. Not in volume but in feeling. My gut finds him before my eyes. I don’t know what that means. He gives me an encouraging nod, his expression professional, but there’s a hint of pride.
He knows what I’m about to present. I conferred with him first. He’s the lead, after all. Is it pride, though? Or is it something else? Something that pricks at an untouched and buried part of my psyche? My nerves heighten at the thought.
Brushing off the sudden onset of unease, I step up to the front of the room, the digital whiteboard behind me displaying key points of the profile. I tap the screen to bring up the first section.
"Let's get started," I begin, addressing the room. "First, gender. Statistically, males are more likely to target other males, which leads us to believe our unsub is likely male."
With another tap, I bring up the age range. "Next, age. Based on the physical capability required to subdue and transport the victims, we're looking at someone between twenty-five and forty-five years old."
I swipe to the next section. "Occupation is a crucial factor. Since the murders took place in the early morning, we can assume the unsub works a nine to five, or has a flexible schedule. A few of you have suggested that the unsub has a background in the medical field or at least access to medical supplies due to the high dose of fentanyl found in the victims’ systems. While this theory holds some merit, I would recommend expanding the scope outside of medical professionals.
We simply don’t know enough to make these assertions. "
I move on to socioeconomic status. "Given the victims' profiles and the ability to procure fentanyl, transportation, supplies for torture, and access to a secondary location, it's likely our unsub falls within the middle to upper class."
I take a breath and tap the screen to bring up psychological traits.
"This unsub is highly organized and meticulous.
He has knowledge of pharmacology, and his behavior is clearly ritualistic.
The eighteen lash marks and the arrow pointing north are deliberate and significant.
He has a message and he wants us to hear it. "
I pause, letting the information sink in. "The lash marks indicate a sadistic streak. He wanted these victims to feel pain, perhaps a reflection of the unsub’s pain. I would recommend looking into individuals who potentially have priors or even juvenile records."
I tap the screen again to bring up potential motives.
"Given the victimology, our unsub may harbor a deep-seated resentment toward individuals in powerful or authoritative positions.
The lack of defensive wounds could imply that the unsub has a manipulative and controlling personality, capable of gaining the victims' trust before incapacitating them. "
I turn back to face the room, meeting the eyes of my colleagues. "This profile is far from complete, but it will help us narrow down our suspect pool.”
Agent Kane stands up, addressing the room. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Go.” The crowd disperses, and Kane strides toward me. “Excellent job, Dr. Hadid.”
I give him a short nod, swallowing. “Has Di Rossi found any connections between the victims yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. Other than their occupations and the fact they reside in New York, there’s nothing that links them together.”
I click my tongue. “That doesn’t make sense. These aren’t random victims. He chose them carefully, purposefully.” I glance toward Di Rossi’s station. “Have you checked financials?”
“We have,” he says.
I purse my lips. “How far back?”
“Ten years so far.”
I flick my nails, mentally reviewing the case notes. The number eighteen immediately jumps out. “Oh…” Turning my back to Kane, I start toward Zoella’s desk with urgency. “Agent Di Rossi—”
She snaps her attention at me, a subtle hint of nervousness in her gaze. “Zoey. Call me Zoey.” She swallows, glancing between me and Kane, who caught up in seconds. Zoey seems like a sweet girl. Young. Hopeful. But more importantly, capable. Age doesn’t define skill. “Do you need something?”
“Yes. I need you to look into the victims’ finances dating back exactly eighteen years,” I say. “Given the number of lash marks, that number could be significant.”
Zoey chews on her bottom lip. “That might take me some time. Some banking records from the early 2000s aren’t—”
“Just do it,” I state, inwardly wincing at my tone. “Please. Try your best.”
Zoey briefly looks at Kane. He gives her a curt nod, approving the assignment. “I’ll get started right away,” she says, turning her attention back to the multiple computer screens in front of her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I rush to the exit, needing space.
Was I rude? I wasn’t trying to be rude. Frustration rips through me as I quicken my pace.
These are my colleagues. My equals for all intents and purposes.
Even Zoey. She might be a rookie but she deserves the same level of respect.
The word bitch rings in my head. Stop it.
“Where are you running off to, doc?” Kane calls out after me. I ignore him as I round the corner to the staff kitchen, and he chuckles. “Safia…”
“What do you want?” I grumble, reaching for a disposable cup. I hold it under the water dispenser, filling it to the brim before chugging it down.
Kane comes up behind, so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“What’s wrong, Safia?” he whispers, his breath fanning against the slope of my neck. I sidestep him, sheepishly flicking my gaze to the floor. He cocks his head. “Hey…” Like a marionette doll, he pulls my strings, and I find myself looking at him, at an eclipse. “What—”
“I’m fine.” I straighten my posture, refusing to let him past my defenses. “Don’t you have work to do, Agent Kane? Serial killer on the loose and everything?”
He studies me. Reads me. He picks apart every paragraph, every sentence, every damn word as his eyes dance across my skin.
And I know I can’t hide from him. I can’t run.
He sees me. He sees the cracks in the foundation.
From afar, the building is strong, a fortress, but if you look hard enough, past the illusion of perfection, every single fracture is visible.
And he’s looking. He sees. How terrifying. How unacceptable.
“You’re allowed to assign tasks, Safia,” he says, taking samples from the cracks and crevices in my crumbling walls.
He’ll test them. He’ll examine them under a microscope.
He’ll get answers. Slowly, his findings will show him everything I don’t want him to know.
I don’t want anyone to know. “You’re a lead on this case. It’s part of your job.”
I’m an open window, that’s what I am. I can’t. I won’t. I need to close it. I need to draw the blinds. Close the shutters.
“I’m aware. Anything else?”
His jaw tightens. “You know you can talk to me, right? You can—”
I scoff. “I have a therapist, Agent Kane. I don’t need another one.” I duck around him, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”
“A few of us are going to The Junction tonight,” he calls out. “You should come.” I pause halfway to the door, and he adds, “It’s a bar down the street. Join us, Safia. It’ll be good for you to get to know the team outside of the office.”
How the hell does he know what’s good for me? Who does he think he is?
“Can’t,” I say, not turning around. “I have dinner plans with my brother.” Not a lie, though I could get out of it easily. “Maybe next time.”
Or never.
I barely have enough time to run home and change after class before meeting Amir. Normally, I wouldn’t need to change—my professional attire is adequate for most dining establishments—but tonight Amir made reservations at Chez Gustave. There’s a dress code. A strict dress code.
With a black lace cocktail dress hugging my hips and deadly stilettos wrecking my feet, I collide with a burly gentlemen as I burst through the restaurant doors.
I apologize dryly, hating the fact I’m late.
Due to my teaching schedule, dinner is often at 9 p.m. This isn’t uncommon for New Yorkers, but I prefer to have my meals consumed three hours prior to going to sleep.
Better for digestion. It’s 9:30 p.m. now. My stomach already loathes me.
“Reservation?” the hostess asks as I approach her.
“Yes. It’s under Hadid,” I say, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Amir Hadid.”
The young woman beams at the name, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Last year, Amir took over Cavanaugh Industries as CEO.
He’s made a lot of innovative changes since then.
The Times featured him in a three-page spread last month.
I asked if he paid for the good PR. He said no. I chose to believe him.
“Right this way, ma’am.”