“How wide?” Johnson asked.
“Nationwide. Let’s look anywhere a natural disaster has struck over the last two years. If nothing turns up, we may have to go farther back.”
“That’s crazy!” Johnson exclaimed.
Emerson spoke to Johnson as if Amaia weren’t present. “I guess she 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.”
So that’s the deal. “This one’s for us, not for you.” What was I thinking?
The others left quickly and without ceremony. Amaia walked to Harris’s cruiser, where the trooper waved in greeting without getting out. Amaia realized Dupree was close behind her and turned to face him.
Herding her to the patrol car, he said, “You’ve got all the information now. Give me all three profiles. I want them on my desk tomorrow morning by eight o’clock.”
Before she got into the vehicle, Amaia turned and confronted him. “Why didn’t you greet me?”
Dupree was completely taken aback. He cast out his hands in an involuntary gesture of surprise. Then his features settled into indifference. He didn’t reply.
She wasn’t about to drop the subject. “You looked at me during your lecture and spoke directly to me several times, but afterward, when I was waiting for you in the hall, you ignored me completely. On purpose. Why?”
Agent Dupree took a deep breath, unzipped his jacket, and placed his hands on his hips. He looked over his shoulder to check the whereabouts of his agents and leaned toward her. “I wanted to avoid influencing your judgment by paying special attention to you. I know all too well how an instructor’s interest can have unintended consequences.”
She gave him a calculating look. “No, I don’t think so. You’d have ignored me from the first if that were it. I saw your interest in me—so did Emerson—but afterward you pretended I didn’t exist. You were provoking me on purpose, treating me like I was a presumptuous little shit.”
Dupree looked at her. Amaia thought she’d really put her foot in it and he wasn’t going to reply, but after a moment he did. “That was no mistake. I needed you to pay close attention during the lecture. And I needed you to take out your anger on the exercise afterward, which is exactly what you did. You were right about one thing: it was no coincidence that I talked about Inspector Sherrington and the hidden victims. For weeks now I’ve thought we were looking at the same type of case. The revelations of the last few hours have given us new insights and put us on a fresh track.”
“Why me?”
Dupree’s face hardened. “It’s the investigation that counts. You’re here today because I thought you could make a contribution.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Dupree turned away, annoyed; he seemed about to stalk off. But then he gave her an incredulous sneer. “You’ve got to be kidding! You turned in a report that was nothing but a handful of sticky notes. Even Johnson was outraged, and he’s usually the world’s calmest man. I’m not going to answer your question, Salazar. Maybe someday, but not now. Today you were a tool, that’s all, and you provided vital assistance, but there was no need for you to know that in advance. It wouldn’t have worked as well if you’d been aware of it. We’d have missed your presumptuous grilling of the medical examiner . . . and your hostility out there in the field by the roof.”