Authors: Renee Andrews
Angel recognized John Tucker from the photographs in her file. Before seeing the detective in person, she’d have claimed he took a good picture, but the photo had nothing on the real deal.
He seemed taller than she’d expected. True, his background information put his height at six-two; however, she’d been around tall men at the field office. Several who were well over six feet. So six-two shouldn’t intimidate her. Right now, however, it did.
Was it because of everything she’d read about the man? All the cases John Tucker had closed unassisted? Or because Stan Carlton assessed John Tucker as the best fit for the Sunrise Killer’s profile?
She didn’t think so.
Maybe the contrasting elements composing the man threw her world off-kilter
. A guy who’d seemed as sensitive as steel when depicted by Stan Carlton, but who had never forgotten a birthday or Christmas card for his daily dispatcher. And the guy whose sky blue eyes didn’t seem to belong within a forest of black lashes, whose forehead seemed a tad too high, nose a bit too straight to match the full lips and cleft chin.
Plus, there were those love spots, as Aunt Carol called them. The two smatterings of gray at both temples that hadn’t been present in the previous photos. They added an even stronger appeal to the man wearing the detective’s badge. Aunt Carol claimed men gained those appealing sprinkles of silvery hair when they’d been well loved and given love well. It took time to obtain that notable mark of achievement, she’d said.
Funny thing though, Angel had never looked at love spots as anything but gray hair. On this man, amid the jet-black waves, they propelled his appeal clear off the chart.
“Special Agent Angel Jackson. I’ve been assigned as profiler on your task force.” She noticed his jaw relax a fraction when she clarified the task force as his, which was what she’d intended. The man had been roughhoused by Carlton and didn’t have a sweet taste in his mouth for the profiling unit. She needed to gain his trust, even if she hadn’t ruled him out as a suspect.
“We’ve been expecting you, Agent Jackson.” He opened the door wider. The other task force members, sitting in mismatched office chairs and gathered around a long conference table that’d seen better days, peered toward the stranger invading their space. “I’m Detective Tucker, but I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
He stepped aside and waved her toward a vacant chair at the center of the table. “You haven’t missed much. We were briefing the killer’s history, as well as our general assessment of who we’re dealing with.”
Angel opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her time to speak. “Don’t worry. We may not be FBI, but we all know the drill. We’re not to give you any of our assessments or opinions about the killer. That’s your job, right?”
She wasn’t known for staying silent, but Detective John Tucker didn’t leave her much of an option. So she nodded. Again. Soon though, she’d have her say, and she’d be patient
if
he didn’t take too long.
“We decided to get our own opinions in before you arrived. Now, though, I’m assuming you’d like to meet the team.”
She took the last file from the center of the table and sat down, then pulled her own notes and her iPad from her briefcase and placed them beside the others. Aware of all eyes scrutinizing her every move, she shuffled the papers into place, turned on the iPad then raised her head to peer at the team. Scanning the table, she scratched off two of the six as suspects.
Her killer wasn’t a woman, so the female at the table wasn’t a threat, not that she would have considered Lexie McCain a threat anyway. Angel fought the urge to smile at the news journalist. She found it gratifying to see a woman who’d made such a name for herself, and Lexie had accomplished more in her lifetime, and more in regards to this case, than any of the men surrounding her realized.
But Angel knew.
Lexie McCain’s arched brows lifted. None of the men noticed, but Angel did. Lexie knew Angel wouldn’t unearth her secret. She tossed the reporter a nice-to-meet-you smile and nodded, as though they’d never seen each other before, and Lexie’s shoulders relaxed.
In fact, the notable news journalist looked calm, cool and collected amid the brutish group of men. Yes, Angel had wanted this assignment, wanted to catch the Sunrise Killer more than any other UNSUB in her past. But she’d be the first to admit she hadn’t merely wanted to catch the killer.
She wanted to help Lexie catch him.
Therefore, she scratched the TV lady off the list of potential suspects. And the old man at the end of the table, who she suspected was Zed Naylor, based on Etta’s description, wasn’t a possibility either. Though his eyes were alert and eager, his body was fading fast. She had no doubt he’d offer insight to the case, since Etta said he’d been around since the first series of murders, twenty-eight years ago. But he’d been around much longer than that. Aunt Carol would classify the weathered fellow with one of her favorite quips...
“The wheel’s still turning, but the hamster’s dead.”
Angel bit against her inner cheeks to keep from chuckling. However, the urge to laugh out loud died a quick death when she caught a glance from Lexie. A look of admiration, and perhaps something more, toward John Tucker. Now if that wouldn’t make things difficult.
No problem. Angel could deal with complications, and with keeping those she cared about from facing them. Right now, in any case, she had to deal with her potential suspects on the task force and with narrowing that list by Sunday, if possible.
Two down, four to go. And perhaps the introductions would help her even further in her process of elimination. Of the task force, at least. She had no doubt there were more people than those in this room who were close to the case. And whether her killer stared at her now, or whether she’d yet to meet him, he’d want to be close to the investigation.
“Yes, I’d like to meet everyone.”
“Fine. Then we’ll get started with the intros.” John Tucker dropped in his seat at the end of the table in complete control...for now.
The woman who’d commanded their attention the moment she entered the room impressed Lexie and reminded her of a younger version of herself. Although Lexie listened to the men’s brief bios, she wasn’t as interested in their answers as in the profiler’s questions. Even Lexie realized Angel Jackson considered them potential suspects, yet most of the men seemed oblivious to the fact. John Tucker, however, gave the profiler a look that would melt steel.
Angel didn’t seem to care.
Lexie’s chest swelled with admiration.
In her yellow leather jacket, tight blue jeans and Timberland boots, the young woman with the long blonde ponytail didn’t fit the “guys in black suits” image Lexie had always associated with the FBI. But regardless of her attire, her sex, or her beauty, Angel Jackson composed one tough female, intent on finding a killer.
Lexie had every intention of helping her accomplish that goal. Since she had also met some of these men for the first time today, Lexie jotted notes during their introductions.
After each task force member finished his spiel, Angel asked him the same series of questions. In a normal meeting, no one would’ve thought much of her queries; they’d have seemed commonplace in a getting-better-acquainted discussion. In this room, and in the midst of
this investigation, they took on a new meaning.
“How long have you lived in Macon?”
“Are you married? Divorced? Single?”
And if they’d been married, Angel jumped right into, “When did you marry? Any children?”
Lexie wrote each detail, and the manner each man responded, when he realized he was under Angel’s meticulous scrutiny.
Captain Ed Pierce scowled about providing the information, but quoted his wedding date, 6-13-86 as though captured by terrorists and providing name, rank and serial number, then he added they had no children and hadn’t wanted any anyway. “You can’t be a cop without seeing the evil out there, and I wasn’t about to bring another kid into it.”
“And how long have you lived in Macon?”
“Moved here in ’92. Before that, I was on the force in Valdosta.”
The corners of Angel Jackson’s mouth dipped for a brief second, but then she nodded and moved on.
Lou Marker stated he’d been born and raised in Macon, quoted his wedding date, pulled a photo from his wallet to show Angel his new grandbaby and noted his twenty-fifth anniversary would occur next month.
Acknowledging his turn, Ryan Sims shifted in his seat. “I’ve lived here forever, got married in 1985, divorced in ’92. No kids.”
Angel opened her mouth as if she were going to ask more, but then nodded at Sims and moved to Zed. Zed coughed and sputtered through a ten minute tribute to his “dear sweet Ruthie” and elaborated on how their thirty-two years together weren’t enough.
Although Lieutenant Sims looked as though he wanted to put a hand over the older man’s mouth to shut him up, he didn’t. No one did. And Lexie was glad no one stopped him from expressing affection toward his wife. At the end of his monologue, he withdrew a white handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
Next in line, Lexie gathered her courage then followed their lead. “I moved to Macon eight months ago from Atlanta. I’m an investigative news correspondent at WGXA and hope to inform the city as to what they should watch for regarding the Sunrise Killer.” She paused, then added, “And I plan to air the story informing the world that he’s been caught.”
Angel nodded, and Lexie expected her to move on to the last person in the room, John Tucker, but the profiler didn’t let her off the hook.
“And are you married? Divorced? Single? Have any children?”
Lexie blinked. Angel knew the answers to all of the above. However, the men at the table weren’t aware of that, and she’d had to ask, to maintain consistency. Lexie should’ve anticipated the questions.
“Divorced. And I have a son attending college at the University of Georgia.”
“Shoot, you ain’t old enough to have a kid that age.” Zed Naylor tilted his head and tried to pinpoint her age.
“I married young.” Though answering Zed, she looked at Angel. “And I had my son at nineteen.”
Angel gave her a tender smile then drew everyone’s attention to the man on Lexie’s left. “And you, Detective Tucker?”
Lexie’s face had burned when she provided the information about her failed marriage and her son. Something about baring that information in front of John Tucker made her more aware of her past, more aware of the things that had happened and the things she couldn’t change.
He leaned forward in his seat and looked at Angel when he spoke. “I was born in Macon. Married in ’91. Abby was murdered in 1999, as I'm sure you know. Any more questions?”
“No.” Angel inhaled, and Lexie leaned forward, curious to hear what she’d tell about herself. But Special Agent Jackson acted as though revealing her own information wasn’t part of the deal. None of the men asked. Instead, Captain Pierce asked the question all of them wanted answered. “So, did we give you what you’re looking for, Agent Jackson?”
“What I’m looking for?”
“The profile. How many of us fit?” He glanced in John Tucker’s direction.
Angel didn’t bat a lash. “Three are close, but none hit the mark.”
Lexie swallowed. She had determined
that
from their brief responses? Or did she look at people and know whether they were capable of murder? Lexie scanned the men around the table; they didn’t look at all surprised by the quick assessment. Three potential killers, but none hit the mark?
Which three?
“You’re saying your profile differs from the previous guy’s profile?” Captain Pierce didn’t attempt to mask his glance in Tucker’s direction this time.
“I’m not saying that at all. Special Agent Carlton identified several aspects that I still believe are associated with our killer; however, I do have some additions to his evaluation, which you’ll see on the profile I’ve generated.” She withdrew a packet of papers from her file, removed the black binder clip from the top then passed them around the table.
Lexie accepted her page and scanned the FBI profile, while Angel Jackson read aloud.
“We’re looking for a white male, since the first victim in 1985 was Caucasian. The first victim is almost always the same race as the perpetrator. The killer starts out within his comfort zone. Sometimes he will move beyond that barrier, but in this case, he didn’t.”
Captain Pierce nodded.
Angel read, “He’s in his forties to mid-fifties, which means he’d have been a teenager or in his early twenties during the first series. He would have lived in Macon during the time periods of all preceding series. Our guy knows his way around and appears to have entered several victims’ homes without sign of forced entry which, as Stan Carlton noted, could indicate he wore a police uniform or another uniform identifying a trusted profession. Or he could have a face they all recognized and respected.”
Unimpressed, Captain Pierce crossed his arms. “We knew that much.”
“But what I’ve added to Agent Carlton’s evaluation follows.” Angel continued, not swayed by his skepticism. “Our perpetrator was married, or began a serious relationship, between 1985 and 1992. My reasoning for this addition is his MO changed between those two series of murders. In 1985, all of his victims were attacked outside, beaten and left to suffer the elements until their bodies were located. When he returned seven years later, he approached victims from within their home and stopped beating them. Instead, he strangled them then placed them almost reverently on their beds to be found.”