The Profilers (6 page)

The chat room was busy tonight as the killer maneuvered through the different conversations, blending in with the abused victims and the volunteers who frequented it.

Everything appeared to be commonplace until a new member was noted. Huh, what an odd avatar—a cuckoo with the profile name,
endangered
.

The killer’s fingers flew over the keyboard as a search was done to see if that really was the case with that breed of fowl. Sure enough, the yellow-billed cuckoo came up as being an endangered species.

Next to do was strike up a conversation with the new member.

“Hello, you’re new here? That’s an interesting profile name and avatar you have.”

“Yes, I do quite a bit of philanthropy work with endangered birds.”

“What is your intrigue with them?”

“I guess the fact they are categorized in families and though they migrate to Africa nine months out of the year, they don’t sing while there. That’s kind of how I feel sometimes—like I have a song in me but can’t sing because of my circumstances.”

“I think anything able to skirt the dangers of being extinct is worthy of being an avatar on a site like this.”

“Yes, I’m so glad to have found this site. To be honest, I am interested in the underground group who helps women escape abuse.”

“That is usually saved for women wed to high profile men. Is your husband in a powerful position?”

“My husband is in a very high profile job; he’s a cop. You know how it is. They have each other’s backs and access to high security information. I’ve tried to get away but because he is a police officer, no one will help me.”

“Do you have children?”

“No, I snuck out and got a birth control shot. The thought of a child being forced to witness my abuse horrifies me.”

“You sound like you’re sincere about wanting to escape. I may be able to help you… permanently.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“In time, I’ll reveal my motives. It’s necessary to establish trust first.”

“Yes, trust is very important when you are talking about
permanently
taking care of a predator.”

“We’ll talk again soon.”

“Yes, we most certainly will.”

“What the fuck? Did you see that shit?
The Librarian
… Do you think that’s the same librarian we questioned, David?”

“Wow, now that would be a shocker, girl. I never would have suspected the plain librarian we met.”

“You know what they say, David. It’s always the quiet ones. Damn, she met me too so I can’t go undercover to question her and see if she is the unsub we’re looking for.”

“If it’s her, that would explain the taser mark and suffocating them immediately. She has to work quickly because of her size. It also explains the fact that there is no sexual trauma. Let’s do this…” David wheeled his chair over to a different keyboard and monitor, leaving Rene access to the one she was on. He continued, “Let’s do a background check on the librarian. If she’s a victim of abuse, I’d be willing to say that we may be on our way to closing this case.”

His fingers flew over the keyboard typing her name into the FBI database that would reveal extensive details about the woman no one would’ve suspected of being a killer.

“Elaine Thompson. Okay, she moved from Florida after her husband died from, get this…” He started reading from a newspaper article that had popped up in his search.

Henry Thompson, the man responsible for inventing the app that enabled business people to organize their notes, contacts, and spreadsheets, was found bound and gagged with a plastic bag over his head in a seedy motel room. It is believed that he was a willing participant in what is known in the kink community as breath play with a local prostitute. His death is believed to be an accident and the person responsible has not been found as of yet. Henry Thompson had no children but is survived by his wife.

“Oh David, that’s a dead giveaway. Do you think she’s copying the killing or do you think she killed him?”

“I think she is copying the suffocation. It doesn’t explain why she’s so angry with abuse victims though. Maybe there’s something else in her past we’re missing.”

“Well, right now we’re faced with the problem of finding someone she doesn’t know to befriend her. I can keep my cover online but I can’t meet with her because she has seen me.”

“We’re going to have to use an informant, Rene.”

“Or better yet, we’ll catch her in the act.”

Lisa huddled on the kitchen floor, sobbing as she listened to the front door slam. The relief of knowing he was gone would be short lived. The cycle had once again started. It always began with a blowup over a trivial offense that gave her abuser an excuse to beat her senseless.

Leaving would do no good and killing him would put her in danger of going to prison, leaving her child motherless. It was time for her to do what she had been avoiding for years.

She peeled her aching body up off the kitchen floor and called her neighbor to come and watch her son. If she made her way downtown now, she could get there before the library closed and her bruises were too noticeable to cause her embarrassment.

She quickly went into the bathroom and began the cover up job she was all too familiar with, applying layer after layer of make-up to her tender skin. She needed to get out of here before he came back and made it impossible to leave. She had years to do what she was getting ready to do but desperate times called for desperate measures.

If she didn’t do what she had in mind, he was going to kill her. Even if he didn’t do it on purpose, he would by accident in a blind rage. It had been different before she had her son. It had been easier to hide the shame and embarrassment of being an abused spouse but with each passing day, her son was getting older and would soon realize what his daddy was doing.

The thought of raising a boy who would grow up thinking that this abuse was the normal way for a family to function was reprehensible. That she had allowed herself to be beaten was bad enough, but putting her implied seal of approval on his abusive behavior with her continued silence was unthinkable.

She greeted the babysitter, gave her last minute instructions for the baby, and quickly headed to her car. Even if he did catch her leaving, there was one place he never forbade her to go—the library.

Elaine made her way around the library, replacing books to their rightful shelves and whistling while she worked. She was very pleased to have found a new member in the chat room who seemed as if she was serious about escaping her abuser.

It was easy to get discouraged with the volunteer work she did when over and over she witnessed their inability to leave the men who beat them.

The abuse they suffered went far beyond the cuts and bruises that would heal over time; it burrowed into their psyches and stained their souls. She knew firsthand how deeply it affected a person. She still suffered from the psychological trauma of having to give her daughter up for adoption against her will.

Her late husband had gotten just what he deserved when that whore had choked the breath of life right out of him. She’d often wondered if it was an accident or if the woman had enjoyed seeing his bound body thrash against the wooden chair she had tied him to. She wished she could have seen his eyes bug out of his head as he pleaded unintelligibly for mercy through his gag. It would have been worth all the embarrassment she suffered when the details of his death made the front-page news write up. The bell on the door alerted her to a patron’s entrance.

She looked up to view a young woman with what appeared to be scratches on her face, though she had made a valiant attempt at trying to hide them. The woman’s tremulous voice pulled her from her observations.

“Hello, I’m looking for Elaine Thompson.”

“I’m Elaine Thompson. What can I help you with, dear?”

She would never forget the look on the young lady’s face as she answered. “I think you might be my birth mother.”