A Different Dawn (Nina Guerrera) Page 3

  “You’re right.” Breck looked up from her laptop a moment later. “Every city with a potential case is one of the ten biggest US cities.”

  “Interesting.” Kent gave Nina an appreciative look. “Do you think that figures into his choice of target locations?”

  Nina lifted a shoulder. “If you’re trying to pass off one type of crime as another, maybe it would be better to choose a place where the detectives are trying to keep up with hundreds of murders each year rather than only a handful.”

  “You’re saying he chose places where police would be more likely to take things at face value and move on to the next whodunit?” Kent asked.

  She spoke up for her former colleagues. “That’s not exactly what I meant. Big-city Homicide detectives can be swamped with cases. On the other hand, they’ve analyzed hundreds of crime scenes, and know what to look for.”

  “Which makes it even more curious that they were fooled,” Kent said.

  “Might have been fooled,” Nina said. “We haven’t confirmed anything yet.”

  Kent shook his head. “These cases have too much in common for coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence,” Buxton said, getting up from his desk, where he had apparently been listening as he worked. “We’re going to treat this as a series until we know otherwise.” He crossed the room and stood next to Wade. “What does the profile look like now?”

  Wade gestured toward Kent. “I concur with Kent’s assessment of psychopathy.”

  Nina knew just enough psychology to be dangerous. “I’m not a psychologist,” she said. “Although I play one on this team. Why a psychopath and not a sociopath?”

  “There’s a great deal of debate on the matter,” Wade began. “In my opinion, you’re born a psychopath, but you become a sociopath.” At Nina’s raised brow, he continued, “The term psychopathy has fallen out of favor, although Kent and I still use it sometimes. It’s now called antisocial personality disorder, or ASPD, by clinicians. To put it in layman’s terms, a person with ASPD isn’t wired like the rest of us. They truly don’t care if someone gets hurt as long as they get what they want. They have no ability to feel for others, although most have learned to mimic emotions to create the appearance of empathy and compassion when it serves them.”

  Nina was fascinated. “They can fake feelings they’ve never experienced?”

  “Exactly.” Wade warmed to what was evidently a favorite subject. “Because they can be well educated and hold steady jobs, they’ve learned to navigate the world of people who feel. They’re not insane, so they can easily adapt to their environment and blend in.”

  Breck scooted back from her screen, apparently drawn to the conversation. “If they don’t care what other people think, why do they bother to fake emotions at all?”

  Wade shrugged. “To achieve their goals through manipulating others.”

  “It’s one of the reasons someone with ASPD can pass a polygraph exam when they’re lying,” Kent said, adding his perspective. “Their autonomic nervous systems work differently. This has been conclusively shown through medical testing. They don’t exhibit a stress response or any noticeable arousal in situations where most people would register fear or anger.”

  “Polygraphs test for involuntary autonomic responses,” Wade said, clarifying the point. “Most people find maintaining a deception stressful, especially if the stakes are high, such as being questioned by police. Their bodies will exhibit signs of stress—signs they can’t hide. On the other hand, someone without an internal reaction to lying won’t move the needle.”

  Nina considered a practical application. “If I pointed a gun at someone with ASPD, they would—”

  “Calmly go through the actions they should take to deal with the situation,” Kent broke in. “They don’t freeze up in life-or-death circumstances. If you catch them at the border with a hundred kilos of cocaine in the trunk of their car, they will casually answer your questions and won’t sweat, stammer, or do anything else to make you suspicious.”

  “Damn,” Breck said. “Cool as a root cellar in July.”

  Kent grinned at Breck’s colorful turn of phrase before he went on. “Although they appear normal to others, brain scans of people with ASPD have verified that their thought processes are consistently atypical. The section of the prefrontal cortex where empathy normally manifests won’t light up. In addition, the amygdala doesn’t react to what most people would perceive as an alarming situation.”

  “Got it,” Nina said. “So how does this help us?”

  Wade was quick to respond. “Because he’s been at this for almost three decades, I would put him in his late forties or fifties. His victims come from all races, so I’m not confident on that aspect yet.” He paused a moment. “He’s been successful at hiding most of his crimes, so I’d say he’s highly intelligent. His ability to adhere to a schedule and plan carefully indicates an ability to control his impulses, which many people with ASPD lack.”

  “A self-disciplined psychopath.” Nina gave Wade a sardonic smile.

  “Which means he’s more likely to have an established career,” Wade said. “Probably in some kind of sales position. He’s successful because he excels at upselling his customers or clients.”

  “Would he be a traveling salesman?” Buxton asked. “Is that why his crimes occur all over the country?”

  “Possibly,” Wade said. “But since he only strikes once every four years, it wouldn’t be difficult to arrange time off for travel. His work schedule will, however, be a good way to eliminate suspects as we develop them. We can check to see who’s been requesting leave every four years around the end of February.”

  “Question,” Breck said. “You keep referring to the unsub as he. Why don’t you think it’s a woman?”

  “There have certainly been plenty of female serial killers.” Wade’s gray brows drew together. “But I’m going with the research. The majority of women who commit multiple murders target people they know or who are in their care. Of those who attack strangers, most do not stalk their victims and break into their homes.” He crossed his arms. “I’m confident this is a man.”

  “What else can we use to narrow our search?” Buxton asked.

  “As a child with ASPD, he would not have developed self-control yet,” Wade said. “He’d have had a history of violence toward others. Anyone he perceived as a threat or came between him and something he wanted would be in harm’s way. He would have skipped school often, stolen things, gotten in trouble, and likely committed arson or become interested in fires somewhere along the line.”

  Nina remembered something she had heard about serial killers years ago. “What about bed-wetting and cruelty to animals?”

  “I see you’re familiar with the killer’s triangle,” Wade said. “Many have a history of bed-wetting, animal torture, and arson. I wouldn’t be surprised if our suspect had all three in his background.” He looked at Kent. “Anything to add?”

  Kent shook his head. “The profile may not give us a lot to go on at this point,” he said. “It’s more of a way to narrow down a pool of suspects once we have a list to work with.”

  Nina kept coming back to the oddest part of the equation. “What is the significance of committing his crimes every four years on leap day?”

  “That’s a unique pattern,” Wade said. “I haven’t seen it before.”

  Breck gestured toward her computer. “I’ve been researching the number four. It has a lot of references throughout history. The four seasons, the four elements, the four directions on a compass—”

  “The four horsemen of the apocalypse,” Nina said.

  Breck grinned. “That seems about right.”

  Kent walked over to the whiteboard to tap the various locations on the timeline with his finger. “Technically speaking, if he only kills on February twenty-ninth, he may not be completely disengaging between crimes.”

  “I don’t follow,” Buxton said. “There’s a substantial time ga
p after each incident.”

  “He strikes every time leap day comes around,” Kent said. “If all these cases we’ve identified turn out to be attributable to him, then he’s never missed once.”

  Wade’s next comment broke the silence that had followed Kent’s observation. “We know for sure there are at least two cases because of the matching shoe prints. I’d like to get eyeballs on the freshest scene so we can get a better feel for what we’re dealing with.”

  “For whatever reason, he’s hit Phoenix twice,” Breck said. “That’s the location of the newest and the oldest cases—provided the one from twenty-eight years ago really is the first in the series.”

  “Why would he circle back to where he started?” Nina wondered out loud.

  Wade turned to Buxton. “I’d like to go find out. Immediately, if not sooner.”

  Buxton’s brows raised a fraction. “You all are scheduled for a Simunition exercise in Hogan’s Alley tomorrow.”

  Their supervisor had arranged the training as the final component in his plan to have the team authorized for a pilot program he had spent the past four months developing. Wade and Kent were criminal profilers with the BAU, Breck was on extended loan from the Cyber Crime Unit, and Nina had previously been assigned as a criminal investigative agent in DC.

  With agents normally stovepiped into highly specialized areas of expertise, Buxton had convinced the Bureau’s hierarchy to test his proposal of a stand-alone hybrid unit. This new rapid-response team would be deployed in the field rather than analyzing cases from the confines of the BAU offices. If they performed well, similar units could follow, based around the country. If they failed, Buxton’s career would take a turn for the worse.

  “I’ll reschedule the training for the weekend,” Buxton said on a sigh.

  Breck had apparently opened another window on her computer. “There aren’t many nonstop commercial flights to Phoenix,” she said, sliding her mouse around. “And they’re all booked solid. I’ll try to find ones with only one or two stops.”

  Nina hated waiting. She hated layovers even more. She glanced at the boss. “Given the severity of these cases, maybe you could make . . . other arrangements?”

  “BAU profilers fly commercial,” Buxton said.

  “We’re not profilers.” Nina swept out an arm to encompass the entire group. “We’re a new hybrid team in a pilot program.”

  Buxton looked like he was fighting a smile. “Don’t push it, Agent Guerrera.”

  Chapter 5

  Hermosa Vista Apartments

  Springfield, Virginia

  The drive home to her apartment in Springfield normally took Nina forty-five minutes in rush hour traffic, but the torrential rain had doubled her travel time. After climbing the stairs to her fourth-floor walk-up, Nina had barely taken off her drenched raincoat when she heard a knock at her door.

  She blew out a sigh, certain it was her frequent visitor, Bianca Babbage, her next-door neighbor’s teenage foster daughter. The girl had an uncanny knack for knowing the instant Nina got home. After looking through the peephole, Nina opened her door to Bianca, who held a slice of cake on a dessert plate.

  “Saved you something from my birthday party.” Bianca darted a glance over her shoulder before turning back to Nina. “Had to hide it from the roving horde, or there wouldn’t be anything left.”

  Bianca often grumbled about the younger children her foster parents had taken in, but the complaints didn’t fool Nina. Mr. and Mrs. Gomez had filled their empty nest with children who needed a loving home, which made their apartment a bit crowded at times. Bianca stopped by Nina’s place for a respite but never stayed long. Nina suspected Bianca secretly craved the mixture of bedlam and joy happy little ones brought to a home.

  “Feliz cumpleaños,” Nina said, aware that Bianca—who wasn’t Latina—had studied Spanish for the sole purpose of eavesdropping on her foster parents’ private conversations. The girl had a habit of sticking her pierced nose into other people’s business.

  “Gracias,” Bianca responded to the happy birthday wish. “As of tonight, I’m fully cooked—as in, totally done.”

  Understanding passed between them. Bianca was now eighteen, officially aging out of the foster system. No longer a ward of the state, she was free to make her own way in the world. Or to fail miserably.

  Nina opened her arms and waited, knowing better than to force a hug on a foster child with a background of abuse. This knowledge came from her own experience, and Bianca was one of the few people Nina allowed into her personal space.

  After the briefest hesitation, Bianca stepped over the threshold and into Nina’s embrace, balancing the plate in one hand. The feel of the girl’s slight body brought Nina back to the first time they’d met four years ago, when Nina was an officer in the Fairfax County Police Department.

  Bianca had run away from yet another foster home, and Nina had spent most of her shift tracking her down. Bianca had an IQ north of 160, which made her a target for bullies at school. Her petite stature made it difficult to defend herself against those who used the system to find victims for other types of abuse. Nina was no genius, but she could read the young girl’s story in the dark circles under her eyes and the half-hidden welts on her slender arms. At the time, Bianca had reminded Nina of little Caitlin, and all her fiercest protective instincts had kicked in. The scars crisscrossing Nina’s own back bore witness to what she had suffered, and she would not allow the same thing to happen to another child.

  Working closely with Child Protective Services, Nina had arranged to have Bianca immediately removed from her current living situation and criminally charged her foster parents. Unwilling to toss Bianca back into the system to take her chances, Nina had been overjoyed to find a caring home for her in the apartment next door. When Nina told Mrs. Gomez about Bianca, it hadn’t taken long for Mrs. G to get her husband on board. The middle-aged couple had since taken in three more children and were loving every boisterous, chaotic minute of it.

  After releasing Bianca from a gentle hug, Nina was about to close the door when Mrs. Gomez emerged from her apartment, three small children swarming around her legs.

  “I knew you’d be here,” Mrs. G said to Bianca, her Chilean accent lending the words a lyrical tone. She turned warm brown eyes on Nina. “I was just bringing over some plateada.” She lifted a small casserole dish with a glass lid.

  The rich aroma of the pot roast made Nina’s stomach rumble. Her next-door neighbor loved to fuss over her by bringing delicious homemade treats, convinced that Nina needed food, which Mrs. G equated with affection.

  Three little blurs raced past Mrs. G into Nina’s apartment. Jumping and laughing, they seemed to fill the space from wall to wall.

  Bianca gave an exaggerated eye roll as they all migrated into the kitchen. Now eighteen going on thirty, Bianca had nearly completed her undergraduate degree in computer science from George Washington University in DC. She was currently under consideration for a full-ride scholarship to get her master’s in biochemistry.

  Mrs. G gave her eldest foster daughter a reproachful look. “You should not do that with your eyes, mi’ja, they’ll get stuck way up inside your head.”

  Mi’ja. The common term of endearment stirred Nina’s heart, as it always did when she heard it. As a child who had never known her own family, she had longed to hear someone call her “my daughter” when she was growing up.

  There were times Nina heard laughter in the next apartment. In her innermost core, the place hidden by a layer of carefully constructed walls, she still sometimes longed for a family of her own. For this reason, more than any other, she allowed Mrs. G to dote on her. Maybe a secret part of her even welcomed it.

  Mrs. G glanced at the slice of cake now resting on the counter. “It’s tres leches, Bianca’s favorite.”

  The gorgeous dessert, with its dense yellow base covered in fluffy white frosting and topped with strawberries, had Nina’s mouth watering. The “three milks” involved in
making the cake were whole, condensed, and evaporated. In addition, whipped heavy cream was used to make the frosting. Definitely not a dessert for the lactose intolerant.

  Little Gustavo, who everyone called Gus, stopped running around long enough to grin up at Nina. At six years old, he was tall for his age, with big brown eyes and thick black hair cut into a flattop-style crew cut that would have made Kent proud.

  “My birthday is in five days,” Gus said, holding up five fingers. “You can have some of my cake too. It’s going to have gobs of sprinkles.”

  “Lucky I like to bake,” Mrs. G said to Nina. “Don’t you have a birthday in a couple of weeks? I can make you something special too. What would you like?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble,” Nina said quietly. “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

  While growing up, she had learned not to expect visits from Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the tooth fairy. Birthdays had been yet another disappointment. If not for the need to fill out forms and applications, she would have long since forgotten the date social workers had assigned to her.

  The little boy’s excitement pulled her away from dark thoughts. She was happy Gus would have a nice birthday. Happy for him that Mrs. G would bake his favorite cake. Happy that he was with a loving foster family.

  No one should be forgotten.

  Chapter 6

  The following morning, Nina was with the rest of the team at thirty thousand feet on their way across the country. She wasn’t sure how Buxton had managed it, but their supervisor had gotten them access to one of the FBI’s leased Gulfstream jets for the flight to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.

  Nina had already scoured police reports on the recent investigation of the Phoenix murders and had opened her laptop to research news stories about the earliest potential case from nearly three decades ago. Reading through old articles about the incident, she became increasingly fascinated by the details.

  Kent caught her eye from across the small table between them. “You look intrigued.”