What Happened to those Characters? The Profiler (Virginia Morgan)…
What Happened to those Characters? The Profiler (Virginia Morgan)…
[This is the sixth installment in a series of short stories titled “What Happened to Those Characters?”. Each one revisits a character or characters from one of my novels and takes a peek at what happened later. This one is about Virginia Morgan from The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan, the bridge between “The Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series” and “The Clones and Mutants Series.” Enjoy.]
The Profiler
Steven M. Moore
Copyright 2014
Virginia Morgan cracked open the door. The man standing there put away the badge he had shown her through the peephole.
“I’m retired, so I hope this is a fucking social call!”
The badge said his name was Arthur Newcastle. The badge had looked authentic. Her hand behind her back still held a Glock.
“More than social,” said Newcastle.
Geez, this guy’s tall. Maybe two meters. Looks like an NBA star, and handsome too. “I guess I can let you in.” She opened the door wider. Didn’t show the gun. The agent had to stoop to enter. “Have a seat. Need some coffee?”
He drank it black. She loaded hers with cream and sugar. It was her third of the day, and she had progressed from black to loaded. Whiskey would be added after dinner, maybe with a touch of ReddiWhip.
“I hope this isn’t about an old case,” she said after handing him his mug and sitting down across from him. The gun was stored in the pocket of her bathrobe, ready just in case. He fills up the whole damn sofa!
“No, but you’ve profiled some similar cases. We need some help with a new one.”
“You telling me with all the people you now have profiling, you can’t come up with one for a current case? I was good, but I’m sure you have better now. Are psych grads that bad these days?”
He seemed embarrassed, but a sip of coffee stopped his bouncing knee. Newbie. He’s scared of me. Kind of in awe too. That’s interesting.
“How long you been out of the Academy, Arthur?”
“Three years, counting two years in training as a profiler. And you can call me Art. By the way, I was a psych major.” He smiled a bit.
“Of course you were. Well, Art, if you’re a profiler, why aren’t you profiling? Or, didn’t you hear me say I’m retired. I have been for some time. Except for a little hiatus that I can’t talk about, I’ve had a quiet retirement. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“This case would be more exciting than playing Bingo at the clubhouse,” said Art.
That does it! “I’ll have you know, I don’t sit around on my ass. I’m a lot more active than most of your active agents. I’m just doing things I want to do now. Like going to Nepal in a month to climb Everest, for example. The bucket for my bucket list is big.” She stared at him until his discomfort showed. “And I could probably take you in a fair fight—certainly, in an unfair one. So don’t go flinging insults around like you have your eye on the Director’s chair.”
“I apologize. I had no idea. I guess I’m wasting my time here.”
“Finish your damn coffee. You have that much time to tell me about the case.”
***
Morgan felt like a new hire in her blue power suit and spiffy hairdo. Even with the bad night’s sleep in her hotel, she felt energetic. Newcastle had been convincing, but the man giving the Power Point presentation about the serial killer was going to put her to sleep with his monotone voice, unless she did something. She raised her hand.
“Yes, Virginia.”
Sure, buster, look at me like I’m dog shit, just an old bitch you need to tolerate because the boys upstairs insist on it. She smiled.
“Dr. Peterson, that’s the worst pile of horse manure I’ve come across in any briefing. You’re ramming this perp into some convenient theoretical and Freudian cubbyholes. Did you get your PhD in Vienna?” Harold Peterson, a senior profiler on the task force, turned beet red. Anger or embarrassment? Did it matter? She continued. “It’s clear that this is a new MO for a serial killer, if we can call it a single MO. Each murder is different. The only similarity between the cases is the entry into a person’s house who lives alone and the time spent in the kitchen before the murder.”
“So, how would you explain his actions?”
“First of all, dipshit, it’s clear that it’s a woman.” There were some gasps. “That’s obvious to me, but I could be mistaken. I’m a bit rusty, you know, thanks to the government. But ask yourself: would a man spend any time in a kitchen? In one case, the perp made hot chocolate, for God’s sake! In another, the perp snarfed down half a gallon of ice cream—correction, frozen yoghurt.”
Peterson smiled. “OK, suppose she’s a woman. Why is she doing this?”
“Domestic issues. Can you show that video clip again?” The AV operator cycled back some slides and clicked on the embedded video. A security camera had captured the grainy image of a figure running. It lasted five seconds. “Did anyone notice the gait?” No one had. “The person is favoring the right leg. The right shoulder droops too.”
“So what?” said Peterson.
“You’re looking for a woman who’s abused, either past or present,” said Morgan. “This person needs help. Every murder screams to me that she’s looking for a home where she’s safe. The chocolate, the ice cream, putting out a place setting, mopping the floor when she spills something—it all adds up to domestic abuse. Let me see the map again.”
The AV fast forwarded to the slide with the map that showed the locations of the murders. It was a wide area scattered with murder scenes from the Gaithersburg suburbs of DC to inside the beltway. Eleven victims so far—a variety of ages and sexes, all people living alone in a house.
“If you connect the farthest out to the closest in and then draw the perpendicular bisector to that line, I’d bet you’re close to where she lives. You need to check with local PDs for abuse reports, but she might be a closet victim, suffering in silence.”
“How do we find her then?” said Newcastle.
She smiled at him, noting that he was obviously impressed.
“That’s not my problem. But you have your profile.”
***
Morgan was packing up to flee to her hotel and a deserved rest when Peterson approached her borrowed desk.
“That was quite a performance,” he said. “I’m thinking we made a mistake letting you retire.”
“Don’t flatter me, Harold. I could be one-eighty off on this one, and I’m the first to admit it. Your profile just didn’t fit all the facts. Mine does. That doesn’t mean I’m right.”
“But I see I was wrong, and I apologize. Why did you retire? Because of what happened?”
“You get tired. I had a long career. Even after all the trouble I had with the government, I thought about returning. First, I was locked away and doped out of my mind. Then I was almost killed. But the escape and subsequent events were still an adrenalin rush. But I had a new husband I wanted to enjoy being with for a time. With him gone, I’ve combined our bucket lists. I owe him that much.”
“Thank you for being so candid. Can I take you to dinner?”
“I’m at the Hilton in Crystal City. I’d like to go there and veg if you don’t mind.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Why? I embarrassed you.”
Peterson rubbed his chin. “You’re an interesting woman with an interesting mind. From what I’ve read, we share some common interests—fine dining, hiking, music. I’d like you to become a permanent consultant so we can see more of each other.”
“You’re making a job offer?”
“After what I saw today, I’d be a fool not to. The Director agrees.”
“I only have a temporary clearance,” she said. “They killed my old one when I retired and made me persona non grata until all the dust surrounding Remington’s assassination attempt settled down.” She put a hand to her mouth, realizing that she’d disobeyed a gag order.
He laughed. “I know all about that case, so don’t worry. Not exactly a profiling, but a job well done, by the way. The clearance will become permanent, of course.” He tapped his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have more secrets in that old head. After today, no one should be worried about you having dementia.”
“I’d prefer that we don’t discuss those events over dinner,” she said.
“Good. We’ll discuss dinner logistics after tomorrow’s brainstorming.” He offered his hand. “It will be a pleasure to get to know you better. I always admired your work.”
In the parking garage, Victoria Morgan sat in her rental car and wondered about Harold Peterson’s agenda. He was twenty years younger. It couldn’t be romantic, could it? Am I going to become a reluctant cougar?
***
That night there was another murder. This one occurred in Chevy Chase. A prominent scientist from the University of Maryland, a widower, was found on his deck. His steaks were burned. They had cooked until the tank ran out of gas.
Morgan declined the invitation to ride out with Peterson. She wanted to stay at HQ and think about the case. Even with her profile, which she still stuck by, she felt something was missing.
Peterson returned after lunch and found Morgan in the conference room, focused on her laptop screen.
“I left the CSU out there. They’re looking for anything that will help us, but the COD is clear—multiple stabs in the back with a steak knife.”
“She just grabs whatever’s convenient,” said Morgan, “but my profile is still valid. I bet the house was nice and homey.”
“More so than you’d expect. The man’s wife just passed last year. He hadn’t touched much in the house. Probably wasn’t over the loss of his wife.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s what I’m missing! Call it loss or jealousy, this person was abused, is no longer, but wants what other people have, even if living alone.”
“That’s a stretch.” He looked doubtful.
“No, it makes sense. It’s the motive. She’s striking out at people who have successfully adapted to living alone.” Morgan thought a moment. “I could be wrong. I always say that. All the profiling experience in the world can’t predict a statistical outlier. Profiles are only best guesses, the answer to: Given this set of incomplete data, what fits?” She thought a moment. “Is there a way to check missing person reports?”
“Sure, especially older ones. Local cops could be handling the recent ones.”
“Here’s the idea: we look at those in the area where our murders have occurred.”
It took nearly an hour. Newcastle threw himself into the problem. One case stood out because it was so close to the intersection of the cross Morgan had indicated before.
“What’s the situation with that one?”
“Missing husband. He disappeared just before our first murder. The police didn’t have much luck with the case. The woman is in a state of shock, hardly coherent most of the time. That’s the police report anyway. Almost a cold case now.”
Peterson was reading from the file displayed on the large screen at the front of the room. Good eyes. I can’t read the damn thing.
“Do the police suspect foul play?” said Morgan.
“In what sense? That she offed the husband? Profile says she’s a little mousy. I doubt it.”
“I mean, do they have concrete evidence to eliminate her as a POI?” Peterson shook his head. “You need new glasses, Virginia. The cops conjecture her man just abandoned her.”
“That wouldn’t be enough to flip her out necessarily. I think we’d better pay her a visit.”
Peterson didn’t have any desire to return to suburbia, so Morgan went alone in her rental car. He didn’t seem to buy the addendum to her profile either. She decided to go alone.
***
When she pulled into the driveway, she was sure. Elaine Whittaker was the serial killer. She rang the bell.
“Mrs. Whittaker, my name is Virginia Morgan. I consult for the FBI.” She flashed her creds. “Can I come in?”
“I guess.” She was dressed in sweats, sneakers, and headband. A jogger? Going out or coming in? If the latter, it had been some time ago.
They sat opposite each other in the small, cluttered living room. There were old papers stacked around. Also some books. Morgan saw some headlines in the old papers referring to the murders. One of the books was Virginia’s. Interesting, but not damning.
“Is this about my husband? Have you found him? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“We don’t know that exactly, but it looks like it might be the case. I’m new on the case and need some background. Where did you meet him?”
Morgan watched the body language. Facial twinges and hand-wringing could be caused by many things. Even the flipping of the hair. But a vacant stare into some other dimension said something else.
“I was a checker at CVS. He asked me out. He was nice at first.”
At first. Yellow caution light.
“He bought this house for us. I can’t say we ever managed to make it a home though.” A house, not a home. Red light. “I wanted a home so much. I wish he were here so I could tell him that.”
She rose, smiled, and walked to the fireplace. Morgan wondered if it was functional. It had the usual fireplace tools. Whittaker placed her hands on the mantle as if she needed support.
“I thought he was the one, you know. And then he goes and leaves me.”
She caught Morgan unprepared. The fireplace iron came crashing down on her so fast that she only had time to raise her arm. Morgan fell to the floor from the force of the blow and resulting pain. Whittaker stood over her, how holding the iron like a spear with both hands, ready to stab the agent. Morgan swung her legs, kicking Whittaker’s out from under her.
A clumsy and painful roll to her side brought Morgan close to the coffee table. She used it to push herself up with her left arm. She knew the right was broken. She fumbled for her gun. As the crazed woman lunged at her brandishing the iron that had become a deadly weapon, Morgan managed to control her weapon with her good hand and pull the trigger.
The bullet hit Whittaker in the shoulder and the iron went flying, crashing into the bay window and into some shrubs in front of the house. She grabbed her shoulder and sunk to the floor.
“He beat me, he beat me!”
Morgan managed to holster her gun and found her cuffs. “I know, honey.”
***
“She was really the victim, you know,” she told Peterson that night at dinner.
“That’s one way to look at it,” said Peterson. He had already apologized for not believing Morgan and failing to send someone along with her to interview Whittaker. “We found her husband’s remains in a trash can buried in the back yard. She’d filled it with lime to cut down the smell. With the earth and lime, the dogs didn’t pick up any scent.” He smiled. “I guess you solved all the serial killings and the case of the missing husband too. Better batting average than a major leaguer on steroids. Really makes the Director and my argument easy. We want you back full time.”
Morgan raised her injured arm in its sling a bit. “I don’t know. Consulting might be my schtick. I don’t know if I could go back to full time though.”
“You don’t have to decide now. Give the arm some time too. Let’s talk about more pleasant things. They have a great production of Fiddler on the Roof going on now at the Arena Stage. I have two tickets for Saturday night.”
Morgan considered. Sure, why not? She looked briefly skyward and winked. She knew the spirit of her husband was up there somewhere, smiling. Just don’t come back to haunt me, honey!
