The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson

      Other than the courses in abnormal psychology she’d taught as a grad assistant, Jenna hadn’t had much occasion to think in depth about the kind of sociopath who enjoyed torturing and then killing women. And it was evident from the few details that had been released about the condition of the three bodies that this one found great pleasure in the suffering of his victims.

      “From what I’ve read,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “this killer doesn’t appear to be psychotic. He’s apparently very well organized, selecting his victims with care and carrying out the murders while leaving behind little forensic evidence that might help the police.”

      “He’s killed three people, and you’re saying he isn’t crazy?” The reporter’s tone was mocking, allowing his skepticism of that full rein.

      “He’s clearly a sociopath, but…” Jenna hesitated, thinking how difficult it was to use appropriate terminology when the public had such clear, if erroneous, notions of what words like crazy, insane and psychotic meant. “The killer’s obviously incapable of feeling compassion for his victims, no matter how much they suffer, but if you met him in a social or professional environment, you might not notice anything out of the ordinary. Other than possibly thinking how charming he is.”

      “Which would help him in getting his victims to trust him.”

      “Unfortunately. Although he’s clearly manipulative, he may also be very personable and articulate.”

      “So what creates someone like our charming sociopath?”

      “No one really knows. The current thinking is that biological factors may play a role, some genetic predisposition if you will. There’s no doubt, however, that the majority of these people were also the victims of childhood abuse—either physical or emotional or a combination of the two. Some case studies done on serial killers reveal that mistreatment was both prolonged and severe. It isn’t hard to understand how a child subjected to isolation, a lack of affection, physical and mental domination, or actual physical abuse might become an adult who lacks the ability to feel normal empathy for his fellow human beings.”

      “Surely you’re not suggesting that every abused child grows up to be a Ted Bundy.”

      “Actually, a very small percentage do. However, it is a common background for those we’ve had the opportunity to study in depth. Unfortunately, we can never know which children will emerge from those situations to become sociopaths. Or more importantly, which of those sociopaths will go on to kill.”

      “Because they’ve been trained in inflicting pain early on?”

      “Pain. Domination. They desperately need to be in charge, possibly because as children they had so little control over what was happening to them.”

      “You sound as if you have some sympathy for them, Dr. Kincaid.”

      “I have sympathy for any child who’s abused. They’re helpless to prevent what’s being done to them, often by the very people who should be their protectors.”

      “I meant that you seem to feel sympathy for the sociopaths they eventually become.”

      As a psychologist who had read study after study detailing the horrors of the abuses she’d just spoken about, Jenna supposed that was true. Certainly in the abstract. In light of what had been made public about what had been done to the murdered women…

      “Not all sociopaths kill,” she said again. “When they do, they must, of course, be subject to the laws that govern the rest of us. Once they’ve killed, it’s unlikely they’ll stop on their own. Before that can happen, they have to be apprehended. I hope the police find something to help them very soon, some piece of evidence that will lead them back to the murderer. Or that someone who knows something about those crimes will come forward with the information.”

      “So…you’re saying he’s definitely going to kill again.”

      And Merry Christmas to all, Jenna thought, realizing the trap she’d fallen into.

      Still, there was very little that could be said in response to that question except the brutal reality. Despite the fact that hearing it was likely to inflame fears that had been rampant in the community even before today’s announcement, she really had no choice.

      This was something else the killer would feed off of. Not only would the murders themselves give him a sense of power, so would the media attention they’d attracted, such as this interview, and the terror it would create.

      She should have cut this kid off without answering his original question. Since she hadn’t, she could in good conscience now do nothing less than tell the truth.

      “If he’s not caught. It may not be here. Not if the police get too close to discovering who he is, but…even if they do, he won’t stop killing. Not until he’s finally been taken into custody.”

      “Or until he’s dead.”

      Sean Murphy had already put his finger over the off button on the remote, when something made him hesitate. The reporter was busy closing out the segment, probably reiterating what the female psychologist had said. Nothing of what he was babbling about registered.

      Sean was focused instead on the woman standing beside the interviewer, her hand clutching the collar of her coat as if trying to keep out the cold. It was clearly a defensive gesture.

      An unconscious one? Or was it possible she was aware of how closely she matched the profile of the killer’s victims?

      That was unlikely, he decided, since the local cops hadn’t yet publicly connected the latest three to the others. Maybe he should warn Dr. Jenna Kincaid that she met almost every one of the criteria the task force had put together over the course of the past four years of their investigation.

      Late twenties or early thirties, Sean assessed. Tall and slender, with dark hair and eyes. Even her clothing, professional rather than provocative, followed the pattern the bastard had established with his first murder, which they now believed had been more than seven years ago.

      His gaze having followed the line of the long navy coat down to the low-heeled boots she wore, Sean raised his eyes once more to the psychologist’s face. Her features were striking but not classically beautiful.

      She wouldn’t draw every masculine eye, he acknowledged, but she’d find her share of admirers. The bone structure underlying that clear olive skin was too anatomically perfect not to attract attention. The discriminating would recognize it would be just that perfect when she was eighty.

      And you’ve always considered yourself discriminating.

      The image he’d been studying was suddenly replaced by an advertisement for a local car dealer. Sean punched the button, shutting off the television, before tossing the remote down on the bed.

      He walked across his motel room toward its wall of glass, where he pushed aside the draperies to look out onto the interstate that paralleled the wide right-of-way just across the parking lot. The scene he encountered was depressingly winter-dreary, although the climate was generally mild.

      The weather would make the killer’s hunting easier. More people outdoors than in the northern cities. Not that the bastard ever seemed to have a problem finding victims.

      Maybe what Dr. Kincaid said was right. Maybe he was so charming the women made it easy for him.

      He would have had to be something special to charm Makaela. His sister had been nobody’s fool. And unfortunately she’d had a lot of experience with phonies.

      Apparently not enough to see through whatever ploy her murderer had used to persuade her to go with him.

      Sean put his palm against the glass, using its coldness to fight the fury that flooded his brain whenever he thought of the things that had been done to his sister. They could still bring him wide awake, sweat pouring off his body, as he struggled against the nightmare images of what she’d suffered.

      The press in Detroit were