“Maybe I should explain how profiling works,” she said, walking over to him.

Wainwright didn’t look up from his reading. With a glance at Louis, Emily cleared her throat.

“The basic principle we work on is that behavior is a reflection of the personality,” she said. “Criminal investigators, like myself, are called in to analyze the data gathered by law enforcement agencies and provide a picture—a profile, if you will—of what the UNSUB or unknown subject is like.”

Wainwright was still reading the file.

“It’s like . . .” Emily paused. “You’re the regular doctor and we’re the specialists, called in to offer advice. We’re usually called in as a last resort.”

Emily and Louis both waited for Wainwright to say something.

When he didn’t, Emily continued. “I know you aren’t comfortable with this, either of you. Cops are used to dealing with facts. Shit, so’s the rest of the bureau.” She paused and ran a hand over her messy curls. “And then, suddenly, here I come, giving you nothing but my feelings.”

Wainwright had put down the file and was looking at her.

“With what I do, I don’t have the luxury of dealing in black and white,” she said. “I’m dealing with human behavior, in all its perverse forms. And believe me, there is nothing black and white about that.”

Wainwright took a long swig of beer and let out a soft belch.

“Maybe I should go through the steps of how this works exactly,” Emily said.

She glanced at Louis. He gave her a small nod.

“First, I evaluate the criminal act itself, the crime scene, police reports, and autopsy protocol. I’ve done that already through the files you sent to the bureau.” She looked at Wainwright. “Then I develop a profile of the offender, with critical characteristics, and offer suggestions.”

“And we take this profile and just go out and magically match it up to some dirtbag,” Wainwright said.

“There’s nothing magical about it,” Emily said quietly.

Wainwright took a drink of his beer. Louis came forward and took the chair next to Emily.

“Go on,” he said.

“Serial murderers tend to have certain common denominators,” Emily said. “They’re usually products of abusive homes, they often torture animals or set fires as children. They have low self-esteem, hate authority, and blame the world for their problems. They crave control and believe by killing, they are calling the shots. They almost always kill strangers and they are almost always the same race as their victims.”

“But you still don’t think it’s Levon,” Wainwright said.

Emily seemed surprised to hear him ask a question. She shook her head. “I talked to Roberta Tatum some more today, and Levon wasn’t abused. He does, however, exhibit profound self-esteem problems and may be mentally ill.”

Wainwright got up suddenly and headed for the canal, the file in his hand. He went out to stand by the barbecue, staring out at the canal. For a second, Louis was afraid he was going to heave the file into the water.

“What else?” Louis asked, drawing Emily’s attention back.

“Serial killers generally can be divided into two categories—organized and disorganized offenders,” she said. She paused. “You’re sure you want to hear all this?”

Louis nodded, taking a drink of beer.

“Okay,” Emily said. “The organized offender is basically what we know as the sociopath. He’s methodical, smart, socially adept, able to manipulate his victims so they feel comfortable. He carefully selects and stalks his victims from his comfort zone. Often there is a ritual aspect to the murders, usually sexual. The place where he dumps them often has some symbolic importance. He knows police procedure and likes to taunt cops.”

“Ted Bundy,” Louis said.

“Exactly.” Emily reached for her wineglass and took a drink.

“Now the unorganized offender is different,” she said. “He usually has a psychotic disorder of some kind—schizophrenia, personality fragmentation—that creates delusions. These guys are below average intelligence, loners, unmarried, live near the crime scenes. They use a ‘blitz’ style of attack, catching their victims off guard. The crime scene is disorganized. This is the guy neighbors always describe as weird.”

“Son of Sam?” Louis asked.

Emily nodded. She took another drink of her wine. “We also have to look at the MO and the signature.”

“Okay,” Louis said, “the MO is what the killer does to effect the crime. In these cases, the shotgun to the leg, the beatings and stabbings.”

She nodded. “And the signature is a symbol,” she said, “the thing that gives him emotional satisfaction.”

“The black paint,” Louis said.

Emily nodded.

Louis was quiet for a moment. “Well, our guy attacks quickly, but with precision. The killings are methodical and sequential, but not all the scenes are alike so I sure wouldn’t call them ‘organized.’ And victims still don’t have anything in common but sex and race. Could our guy be both types?”

Emily nodded again. “Sometimes the line blurs.”

“Great. That’s fucking great.”

Emily and Louis looked out to where Wainwright stood. He was facing them, shaking his head. He came back onto the patio.

“So basically, you’re saying you can’t really tell us anything for sure about this motherfucker,” he said.

“Dan—” Louis said.

“First Louis says he’s white, then you say he’s black but it can’t be Levon because he didn’t set his pet dog on fire.” He threw up his hands. “Goddamn it, if we can’t even figure out what color he is, what the hell can we figure out?”

Emily and Louis stared at him.

“He’s black,” Emily said firmly.

Wainwright looked down at the file folder in his hand, then tossed it on the table. He went inside the house.

Emily watched him go, then reached for her wine. She finished it quickly.

Louis went to the table, opened each file, and scanned the three police reports. One in New Jersey and five in Florida.

“Why do you think he came to Florida?” Louis asked.

“These guys often go underground when they feel the heat and resurface someplace new and start over again,” she said. Louis looked closer at the faxed pages. The New Jersey body was found in a place called Barnegat Light, the first Florida body in a place called Coral Springs, and the third in Lauderdale Lakes.

“Where’s Barnegat Light, New Jersey?”

“It’s on a barrier island, north of Atlantic City.”

“And the places in Florida?”

She paused. “Broward County. It’s over on the East Coast, north of Miami. Both places are suburbs of Fort Lauderdale.”

“Where were the bodies found?” Louis asked.

“I know where you’re going with this,” she said. “The Jersey one was right on the beach.” She pulled out a fax. “The second and third ones were found in drainage canals.”

Louis dropped the file back on the table and turned to look out at Dodie’s boat.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“I just remembered something Dan said when we were over in Captiva,” Louis said. “He was right about something and didn’t realize it.” He turned to face her. “He’s dumped them all in water. It’s water, Farentino. That’s the thread. He likes water.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Louis took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the small patio table. He was sitting forward on a lounge chair, his feet planted on either side of him, the files from the NAACP guys, Mills and Seaver, spread in front of him.

He could feel the sun climbing up his back, and checked his watch. It was almost seven A.M.

He picked up another folder, this one thick and banded with fat rubber bands. These were “tips,” names of possible weirdos, offered by their mothers, brothers, sisters, and ex-wives. My old boyfriend has a knife collection and hates black people. My neighbor once threatened to throw acid on the black guy down the block.