The Crucifix Killer - Chris Carter [102]
Garcia looked a little confused.
‘Look, there are basically two schools, two main theories where criminal profiling is concerned. Some psychologists believe that evil is something inherent to certain individuals, they believe it’s something people are born with, like a brain dysfunction that leads them to commit obscene acts of cruelty.’
‘Meaning some believe it’s like a disease, a sickness?’ Garcia asked.
‘That’s right,’ Hunter continued. ‘Others believe that what causes a person to go from being a civilized individual to becoming a sociopath are the series of events and circumstances that have affected that person’s life so far. In other words, if you were surrounded by violence when young, if you were abused or mistreated as a child, chances are you’ll reflect that in your adult life by becoming a violent person. Are you with me so far?’
Garcia nodded, leaning back on his chair.
‘OK, so quick and dirty, the profiler’s job is to try and understand why a criminal is acting the way he is, what makes him tick, what drives him. Profilers try to think and act just like the offender would.’
‘Well, I figured that much out.’
‘OK. So if the profiler can manage to think like a criminal, then he might have a chance of predicting the criminal’s next move, but the only way he can do that is by deeply immersing himself in what he thinks the criminal’s life is like.’ He paused for a swig of his beer. ‘Disregarding the first theory because if being evil is something like a disease, there’s nothing we can do about that. There’s no way we can go back in time to reproduce an offender’s aggressive or abusive childhood either, so the only thing left is the offender’s present life, and here comes step one of profiling. We take a guess at what his life might be like. Where he’d live, places he’d go, things he’d do.’
‘A guess?’ Garcia looked incredulous.
‘That’s all profiling is, nothing but our best guess based on the facts and evidence found at the crime scene. The problem is that when we walk in the footsteps of such deranged criminals for long enough, acting like they do, thinking like they do, immersing ourselves so deep in such dark minds, that unavoidably leaves scars . . . mental scars, and sometimes the profiler loses track of the line.’
‘What line?’
‘The line that keeps us from becoming like them.’ Hunter looked away for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was sad. ‘There have been cases . . . profilers that have worked in investigations of sadistic sexual offenders becoming obsessed with sadistic sex themselves, or going the opposite way, becoming sexually inadequate. The simple thought of sex being enough to make them sick. Others that have worked brutal murder cases have become violent and abusive. Some have gone as far as committing brutal crimes themselves. The human brain is still pretty much a mystery, and if we abuse it for long enough . . .’ Hunter didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘So I chose to abuse my brain in a different way, by becoming a Homicide detective.’ He smiled and finished the rest of his beer.
‘Yeah, and that is some abuse.’ They both laughed.
A mile from Rusty’s Surf Ranch a well-dressed man checked his reflection against the full-size mirror in the entrance lobby of the Belvedere restaurant. He was wearing a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and his blond wig suited him perfectly. His contact lenses gave his eyes an unusual shade of green.
From where he was standing he could see her sitting at the bar, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looked beautiful in her little black dress.
Was she nervous or excited? He couldn’t really tell.
All that time at the supermarket, all those months he’d been working her, feeding her lies, getting her to trust him. Tonight his lies would pay off. They always did.
‘Hello, sir, are you here to meet someone or will you be having dinner by yourself this evening?’
In silence he stared at the maître d’ for a few seconds.
‘Sir?’
He glanced at her once again. He knew she’d be perfect.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend. That lady