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1
John Davis turned up the collar on his jacket as he swiftly walked away from the shrill voices bleeding through from the hotel banquet hall behind him. March certainly wasn’t going out like a lamb. This last blast of cold weather was intense.
He took a quick look behind him. If he didn’t make a fast getaway, he’d be stopped by some convention attendee asking him for advice on how to get their book published. Or even worse, begging for help finding the person who murdered their child, husband, wife, brother, sister, or parent. Over the years, the darkness in the eyes of the grieving had taken a toll on him.
He’d just turned seventy-six. Maybe it was time to stop speaking to groups full of people who thought murder was somehow exciting. Who believed they could learn behavioral analysis during a three-day convention. He’d been at this since his early days at the FBI, when profiling was just an experiment. Now, thanks to television shows and movies that romanticized the process, everyone and their dog thought they could understand the evil that festered in the hearts of certain human beings.
Although statistics and analysis helped to narrow down possibilities so law enforcement had a better chance at finding violent criminals, those procedures couldn’t explain the kind of malevolence they witnessed. As a Christian, he knew where true evil came from, but that knowledge didn’t banish the images that burned in his mind. The ones that showed up in his nightmares.
He took the key card he needed to enter the building that housed the hotel’s guest rooms from his pocket. Before he fit it into the card slot, he thought he heard someone behind him. A quick look around showed no one. Just his imagination. Why was he so rattled? He’d been uneasy ever since he’d arrived in Bethesda.
John entered the building and made sure the outer door behind him clicked shut and locked. He hurried to the elevator and more than once punched the button to the third floor as if it would somehow make the elevator move faster. When it finally arrived, he hurried inside and pressed the button to close the door. He didn’t want anyone riding up with him.
The elevator had just started to move when his cell phone rang. It was one of the Murder Will Out convention organizers and speakers, a successful suspense author he respected. This guy got it right. Few writers did. Some of the things included in novels made John cringe. In fact, he’d publicly criticized several of them. But not D. J. Harper. John recommended his books to those who wanted a real look into the lives of behavioral analysts.
“Hi, D.J.,” he said into his phone.
“Hey. You were great tonight. Thanks again for coming.”
“You’re welcome. You’ve done a great job with this group. This convention’s larger every year.”
D.J. laughed. “Sure, because you show up. You’re the main event, you know. The FBI’s most renowned profiler.”
D.J. was being humble. He had a huge readership, and after every convention his book sales rocketed well beyond John’s own. Seemed to be a win-win situation for them both.
“What can I do for you?” John asked, hoping there wasn’t anything. He was so tired his bones hurt. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes.
“I thought I’d ask if you’d like a nightcap. We’ve been working so hard that we haven’t had much time to talk.”
John couldn’t hold back a sigh as he exited the elevator and headed down the hall. “I’d love to, D.J., but I just can’t. Not even for you. I’m beat.”
“I understand completely. As the years go by, it gets harder and harder to keep up with all these young, eager fans. I’m getting by on fumes as it is. Hey, by the way, a rather odd guy asked to meet you. I told him you weren’t available for personal meetings. Just wanted to warn you.”
“There’s always at least one, isn’t there?”
D.J. chuckled. “You’re right. Some people get so entrenched in this stuff that it warps them.”
“I worry about that.”
“I do too, but it sells books. Hard to walk away from that.” He paused for a moment. “Ever wonder if we’ve sold our souls?”
“Every day.”
John was almost to his room when a group of people got off the elevators at the other end of the hall. They were dressed up, so they were probably coming from the semiformal dinner that was the last event of the convention. He hurried to slip into his room before they saw him, but he didn’t make it.
“Mr. Davis,” a woman in the group called out. “We really enjoyed your lectures this weekend.”
John nodded and tossed her a smile before sliding his card into the key slot. He was happy to hear the door unlock. Thankful to be free, he quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The final click caused him to nearly groan with relief.
“Hey, sorry I rushed out after my speech,” John said into the phone. “Hope I didn’t come off as a snob.”
D.J. laughed. “Nah. Just the regular disappointed groupies who wanted a chance to talk to you. They’ll get over it.”
John sat down on the side of his bed. “I had the strangest feeling after leaving the banquet hall. I ... I can’t really explain it. Almost like someone was watching me. I guess I’m letting my professional life bleed over into my real life.”
“Too many meetings, too many serial killers.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
