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Cara stands.
“Shenton’s going to give us the profile.”
CHAPTER
50
THE ENTIRE TEAM fills the conference room. Griffin goes to take a seat at the back, but reconsiders, wanting to give his hesitant protégé a bit of encouragement from the first few rows.
Shenton stands hunched at the front, the omnipresent notepad gripped in his fingers.
Cara holds her hands up and the room silences. Shenton clears his throat as Cara introduces the purpose of the meeting.
“I need you all to listen and give Toby your full attention,” she continues. “Whatever your views on profiling,” she adds with a warning look to Griffin. Griffin frowns. That’s not fair. He’s not entirely against the work forensic psychologists do. It’s not as if they’re psychics, after all.
Toby looks at the expectant faces around the room. He smiles nervously. Griffin can already see perspiration on his forehead. What’s Cara thinking? he wonders. Shenton’s not ready for something like this, master’s degrees or not.
“I have read all the case files, looked at the photographs, and there are a few things I think I can tell you about our killer,” Shenton begins.
“Self-important little fuck,” the detective mutters next to Griffin, and someone else snorts with laughter.
Toby pauses amid the continual chatter in the room. Cara glares at the detectives talking, and everyone shuts up, fidgeting in their seats. Shenton carries on: “He knows about forensics; he never leaves a trace behind. He knows our procedures inside and out, so he might have spent time in the police force or a related profession. He might have even inserted himself into the investigation somehow.”
“You’re saying he’s one of us?” someone shouts, and a burst of annoyance rings out.
“I’m not saying he’s a cop,” Shenton stutters. “Just someone close to law enforcement.” He clears his throat and looks down at his notes. Griffin sees his trademark blush start to creep up his neck. “We know he can drive and probably owns his own car. He pays rent on at least one property, so he’s holding down a steady job. He is functioning in his everyday life.”
More than some of the people in the room, Griffin thinks. His gaze drifts across to Deakin, leaning against the wall on the opposite side. Griffin knows he looks like shit, but Noah takes home the award. Dark shadows under his eyes, skinnier than usual. It looks like he hasn’t eaten for a week. Deakin catches his eye and glares back. Fucking Noah, Griffin thinks. Such an asshole.
Meanwhile, Shenton is still talking. “We know he keeps souvenirs of his kills. The Polaroids, and the fact he displayed them prominently, show us he is proud of what he has achieved. Some offenders show guilt or regret, using alcohol or food to cope, but this guy will not. He is actively enjoying seeing the result of his actions.”
“You think it’s one guy?” someone shouts to Griffin’s right.
“We have no reason not to. So, yes, probably one.” He is standing up straighter now, seemingly getting into his stride. Griffin feels a grudging pride for the kid, and respect for his sister. She’d obviously recognized the potential in Shenton before anyone else had. “But even if not,” Toby continues, “we’re looking at one dominant and one submissive. One guy calling the shots.”
“And it’s definitely a man?” a DC speaks up from the back.
“Yes. Definitely. And a heterosexual man, at that.”
“But he’s sodomized men,” the DC adds, and Shenton nods.
“Yes, but the male rapes were functional. Carried out methodically as his victims were dead or dying in order to fit the MO of Jeffrey Dahmer. If you contrast them with the female rapes …” Toby turns and picks up one of the crime scene photos from the GSK attacks. “They were violent and brutal. None more so than in the case of Mia Griffin.”
Silence descends. Griffin feels his skin prickle as faces turn his way. Fucking hell, Toby, really? he thinks. You had to choose that example? But he forces his expression to remain impassive, staring at the man at the front of the room.
“I believe he holds a woman accountable for his problems and takes his rage out on women as a result. So it’s unlikely he can hold down a normal relationship. He has an emotional need to degrade and destroy. He possibly even has some sort of dysfunction, unable to maintain an erection without this sort of violence.”
Shenton holds his head up high. He puts his notebook down to his side. His face is serious.
“This is a man who wants his victims to suffer,” he says. “He derives sexual pleasure and satisfaction from hurting them, from the power he exerts over their lives and ultimately their deaths. He listens to their screams and gets off on their pain.” Shenton pauses. The room is completely silent; he has the undivided attention of every detective there. “He is a sexual sadist, and a dangerous one. Each kill only fuels the appetite for inflicting more pain, but he’ll need to do more each time to get off. He’ll become more elaborate, more personal. I have no doubt that he will continue to kill, and he won’t stop until we catch him.”
He stops. The mood in the room has chilled. Every detective knew the severity of the man they were trying to catch, but little DC Toby Shenton has brought it home. Every word pinpointing their failures. The unspoken truth is if they don’t catch him, the next murders are on them.
“So who will he kill next? Who will he echo?”
Shenton takes a deep breath. “I can’t say,” he says, and Griffin hears the disquiet. “But his signature is interesting in itself.”
“His signature?” Cara asks.
