columns. Brady nudged the hand away. The man mumbled an apology and then a few minutes later snapped the hand back with the turn of a page.
A wisp of an elderly woman occupied the seat to his left. She apparently understood air travel to be a grand opportunity to socializeâif socializing meant telling a complete stranger every imaginable detail of her life. Whatever good his metabolism and four Tylenols were doing to alleviate the symptoms of his foolish minibinge last night, this woman effectively counteracted them.
âMaâam?â Brady said finally, after the plane had leveled off at thirty-five thousand feet.
Her history droned on unabated.
âMaâam?â More firmly.
She paused, seeming surprised to find a live person looking at her.
âIâm sorry, but I really have to do some work.â He bent to retrieve a three-ring binder and a legal pad from the soft-sided documents case stashed under the seat in front of him.
Her monologue clicked on again, picking up mid-sentence, precisely where Brady had stopped her. He sighed and decided she wouldnât notice he had moved on to his own affairs, or care if she did notice.
He lowered the drop-down tray in front of him and centered the pad of paper on it. The binder went on top of the paper; he wasnât ready to open it yet. Instead, he sat with his fingers resting lightly on the front cover.
Through the bottom opening of the binder, he could see three yellow dividers. They separated the documents into four sections, one for each of the presumed Pelletier killings, not including last nightâs. The locals for each case had faxed the paperwork and some of the crime scene photos to the Bureau only yesterday, after some cajoling by John Gilbreath, head of the laboratory and training divisions. Brady had made copies for the trip to Colorado.
Among the reports, interview transcriptions, and crime scene sketches were photocopied death shotsâsnapshots of the victims in graphic, bloody detail. As part of their training, LEOs, from county sheriff deputies to FBI agents, view dozens if not hundreds of death shots. The exposure is calculated not only to sharpen their investigative skills, to teach them, for instance, how to read the truth in blood splatters and to recognize suicides that arenât suicides, but also to desensitize them to the extreme horror of violent physical trauma. Vomiting officers can wreak havoc on crime scenes, and investigators can hardly reconstruct the events of a death from bodily wreckage when the sight of it makes them nauseated and light-headed. The extent of violence people inflict on others and themselves cannot be exaggerated: faces sheared off by shotgun blasts, leaving hanging gristle and gore-filled sinuses, eye sockets, and throats; eviscerated bodies that are nothing more than hollowed-out husks; dismembered victims bagged and buried.
In light of other mutilations heâd seen, decapitation didnât seem so hideous. Still, the thought of it made his stomach roll. There was something about its finality that rattled his mind. Throughout history, people have survived horrendous assaults. Theyâve recovered from gunshots to every conceivable body part. Theyâve lived through amputations and brutal slashes. Stabbings, impalements, electric shocks, chokings, flayings, poisonings, beatings, burns, bites, falls.
But never decapitation. It left no hope, no chance for survival. Which was probably the reason this killer chose it. Beheading was a more gruesome version of popping two slugs into the skull, the coup de grâce favored by mobsters and despots.
It was Bradyâs job to bear witness to these crimes, to study their aftermath, and to construct an image of the person who could commit such atrocities. On his best days, he felt like a gallant knight blazing a trail through hell so that others would not have to. When he was down, and the murders were particularly repugnant, he was a
A wisp of an elderly woman occupied the seat to his left. She apparently understood air travel to be a grand opportunity to socializeâif socializing meant telling a complete stranger every imaginable detail of her life. Whatever good his metabolism and four Tylenols were doing to alleviate the symptoms of his foolish minibinge last night, this woman effectively counteracted them.
âMaâam?â Brady said finally, after the plane had leveled off at thirty-five thousand feet.
Her history droned on unabated.
âMaâam?â More firmly.
She paused, seeming surprised to find a live person looking at her.
âIâm sorry, but I really have to do some work.â He bent to retrieve a three-ring binder and a legal pad from the soft-sided documents case stashed under the seat in front of him.
Her monologue clicked on again, picking up mid-sentence, precisely where Brady had stopped her. He sighed and decided she wouldnât notice he had moved on to his own affairs, or care if she did notice.
He lowered the drop-down tray in front of him and centered the pad of paper on it. The binder went on top of the paper; he wasnât ready to open it yet. Instead, he sat with his fingers resting lightly on the front cover.
Through the bottom opening of the binder, he could see three yellow dividers. They separated the documents into four sections, one for each of the presumed Pelletier killings, not including last nightâs. The locals for each case had faxed the paperwork and some of the crime scene photos to the Bureau only yesterday, after some cajoling by John Gilbreath, head of the laboratory and training divisions. Brady had made copies for the trip to Colorado.
Among the reports, interview transcriptions, and crime scene sketches were photocopied death shotsâsnapshots of the victims in graphic, bloody detail. As part of their training, LEOs, from county sheriff deputies to FBI agents, view dozens if not hundreds of death shots. The exposure is calculated not only to sharpen their investigative skills, to teach them, for instance, how to read the truth in blood splatters and to recognize suicides that arenât suicides, but also to desensitize them to the extreme horror of violent physical trauma. Vomiting officers can wreak havoc on crime scenes, and investigators can hardly reconstruct the events of a death from bodily wreckage when the sight of it makes them nauseated and light-headed. The extent of violence people inflict on others and themselves cannot be exaggerated: faces sheared off by shotgun blasts, leaving hanging gristle and gore-filled sinuses, eye sockets, and throats; eviscerated bodies that are nothing more than hollowed-out husks; dismembered victims bagged and buried.
In light of other mutilations heâd seen, decapitation didnât seem so hideous. Still, the thought of it made his stomach roll. There was something about its finality that rattled his mind. Throughout history, people have survived horrendous assaults. Theyâve recovered from gunshots to every conceivable body part. Theyâve lived through amputations and brutal slashes. Stabbings, impalements, electric shocks, chokings, flayings, poisonings, beatings, burns, bites, falls.
But never decapitation. It left no hope, no chance for survival. Which was probably the reason this killer chose it. Beheading was a more gruesome version of popping two slugs into the skull, the coup de grâce favored by mobsters and despots.
It was Bradyâs job to bear witness to these crimes, to study their aftermath, and to construct an image of the person who could commit such atrocities. On his best days, he felt like a gallant knight blazing a trail through hell so that others would not have to. When he was down, and the murders were particularly repugnant, he was a
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