general, or my specialty of profiling in particular. Correct?”
Magozzi exhaled noisily and fought off the Minnesota impulse to be polite at all costs. “I put profiling on about the same level as consulting psychics.”
“It’s a little more scientific than that.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, the way I see it, you people go through the records cops made, see that a real high percentage of serial killers are male, white, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, blah, blah, blah, then predict that any serial killer is male, white, and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, and then when those same cops nab the guy, you say, ‘See, what did we tell you?’ There was a fake gypsy at my high school carnival that did a hell of a lot better than that.”
Dr. Chelsea Thomas put her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, and Magozzi tried to analyze the body language. God knew she was analyzing his, and the least he could do was return the favor. Man, he hated shrinks. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped back his head, looking down his nose at her. See that? Defensive arm posture; disdainful head position. Take cover.
Obviously he wasn’t having a whole lot of luck intimidating her, because she smiled at him. A really great smile. “It is five o’clock. Past five, in fact, and there’s a terrific Irish pub a few blocks over with some great stuff on tap. If you’re up for it, it might be an environment a little more conducive to establishing a productive working relationship. What do you say?”
Magozzi frowned at her, sensing a trap. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
She laughed quietly. It was a nice laugh, but humiliating, all the same. “Absolutely not. But this isn’t analysis, Detective, and it certainly isn’t mandatory. I was hoping that we might be able to help each other on this case, but clearly you’re uncomfortable here.” She hesitated for a moment. “And obviously you’ve had a very bad day.”
That was one of the great come-ons with the mental health crowd. From priests to psychiatrists, the standard opening was something that was supposed to sound sympathetic, but was really a trick to get you to spill your guts. Magozzi ought to know. He’d used the same tactic in interrogation rooms often enough. “Killers are getting their rocks off posting films of real murders on the Internet, and at least one of them advertised who they were going to kill ahead of time. If you’re even close to human and you’ve read that file you’ve had a pretty goddamned bad day, too.”
She looked down at the file in the center of her very tidy desk, then pushed her fingers back through her hair, making it stand up and look weird. This was body language Magozzi understood, because it was brutally honest. Women did not muss coiffed hair or rub mascaraed eyes voluntarily; this was impulsive, careless, and real. “I’ve read the file. And, yes, I’ve had a pretty bad day. And I could use a beer. Maybe two, because it looks like all the beasts are coming out to play.”
It was indeed a terrific pub, with a wild Irish band and the smell of hops and sweat and probably twenty criminals who looked a lot like Harley Davidson doing jigs in their motorcycle boots. Whatever the on-tap stuff was, it hit Magozzi’s system like great-grandmother’s practice quilt, fluttering down over your body and head, blocking the light, making a hidey hole.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dr. Chelsea Thomas was saying, words running together just a little, because she was on her second beer, as promised, and she wasn’t used to it. “People use the Web to post documentation of their bad behavior all the time.”
“Like those high school girls beating up their classmate.”
“Exactly. But aside from the very rare snuff film that appears on an underground site, we’ve never seen film of a real murder posted, certainly not on sites like YouTube, and that’s what frightens me. Whoever
Magozzi exhaled noisily and fought off the Minnesota impulse to be polite at all costs. “I put profiling on about the same level as consulting psychics.”
“It’s a little more scientific than that.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, the way I see it, you people go through the records cops made, see that a real high percentage of serial killers are male, white, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, blah, blah, blah, then predict that any serial killer is male, white, and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, and then when those same cops nab the guy, you say, ‘See, what did we tell you?’ There was a fake gypsy at my high school carnival that did a hell of a lot better than that.”
Dr. Chelsea Thomas put her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, and Magozzi tried to analyze the body language. God knew she was analyzing his, and the least he could do was return the favor. Man, he hated shrinks. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped back his head, looking down his nose at her. See that? Defensive arm posture; disdainful head position. Take cover.
Obviously he wasn’t having a whole lot of luck intimidating her, because she smiled at him. A really great smile. “It is five o’clock. Past five, in fact, and there’s a terrific Irish pub a few blocks over with some great stuff on tap. If you’re up for it, it might be an environment a little more conducive to establishing a productive working relationship. What do you say?”
Magozzi frowned at her, sensing a trap. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
She laughed quietly. It was a nice laugh, but humiliating, all the same. “Absolutely not. But this isn’t analysis, Detective, and it certainly isn’t mandatory. I was hoping that we might be able to help each other on this case, but clearly you’re uncomfortable here.” She hesitated for a moment. “And obviously you’ve had a very bad day.”
That was one of the great come-ons with the mental health crowd. From priests to psychiatrists, the standard opening was something that was supposed to sound sympathetic, but was really a trick to get you to spill your guts. Magozzi ought to know. He’d used the same tactic in interrogation rooms often enough. “Killers are getting their rocks off posting films of real murders on the Internet, and at least one of them advertised who they were going to kill ahead of time. If you’re even close to human and you’ve read that file you’ve had a pretty goddamned bad day, too.”
She looked down at the file in the center of her very tidy desk, then pushed her fingers back through her hair, making it stand up and look weird. This was body language Magozzi understood, because it was brutally honest. Women did not muss coiffed hair or rub mascaraed eyes voluntarily; this was impulsive, careless, and real. “I’ve read the file. And, yes, I’ve had a pretty bad day. And I could use a beer. Maybe two, because it looks like all the beasts are coming out to play.”
It was indeed a terrific pub, with a wild Irish band and the smell of hops and sweat and probably twenty criminals who looked a lot like Harley Davidson doing jigs in their motorcycle boots. Whatever the on-tap stuff was, it hit Magozzi’s system like great-grandmother’s practice quilt, fluttering down over your body and head, blocking the light, making a hidey hole.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dr. Chelsea Thomas was saying, words running together just a little, because she was on her second beer, as promised, and she wasn’t used to it. “People use the Web to post documentation of their bad behavior all the time.”
“Like those high school girls beating up their classmate.”
“Exactly. But aside from the very rare snuff film that appears on an underground site, we’ve never seen film of a real murder posted, certainly not on sites like YouTube, and that’s what frightens me. Whoever
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