shortages in mind when he programmed our ability to refashion ourselves, but that potential for adjustment also served me quite well. I endured so much pain as a boy that my mind rewired itself to the point that pain for me is an almost pleasurable experience.”
“I’ve read your file, but I don’t know if I buy that you’re as immune to pain as you think.”
“Feel free to try, but I may like it.”
“I think I can come up with some things that even you won’t enjoy.”
“Pictures of puppies and little children sometimes give me a headache and make my teeth hurt. If that helps.”
Craig raised the knife. “I like a challenge.”
Ackerman grinned. “We have that in common.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Dunhams’ living room was an open space with a flat-screen TV on one wall and a massive fireplace constructed of gray and white bricks built into the other. White walls. Eggshell carpet. White leather couch. Marcus grimaced as he looked around. He said to Andrew, “This place seem weird to you? Kind of bleached-out?”
Andrew looked around as if he hadn’t noticed. “Not really. Remind me, what color did you paint your office last month?”
“Black.”
“You’re not normal. You realize that, right?”
Marcus scowled. “Well, I do now.”
The crime-scene techs and officers were still hard at work, gathering evidence. He didn’t expect them to find any. He took in every detail of the scene. He closed his eyes and put himself into the killer’s mind.
His process differed from those of the FBI profilers. In fact, he really didn’t have a process. He just remembered everything that he saw, and he could relate to the men whom he hunted. His method was more like old-school detective work. Examine the scene. Put yourself in the bad guy’s shoes. Notice something out of place. And be smart enough to connect that piece of evidence with something that could lead you to the killer’s doorstep or at least to another clue.
The keypad to a security system rested beside the front door. Marcus wondered how the killer had bypassed it.
He walked through to the kitchen. Saw the milk jug on the counter and the broken glass on the floor. A half-eaten grapefruit and a bowl of sugary cereal that had turned to mush sat on the kitchen table. The mother’s purse rested on the counter. The mother and son had both been having breakfast. The father had already left for work. Marcus wondered how the killer knew their routine so well. He must have been watching them for an extended period of time.
Marcus floated through the scene in a daze, ignoring all the other people. Kaleb was saying something, but Marcus barely registered the words. Then Kaleb abandoned them as he went to speak with some of the other detectives, and Marcus and Andrew moved into the garage.
The father’s truck—a big black utilitarian work vehicle covered in a layer of rock dust—was in its space now, but it wouldn’t have been when the killer took the family, and so Marcus ignored it. The kitchen connected directly with the garage, and Marcus suspected that the killer had come in through that entrance. There were several devices on the market that could clone a garage-door opener. When the family was out one day, the killer could have followed them, broken into their car, and cloned the garage-door opener, which would have given him full access to the house through the garage.
But the mother and son would have heard the big mechanical door open while they were having breakfast. It would have alerted them. But the bedrooms were at the opposite end of the house. If the killer had opened the door in the night, he could have entered without being heard at all.
Marcus checked beneath the wife’s car, a light blue Ford Taurus. The concrete floor of the garage was relatively clean, but nearly every garage floor had a layer of dirt tracked in from the cars. This one was no exception. And beneath the Taurus, the dirt had been disturbed. The signs were
“I’ve read your file, but I don’t know if I buy that you’re as immune to pain as you think.”
“Feel free to try, but I may like it.”
“I think I can come up with some things that even you won’t enjoy.”
“Pictures of puppies and little children sometimes give me a headache and make my teeth hurt. If that helps.”
Craig raised the knife. “I like a challenge.”
Ackerman grinned. “We have that in common.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Dunhams’ living room was an open space with a flat-screen TV on one wall and a massive fireplace constructed of gray and white bricks built into the other. White walls. Eggshell carpet. White leather couch. Marcus grimaced as he looked around. He said to Andrew, “This place seem weird to you? Kind of bleached-out?”
Andrew looked around as if he hadn’t noticed. “Not really. Remind me, what color did you paint your office last month?”
“Black.”
“You’re not normal. You realize that, right?”
Marcus scowled. “Well, I do now.”
The crime-scene techs and officers were still hard at work, gathering evidence. He didn’t expect them to find any. He took in every detail of the scene. He closed his eyes and put himself into the killer’s mind.
His process differed from those of the FBI profilers. In fact, he really didn’t have a process. He just remembered everything that he saw, and he could relate to the men whom he hunted. His method was more like old-school detective work. Examine the scene. Put yourself in the bad guy’s shoes. Notice something out of place. And be smart enough to connect that piece of evidence with something that could lead you to the killer’s doorstep or at least to another clue.
The keypad to a security system rested beside the front door. Marcus wondered how the killer had bypassed it.
He walked through to the kitchen. Saw the milk jug on the counter and the broken glass on the floor. A half-eaten grapefruit and a bowl of sugary cereal that had turned to mush sat on the kitchen table. The mother’s purse rested on the counter. The mother and son had both been having breakfast. The father had already left for work. Marcus wondered how the killer knew their routine so well. He must have been watching them for an extended period of time.
Marcus floated through the scene in a daze, ignoring all the other people. Kaleb was saying something, but Marcus barely registered the words. Then Kaleb abandoned them as he went to speak with some of the other detectives, and Marcus and Andrew moved into the garage.
The father’s truck—a big black utilitarian work vehicle covered in a layer of rock dust—was in its space now, but it wouldn’t have been when the killer took the family, and so Marcus ignored it. The kitchen connected directly with the garage, and Marcus suspected that the killer had come in through that entrance. There were several devices on the market that could clone a garage-door opener. When the family was out one day, the killer could have followed them, broken into their car, and cloned the garage-door opener, which would have given him full access to the house through the garage.
But the mother and son would have heard the big mechanical door open while they were having breakfast. It would have alerted them. But the bedrooms were at the opposite end of the house. If the killer had opened the door in the night, he could have entered without being heard at all.
Marcus checked beneath the wife’s car, a light blue Ford Taurus. The concrete floor of the garage was relatively clean, but nearly every garage floor had a layer of dirt tracked in from the cars. This one was no exception. And beneath the Taurus, the dirt had been disturbed. The signs were
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