Page 26 of Twelve
“What have you read,” Dean asked me finally, fully himself and not speaking for the killer anymore, “about assisted suicide?”
The question took me by surprise, but it shouldn’t have. If our UNSUB had witnessed the first two suicides, if he or she had known they were going to happen, had in any way encouraged them…
That could be seen as assistance.
And Kelley? She’d been “assisted” right over the edge.
“What do you know about mercy killings?” Dean said, amending the term he’d used before. “So-called ‘angels of death’ typically begin with a loved one, often one who has asked for assistance. But after that…” He trailed off for a moment. “They don’t stop, and their victims aren’t always willing.”
“Mercy,” I said, latching on to part of what Dean had said. “Even for the unwilling.”
Like Kelley.
“What’s the typical profile for a mercy killer?” I asked, trying to view this objectively, trying not to think what Kelley’s final moment, rushing toward the ground, realizing she’d been pushed, would have been like.
“Most often,” Dean said, “you’d be looking at someone whose occupation grants them access to victims whose health has degraded to the point that they cannot fight back.”
Kelley had been young and healthy—physically. Mentally, however, she’d struggled. I hadn’t spent enough time on the other two files to know anything about the first two victims, but given that theyhadjumped, I had to assume that they’d had that much in common with Kelley.
Young. Vulnerable. In pain.
We were looking for someone with access to vulnerable teenagers—most likely, an adult. A teacher. A volunteer. A parent. A coach. Someone these kids trusted. Someone who could lead them right up to the brink and watch them fall.
“A mercy killer needs more than access,” I said. “They need a skill set that will allow them to go undetected.”
“Right,” came Dean’s reply. “In most cases, you’d expect some form of medical training.”
Medical training. Access.“Have you ever heard of an angel of death who preys on people with mental health issues?” I asked Dean.
“No.” He hesitated, just for a moment. “But I’d give it ten to one odds that the person who fits that particular profile has some kind of background in the mental health field.”
We were looking for someone with access to vulnerable teens. Someone with experience in mental health.Someone,I thought,with psychological training, who knows exactly what to say to push someone over the edge.
I barely felt the first drop of rain—or the second. I could see the lighthouse in the distance, and suddenly, I flashed back to the moment when I’d been close—so close—to talking Mackenzie down from the ledge.
“Dean,” I said suddenly. “Our killer likes to watch.”
My boyfriend replied, but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t form another coherent sentence, because all I could think, as the sky opened up and rain came down in sheets, was that Mackenzie was still out there on that ledge.
Right where you want her.
YOU
Poor little Mackenzie. What she’s been through. What she’s suffered. She needs help. Your help.
Release.
Itook off running. Cape Roane was a small town. The church and the lighthouse were separated by a matter of blocks.
“Call Lia,” I told Dean, “or Michael. Tell them we have to get back to Mackenzie.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I just hung up and kept running.I never should have left.It was part and parcel of being a profiler that I tended to get absorbed in cases. I’d been so focused on Kelley and her killer, but I never should have taken my eyes off Mackenzie. From the moment I’d realized that this killer liked to watch…
I should have known you’d be there. Watching.
The lighthouse was closer now, but not close enough. My sides were already starting to burn, my lungs beginning to tighten like a vise in my chest, but I managed to keep enough presence of mind to give my cell phone a verbal command.
“Call Celine.”
