"I'm reading your book, you know, Doctor C."
"What?" Doctor Amanda Collins sat in the right front passenger seat of a rental car driven by one Officer Joe Shields, and was currently staring out the window without really seeing - or hearing - anything at all. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was just... woolgathering."
Joe Shields could tell that Doctor Collins was fretting again by the way her brow had furrowed, and by the way she was resting her chin in her hand. He'd seen both tells often enough over the last few weeks - like the interview back in Burbank and the bookstore signing the other day in Los Angeles. "I picked up one of your books last week."
Amanda grinned at him, drawn from her heavy thoughts. "I wish you would have told me - I would have just given you one. I've got stacks of them in my study and I've run out of family to send them to."
Joe grinned back. "I figured - since I'm doing this - I should probably know what you're talking about. I was wondering, Doc - could you maybe, you know..?"
"You want an autograph?" Amanda chuckled at the thought, but there was no malice in it.
Joe stood his ground, though he couldn't help looking a little sheepish. "Why not? I've never known a real celebrity before."
Amanda allowed Joe to draw into her into further small talk as they continued along in the rental. He was stocky and a little short - maybe five foot nine. She herself was only a little shorter - maybe five foot eight or so - but the designer heels she always wore usually left her standing over him by several inches. He'd teased her about it once, actually - he had an easy, warm sense of humor and an equally warm and easy smile.
Today, for whatever reason, he'd swapped his usual suit and tie - the traditional uniform of every plainclothes officer - for a standard police uniform. Amanda couldn't decide if it was just some regulation he had to follow now that they were back in San Francisco, or if Joe felt some special need tonight to show that she was under police protection.
Whatever the reason, Amanda had immediately noted that the uniform was getting just a touch tight in the middle. She found it comforting, in an odd way - she'd met Joe's wife, even had the chance to sample some of her cooking, and could easily picture Mrs. Shields having a large, hot meal ready and waiting when Joe came home at night.
She could also picture Joe sitting there in his living room after dinner, drinking his favorite beer and watching the news while his kids played at his feet. Joe loved his wife and family very much, and it was obvious they loved him just as much in return - domestic bliss at its finest, and as alien a concept to Amanda as the sociopaths she studied were to the average citizen.
They were turning off the 80 now, leaving the Bay Bridge and San Francisco itself behind them as they took the Ashby Street exit, headed for the familiar streets of Berkeley
Amanda took a moment to discreetly study Joe again - she was actually going to miss him when this was all over. He'd insisted from the first that she call him Joe, but had spent the first week of their acquaintance calling her Doctor Collins - simply calling her Amanda was apparently out of the question, and she had reasons of her own for being unable to abide the much simpler Doc that Joe would have preferred, so they had finally compromised on the marginally more formal Doctor C.
Joe, for his part, seemed to be a little in awe of her - women with her academic pedigree were something of a new experience for him. He was a good, solid, uncomplicated man - qualities lacking in the men Amanda studied, and in most of the men she'd ever been attracted to.
Every so often, she'd catch Joe quietly giving her sidelong glances, admiring her face and her figure - nothing inappropriate or intrusive, just an honest appreciation that she found she didn't mind at all. In all honestly, the harmless male attention was quite a welcome change - spending all her time inside her subjects' heads wasn't exactly conducive to healthy romantic relationships, even if she hadn't been an avowed workaholic to start with.
Her current subject - and therefore current obsession - was one Daryl Lee Cullum. He'd been the only man of note in her life for the past two years, a killer she spent every waking moment attempting to analyze and pick apart on every conceivable level. He was her sole focus from the moment she woke up in the morning until the moment she fell asleep at night, and more often than not even followed her into her dreams.
She never could let those dreams go completely, and often found herself sitting at her desk before the sun was even up, turning those subconscious images over and over in her head to glean some new insight for her book. Those were the moments she could almost feel Cullum beside her, could envision the deceptively boyish features under an equally boyish mop of curly red hair and picture in vivid detail the tattoos on his arms.
That face - the face that had led at least five women to a painful, bloody death - was her touchstone and her meditation as she worked her way inside his head and did her best to unravel his secrets. It wasn't pretty or comfortable - or even healthy, for that matter - but it was her job to pick Cullum apart, to help prove that he needed to be locked away from the world for everyone's safety.
Shaking off that disturbing line of thought, Amanda stared out the car window at the familiar streets of Berkeley - they didn't seem to have changed much in the eighteen months she'd been on sabbatical. It had been a productive sabbatical, too - a book published six months in, and, unaccountably, instant celebrity when it hit the bestsellers list seven months after that.
She'd already had a certain amount of celebrity in professional circles - a reputation as an expert witness and consultant in her field - but something about her book had captured the popular imagination and the only thing to do was ride it out. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of talks and interviews and signings, even a few talk show appearances.
Her return to Berkeley should have been her moment of triumph - the grand culmination of years fighting to be taken seriously by her own department. Instead, her victorious return was being completely overshadowed by the lingering fear that colored every moment of her life these days.
"You're not thinking about your lecture, are you, Doctor C?" Joe's voice broke into her thoughts, and she forced her attention back to the streets in front of them.
"No, Joe, I'm not," Amanda admitted, staring out the window as they crossed Martin Luther King and watching Berkeley City Hall pass by as they headed toward Shattuck. "I should really be reviewing my notes."
Joe was too sensitive and empathetic to believe that she was just worried about her lecture, and the glance he gave her said as much. "Don't worry, Doctor C. They'll get him - it's only a matter of time."
Amanda didn't bother to respond as she fumbled around in her bag, letting the familiar feel of the dark leather under her fingertips soothe her. The note cards she was looking for slid neatly into her hands, and she pretended to read them over as she wrestled with fear and guilt.
Daryl Lee Cullum was currently at large, and it was as much her fault as anyone else's. More than anyone else, if you asked Sherman, the Oakland D.A. who resented like hell the trouble and expense of assigning her police protection.
They'd rehearsed her over and over again - despite her extensive courtroom experience - but she'd let her arrogance and self-righteousness get the better of her on the stand, and the judge had declared a mistrial. In the resulting confusion, Daryl Lee Cullum had taken a bailiff hostage and then escaped, aided by Teresa Ann Slocum, one of his groupies.
Terry Slocum had hoped to be the Bonnie to Cullum's Clyde - or perhaps the Caril Fugate to his Charlie Starkweather - but had instead ended up being his first post-trial victim when he decided to celebrate his newfound freedom. Cullum had left a message for Amanda carved on Slocum's stomach, and a filigree design carved into Slocum's arms.
The carving - tattoos left in blood at knife point - was a recent addition to his ritual, something he'd just started experimenting with on his last victim prior to being captured. Sometimes he just used a .44 special instead, but there was always a deposit of sperm left behind, usually after the victim's death. (He'd grinned at Amanda once as he explained that every artist needed to sign their work...)
Sherman - and most of the police department - had probably wanted her dead, or at very least exiled somewhere far, far away, after the mistrial. Unfortunately for all of them, Amanda was their only shot at re-capturing Cullum.
Cullum had sworn vengeance on Amanda the moment he was arrested, and had never been anything other than confident that he'd get his revenge one day. He'd taunted her daily since his escape, sending her what he called 'love packages' containing things like hair and nail clippings or patches of skin. Sometimes it was just a bad Hallmark card signed with drops of his latest victim's blood.
The Valentine's Day after his escape, Cullum had sent her a handmade card containing a short poem that had graced many of his notes to her afterward.
Put on your Sunday best, Doc,
You're gonna ron-des-vous with me
Le bon temps is startin -
Daryl Lee is Free!
There had been a brief - and horrifying - period of time where Cullum had somehow managed to get her cell phone number, using it to leave disgusting messages for her to accompany the constant stream of notes. He seemed to be under some sort of delusion that she was one of his adoring groupies, though he'd finally had to give up calling after a very near miss with the police, who'd managed to trace one of his calls.
The 'love packages' hadn't stopped, though - much harder to trace mail than a phone call - and so Joe Shields had been assigned to play bodyguard. It had been almost a month now, and Cullum had yet to show his face at any of her public appearances. An FBI friend at Quantico had told her just this morning that they were rapidly closing in on Cullum, but that would be little comfort until he was actually back behind bars.
The rental car was passing Sproul Hall now - the site of many a protest back in the Sixties - and Amanda was still pretending to read her notes. Joe was allowing her a companionable silence, which she appreciated, though she knew it was mostly just that he didn't have any idea what to say to reassure her.
That was alright, though - no words could have been as comforting to her as the confidence underlying his demeanor. He was no academic, but he'd been trained to serve and protect and had no doubts about his ability to do just that for her. Almost as if sensing her thoughts, Joe's hand shifted to pat the firearm at his hip - a lefty, she noted idly, just as she'd noted shortly after their introduction.
Gorgeous silver-green eucalyptus trees rolled by, and Amanda couldn't help rolling down the window so she could breathe in the familiar and reassuring scent. It was a typical midday scene on campus - attractive young men and women lazing about soaking up the sun, or moving around as they engaged in various other activities instead.
Several students were tossing around Frisbees, and Joe braked hard as a golden retriever with a red bandanna around its neck leapt out in front of them in pursuit of one. They were able to stop in plenty of time - though they were both unnerved at the near-miss - and the dog's owner came to retrieve his pet and offer his apologies.
It should have jolted already frayed nerves, but it somehow drew Amanda back to her own days as a student. The memories conjured were good ones, and she let them occupy her until Joe pulled them up alongside McClusky Auditorium.
Joe got out first, doing a quick visual check before allowing Amanda to leave the car. The warm sun felt good on her face as Joe offered some final instructions. "We need to find the other officers they assigned here, and then check in with campus security."
She nodded her understanding as he walked around the car to offer her his arm. "You look really nice today, Doctor C."
Vanity was just one of Amanda's many foibles, and she couldn't help a slight smile as they began walking up the steps. "Thank you, Joe."
Several minutes later, Amanda was safely ensconced behind a podium of gray metal and blond wood. Hundreds of students had come to see her, filling the auditorium - many of them were her former students. Despite her earlier anxiety, she was comfortable and confident in this particular spotlight, completely on top of her game as she talked about one of her great passions.
"Society helps create these crippled creatures, and their revenge for it is terrible. For a short time, they find solace in the pain of another human being - the cries of their victims temporarily block out their own pain, or maybe just make them feel alive. After that initial rush, however, comes the inevitable crash - depression, despair, guilt, and loneliness that can only be alleviated by taking another victim."
A screen hung above and behind Amanda, displaying her image for the benefit of those in the very back of the auditorium. Roughly five times her height at thirty feet tall, it provided a way to display the various notes, charts, and diagrams that accompanied her lecture, but also made her seem larger than life as she addressed her audience.
"Like addicts craving a fix," Amanda continued, "serial killers crave the rush of taking a human life. Often, this is because their emotions are stunted by years of abuse, and by rejection early in their lives. This isn't always true, however, and begs the question: what other factors are at work here? What triggers some people to become violent, but not others? Is it a genetic factor we haven't identified yet? What we don't know about the psychology of serial killers could fill library after library."
Amanda paused then, a moment of hesitation for dramatic effect before she emerged from behind the podium. She made an imposing figure, standing somewhere around six feet in her heels and wearing a red dress that managed to accentuate both her figure and her air of authority.
She let the audience wait just a moment longer - just long enough for them to start feeling restless and impatient as they waited to hear what she'd say next. Finally, she spoke again. "Would all the gentlemen in the audience please stand?"
The men in the crowd looked around at each other uncertainly, suddenly self-conscious, and Amanda smiled as she added a cajoling note to her voice. "Indulge me, gentlemen - let us get a look at you. It's only fair after all the time you spend watching us."
Amused murmurs and random snatches of laughter spread through the hall as the men began to stand one by one. Once they were all standing, Amanda continued on. "Thank you. Any of you under twenty and over thirty five may take your seats."
Once that was done, she spoke again. "Those of you standing who are not white may also take your seats."
This left a lot of young white males standing conspicuously amongst their peers, and she waited for the scrutiny to provoke the expected unease before moving on. "This is what popular media would have you believe most serial killers are - young white males, age twenty to thirty five, not particularly distinguishable from the people next to them."
"You may sit down now, gentlemen," she concluded. "Thank you for your assistance."
"In truth," she continued, "serial killers come from all races and all genders. They can, in fact, also be female. We're going to work with the popular conception of serial killers for just a moment longer, but remember that it is not nearly a complete or entirely accurate image."
Pictures flashed up onto the large screen as moved back into her lecture - ordinary young white men fitting the criteria she'd outlined. "Albert DeSalvo. Bianchi and Buono. David Berkowitz. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ted Bundy. All described as quiet, unassuming - even sweet. They held down jobs and were good neighbors. Their victims trusted them, sometimes enough to invite them into their own homes."
A flash of movement in the balcony caught Amanda's attention, but a quick glance showed nothing out of the ordinary and she returned to her lecture. "Serial killers are a particularly modern disease - though modern is a relative term - and one that afflicts the United States more than any other country in the world. This may be the reason for the popular conception we have of serial killers."
She paused for effect again, then pushed on. "Police science, unfortunately, cannot hope to cure this illness - it can only help us catch the perpetrators after they've committed a crime. The answer, then, lies in psychology - in understanding what goes on inside their heads, in understanding how they got to be the way they are. The State Of Florida spent almost eight million dollars to execute Ted Bundy-"
Another flash of movement on the balcony had caught Amanda's attention, only this time what she saw there rendered her mute and motionless - a plaid shirt and a pair of tattooed arms she'd recognize anywhere. Her reaction was subtle, almost invisible, but Joe, standing just out of sight in the wings, knew her well enough to spot it.
She managed to discreetly direct his attention to the front row of the balcony, but there wasn't anything there by the time he looked. Checking again, Amanda saw only rows of fresh-faced coeds waiting for her to continue. Chiding herself for being so easily spooked - and silently vowing to make herself finally take that long-delayed vacation to Italy - she turned her attention back to her lecture.
"The State Of Florida," she picked back up, "spent almost eight million dollars to execute Ted Bundy. That money would have been better spent keeping him confined for life, allowing psychologists to examine him. Perhaps then there might have been an answer to the question of why - out of all the infants born on November 24, 1946 - that particular one became a killer. Perhaps then we'd be better equipped to identify the Ted Bundys of the future, before they ever get the chance to kill."
There was a brief pause, then the audience broke into open applause - rare for a college lecture. Amanda moved to the side of the stage and then down the stairs, Joe right behind her. It didn't take long for her to be surrounded by enthusiastic students, some wanting to greet her personally, others requesting an autograph or simply wanting to contribute their own pet theory.
It was hell on already frayed nerves, but Joe's solid presence at her side made it bearable. Finally, she was able to move away from the crowd and toward an older, balding man in a herringbone jacket. The man tucked a cherry wood pipe into a pocket before extending a hand to Amanda. "Excellent work, Doctor Collins. I know Berkeley probably isn't much after your book tour, but we'd be happy to have you back."
A flash of amused anger crossed Amanda's face before she finally responded. "Thank you, John."
Either John believed the feigned warmth in her voice, or chose to believe it. She couldn't hide her unease from Joe, however - he could sense her distraction, see her eyes flick from side to side as she eyed the crowd. Deciding enough was enough, he led her around the next group of admiring students that were waiting to pounce.
"Jeez," Joe observed, "you're practically a rock star here!"
It got him the hoped-for smile, but Amanda's reply was more than a little bitter. "They wouldn't even consider me for tenure a year and a half ago. A bestseller and some interviews and they suddenly want me back as a department head..."
She paused then and gestured toward the ladies' room door in a nearby alcove. "I need to freshen up before we go."
She let Joe go in first - no one responded to his knock, or to his voice, so they stepped inside. The bathroom was surprisingly clean and large and modern - much like the auditorium Amanda had just lectured in. Glass bricks lined the space between the sinks and the long mirror above them, directly opposite the row of stall doors.
Committed to being thorough despite feeling a bit sheepish, Joe checked the broom closet - empty, save the expected broom and mop - before walking down the line of empty stalls. One stall wasn't empty, and Joe paused as he took in the stockinged, high-heeled legs partially visible beneath the stall door. "Excuse the intrusion, ma'am."
Satisfied that there was nothing dangerous lurking, he turned to Amanda and smiled reassuringly. "All yours, Doctor C."
Amanda headed for the nearest stall, already mentally reviewing the major talking points for her next interview out in Boston. She had barely finished latching the stall door when something was suddenly yanked tight around her neck hard enough to start lifting her off her feet.
The thing strangling her was some sort of makeshift wire noose - it cut into her fingers as she tried to pry it loose. With no air to scream for help, she kicked out at the stall walls and door, hoping to make enough noise to draw Joe back in. The noose kept lifting her higher and higher, though, and after a few kicks, she had to give up making noise in favor of trying to get some, anything, under her feet - the fact that she had somehow managed to open the stall door was precious little consolation.
It was still an impressive amount of noise, though, and she felt a surge of relief as she heard Joe's voice at the door. "Doctor Collins? Everything okay?"
Joe had only a moment to process the scene in front of him - Amanda, wire noose around her neck as she hung from the water pipes above the stalls - before the door to the previously empty broom closet burst open and Daryl Lee Cullum rushed right at him.
Cullum - dressed in a plaid shirt, khakis, and high heels - had clearly been on more than one sort of bender. He looked strung out, hair dirty and ragged, skin blotched with sores. His eyes were dilated and wild as he grabbed Joe and put a knife to his throat. "Now what in the world are you doing with my gun?"
Grinning manically, Cullum took the gun from Joe's holster and turned his attention back to Amanda. "You're the expert here, Doc. What does a sick fucker like me do in this situation? Do I gut him, or do I shoot him? Or maybe both?"
Not even bothering to wait for Amanda's reply, Cullum drew the blade across Joe's throat before waving the knife in the air and smiling at his prey. Amanda could only watch as Joe's eyes bulged in shock, mouth opening and closing silently as he struggled to call out for help.
Then, just in case the blood loss wasn't enough to kill him, Cullum turned and fired two shots into Joe's chest. Joe stumbled back against the nearest sink and slid down to the floor, leaving a bloody smear down the mirror and the tiles beneath it.
Cullum turned his attention back to Amanda, smiling as he advanced on her. Flailing desperately, Amanda managed to loosen the noose just enough to take in a single breath.
She screamed, and kept right on screaming until the moment she blacked out.