Born F.R.E.E.: Spy, Inc., #1

By Dean C. Moore

Ray Cunningham is one of the longest running, most successful serial killers on the planet. He also heads the FBI department in charge of hunting down America's Most Wanted.

Among the young agents he's tutoring, will one be clever enough to catch him? And if so, will Ray be excused his bad habits in lieu of his success rate capturing the most lethal criminals?

As things heat up for Ray, they heat up for the beleaguered profiling department, as well.

Underfunded, understaffed, and facing hi-tech criminals that increasingly have them outclassed and outsmarted, and who respect no national boundaries, they make a desperate play. With the money-no-object tech wiz Ray is tutoring, Nick Young, they form a breakaway agency, SPY, INC., with international reach.

SPY, INC. seems more interested, though, in recruiting criminal masterminds than they are in setting the world straight. Whatever their shadowy motives, it quickly becomes clear no one is equipped to go after the criminals SPY, INC. goes after, not even Interpol.

It's not long before free thinkers and free spirits worldwide sound the battle cry. Their reaction to SPY, INC.'s overreaching is an agency of their own, aptly named F.R.E.E.

SPY, INC. and F.R.E.E. compete with each other for the best agents in this first installment of the series. The hi-tech toys at the disposal of both agencies propel the kind of action that skirts the boundaries of hi-tech thrillers and sci-fi.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9798215835944

Book preview

ONE

Ray took Mr. Portman’s face out of the oven.  It struck him as underdone.  He sprinkled some garlic powder and a little additional Worcestershire sauce and stuck it back in for another ten minutes.  By rights he should have sliced through to the bone to make sure he wasn’t overcooking it.  But, Mr. Portman had such a handsome face; he didn’t want his final image of him to be with a slash mark running across it. 

He attended the side dishes on the stovetop while he waited for the oven timer to go off again, stirring the finger food in the frying pan, Mr. Portman’s fingers, all ten of them, mixed with some braised mushrooms.  The broccoli and raisin salad on the counter was good to go.  Of late he’d noticed he’d started to mix hot and cold dishes indiscriminately.  What was behind that?  Though his real motivation for this side dish was to provide the proper amount of fiber to go with the meat, and to alkalize his blood.  Apparently red meat was very acidifying, according to Woman’s Daily.  The same Woman’s Daily that scored him the perfect match for discerning, smart, career-advancing women destined to run a company, and praised him as the type perfectly able to balance a personal and professional relationship with another high achiever. 

One look at the set table with all the dishes laid out finally, and he let out a whistle.  You know where this is going.  He took off his jacket, undid his shoulder holster, set the gun down on the table.  After loosening his belt a couple notches, he said, To hell with it, and took the belt off altogether, his FBI badge still clipped on to the black leather a few notches past where he normally cinched the buckle.  That should free me up a little.

Sitting down at the table, he took the napkin and wiped Mr. Portman’s face clean so he could appreciate the delicate symmetry of his features.  The slight tan he’d received from the oven’s heat was the one place Ray might have fallen just short of perfection in the meal prep.  There was no question Mr. Portman’s beauty was at least in part tied to his alabaster skin.  Why the man wasn’t making a living as a model was beyond him. 

Now that the ritual of admiring his beauty was out of the way, the ritual of systematic desecration of said beauty could begin.  He began by using the knife and fork to separate the bottom lip from the face.  Making sure to wield the silverware in such a way that the desecration of the face went from unholy to horrific, he was barely halfway through the first cut when the phone rang.  Ignore them, he said to the face.  People, these days, no manners at all.

The mold used as a scaffolding for the face was sugar-based, adding a sweetness to Mr. Portman in death that he surely lacked in life.  A slight appley flavor.  The mold itself the result of a laser scan to ensure the underlying bone structure was duplicated exactly.

Ray managed to get the lower lip down with a bit of wine before the incessantly ringing phone started to get to him.  I apologize, Mr. Portman.  But if I cut the connection, and they’re determined enough to reach me, they’ll just send someone from the bureau over, and we can’t have that.  He set the knife and fork down, dabbed his chin with the cloth napkin, slid the phone over and pressed the speaker button so he could keep his hands free.

Ray?

Yes, Nick.  I’m having Mr. Portman over for dinner, if you don’t mind?

Sorry, Ray, couldn’t be helped.  Sorry, Mr. Portman.

Ray answered in Mr. Portman’s voice, capturing the nuances just perfectly, he thought, That’s okay, Nick.  Just keep it brief, please, we have a lot of catching up to do.  Ray was just giving me a hard time over how I’ve let myself go to pieces over the years.

Ray, I think you might need to ask Mr. Portman to leave the room.

Ray scraped his chair across the floor and banged his feet on the ground en route to the kitchen door.  Then he removed his shoes, and quietly padded back to his seat.

We clear?

We’re clear, Ray said, going back to his dinner.

It’s a triple homicide, Ray.  I’ve never seen anything like it.

You’re still a little green, kid.  Give it a few more years and the shock value’ll wear off, Ray said, enjoying a bit of Mr. Portman’s cheek, continuing to carve his Halloween mask with broad strokes.  You’d be surprised to see what it takes to get a rise out of me, these days. 

I don’t know.  I’m not sure I could ever get used to this, or that I want to.  Anyway, whoever this guy is, he’s a pro.  There’s every sign he’s done this before.  CSI has been sweeping the scene for hours and not a damn scrap of evidence.  I’ll spare you the grim details as I realize you’re having dinner.  There’ll be time enough for that when you get here.  I ordered the scene left untouched until you could look at it.

"What can you tell me about the vics that won’t spoil my meal?"

Single mom, attractive, brunette, late thirties, two kids, the boy, fourteen, the girl eleven.

Do the bodies look posed to you?

There was a delay as Nick revisited the crime scene.  Yeah, now that you mention it.  He heard Nick run upstairs.  The boy’s slumped over the desk as if he’s still doing his homework.  Again, he heard fast footsteps and breathing as Nick went to the next room.  The girl’s lying on the floor as if she’s still playing her game of jacks.  More fast footwork, running down the stairs this time, judging by how much more in rhythm Nick’s panting was.  Mom’s in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, her hand on the opened cupboard as if she could still be planning dinner.  God, why didn’t I see that?  I assumed he just surprised them where they were before they could react.

Bodies desecrated in any way? Ray asked, sucking down one of Mr. Portman’s eyeballs, and getting it stuck in his throat.  He rushed the wine to his lips.

No, just a clean shot to the head, in mom’s case.  Probably used a silencer so as not to disturb the kids upstairs.  Wouldn’t have stopped all the noise, but then I’m guessing, in this neighborhood, there is no shortage of backfiring cars.  I’m assuming she got it first, unless he came in from upstairs through a window.  Boy is garroted, real clean though, killer must have wiped the blood.   

Ray was conscious of making choking sounds, fighting with the eyeball in his throat.  Finally, he gave up and did the Heimlich maneuver on himself with the end of the dining table, with accompanying groan.  The eyeball went flying across the kitchen and under the stove.

Misreading his audio cues, Nick said, Sorry, Ray.  Got carried away and forgot you were eating.

It’s okay, wasn’t shaping up to be a picture perfect dinner, no matter how you look at it, he said eying his handiwork.  No doubt about it; it was truly a second rate desecration.  Probably the distraction of the call had caused it.  He threw the napkin over the plate to cover the botched job. 

All right, kid, I’m on my way over.  Google Maps me the address and the directions.  And while I’m on my way, check serial killers nationwide with this m.o.

And what m.o. is that, Ray?

Single moms, raising one or more kids by themselves, no, actually just keep it to two kids for right now.

Going after single moms?  As if they don’t have it hard enough already.

Maybe that’s what’s bugging him.  Maybe he left his wife and kids behind and they had to go it on their own.  And no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to wipe the image from his mind.

That’s a pretty big reach, Ray.

Yeah, it is.  But we have to start somewhere.  A working theory is better than no theory at all.

You know, they say your at-first-blush reactions to these crime scenes turn out to be right over ninety percent of the time?  How is that even possible?  It’s like you can get inside their heads.  As if you’re one of them.

That’s part of the job, kid, to become them, at least for a little while.  If you can’t get inside their heads, you can’t do the job, and you better quit now.

Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.

Ray laughed as he threw on his shoulder holster.  You’re betting against me?  No one bets against me.

I’m trying to save money.  I figure I keep losing the bets to you, you’ll just bank it for me.  You’re too nice of a guy to really take my money, and I’m an unrepentant spendaholic.

Ray laughed as he fastened his belt.  Unrepentant is the way to go, kid.  There’s far too much guilt in the world.  Be all that you can be, I say.

Yeah, tell that to our serial killer.

Might at that, when I see him.  After all, if my theory holds water, guilt is what drove him to it.

TWO

Nick met him at the door, smelling of patchouli and cocoa.  No doubt the Serge Lutens’ cologne was meant as a vapor shield against the stench of death.  But it would encumber Nick’s investigation; he was already down one clue collector.  One more thing Ray would have to school the rookie in. 

Ray exchanged glances with his younger sidekick for a second.  Nick’s eyes nearly disappeared into small slits when he smiled, as now, making him look at once, shy, curious, and as if hiding something.  The mop of unruly hair that no matter how unkempt just seemed to add the perfect touch.  The long, thick eyebrows that added strength while highlighting the welter of emotions in the eyes.  The dimpled chin that made the final product Mt. Rushmore worthy, providing you could find a sculptor that good with a chisel to capture the smoothness of the skin.  I never fail to be blown away by your beauty, kid.  And I have a thing for faces, so I should know. 

Will you stop hitting on me at work?  People may start to think you’re not joking.

Ray laughed.  Wasn’t hitting on you, kid.  Just think you should consider a career in modeling instead of being a detective.  Or acting, maybe.  Enjoy the finer things in life that a face like that’ll bring you.  Nothing wrong with the good life, kid, if you can get a taste of it.  Maybe, considering his Humphrey Bogart-like mug and his world-weariness of late, he should follow up on his own advice.  Then again, he’d look plenty ordinary standing next to this kid in a two-shot.

Yeah, yeah, and pass up my chance to shadow the greatest profiler on the entire planet?

What is your angle on all this, anyway? Ray said.  They were walking and talking now.  Ray was close enough to see the mother for himself, posed on the stool, as if reaching for a box of macaroni.  Her hair, curled up at the ends, refusing to droop even in death, added a touch of defiance to her countenance.  He surveyed the rest of the kitchen and downstairs with quick glances.

What do you mean ‘my angle’?

Top of your class at Harvard, perfect SATs.  You could have picked any profession, made a lot of money.  Why this one?

Honestly, everything else came too easily for me.  Profiling creates the greatest challenge.  Not sure what my mental block is.  Maybe I just struggle with human psychology more than with some other things.

Ray gave him a hard look to let him know he was evaluating him with the same eye he lent his professional work.  Nah, you just had a cushy life, that’s all, surrounded by people that love you.  You’re good people and you come from good people.  This world is as far removed from that as you can get, and opposites attract, or so they say.

Maybe.  You’re probably correct.  I mean you’re the guy that’s never wrong about those things, right?  Now, could we focus on the case?

Nick stepped into him unintentionally, meaning to direct him upstairs.  Ray took the opportunity to run his hand over Nick’s face.  Such exquisite lines.

I swear to God, Ray.  I will hurt you.

Ray smiled.  Okay, kid, show me the upstairs.

You done down here already?  You can’t seriously be done.  Nick gestured at the dead mother.  Forget the CSI team still combing the interior for the slightest clue; they looked anything but finished.

Finished enough for now, Ray said.  Besides, you’re like a kid at Christmas who’s just dying to show me his other presents.  Nick restrained his smile the way a one-armed man wrestles with a cobra.

He took another step and tripped over his shoelaces.  Ray noticed that the younger man retied the laces with a certain care and precision, despite working quickly and nimbly with his fingers.  The gray Capezio shoes he wore were popular with dancers.  They were minimally restrictive if one had a sudden urge to kick up a leg or slip into the splits.  The choice of footwear was unsurprising.  Ray had long since noticed Nick never wore anything too inhibiting.  When Nick was in a suit like today it was always cut to encumber his range of motion as little as possible, which required custom tailoring and was damn expensive.  A history as a dancer?  Some period in his life where he thought he might have been, and by the time the phase was over, it had left him with some lingering traits?  Or just someone who felt he might have to cut loose at any time, say meeting up with a killer, considering their line of work.  Maybe the kid took martial arts and well appreciated how an expanded range of motion could spell the difference between life and death.  He supposed the latter bits of speculation made more sense.

Ray followed him upstairs to the son’s room.  It was pretty much as Nick had described over the phone.  The garrote used on the kid’s neck was too fine to be wielded by hand without cutting up the attacker’s hands.  Doubtful even gloves would have helped much.  That meant some kind of handle at either end.  The kid’s watery, blue eyes looked glassy and doll-like in death.  His pale, blemish-free skin made him out not just as any doll, but a porcelain China-doll.  Ray glanced down at the kid’s shoes; they were tied in the exact same manner that Nick had just finished tying his.  Each loop in the bow perfectly symmetrical.  The knot in the center so taught it was as if it were succumbing to black hole gravity, betraying an ungodly strength neither the kid nor Nick should rightfully possess.  True, wiry framed types could be a lot stronger than they looked.  Also true that lean people used to being in a state of panic and a heightened fight or flight state as their baseline might well train muscles over time to do what they couldn’t do in ordinary people.

Sighing, Ray said, Thanks, kid.  It was damn fine of you to remember.  You and the rest of the gang.  He raised his head and his voice, You can all come out now.  The gig’s up.

Every closed door in the house, starting with the two closet doors in the room, sprang open.  The captain was in the closet closest to him, holding a bottle of champagne.  She poured Ray a glass from the already open, and it was worth pointing out, only half full, bottle.  I thought the gag would last to the girl’s bedroom at least.

Corman came up from behind him, from bedroom closet number two, squeezed his shoulder with her finger-model hand.  Happy birthday, Ray.

There was whistling and clapping from downstairs and a chorus of the Happy Birthday song.  Captain Carmichael said, What gave it away?  And for the record, Nick here masterminded these scenes.  Swore up and down you’d never see through them.

Thanks for that, Carmichael.  There was a growl in Nick’s voice and he looked disappointed.  I did figure the serial killer bait would cause you to get overexcited and forget about everything else, he confessed to Ray.  My staging was impeccable.  I graduated top of my class in stage setting at the FBI academy.  There’s no way it was me.  Someone else must have given the show away. 

No, it was you, all right, Ray said.  Like a bad poker player, you can’t hide your tells.  He pointed to the kid’s shoes.  You’ll notice they’re tied in the exact same manner as your shoes.

Damn it, Nick said running his hand over his head, front to back.

"And the way you just brushed your hair back like that.  That’s how the kid’s hair is brushed back.  The shoes were the second giveaway, not the first."  Though points for choosing a mortuary specializing in natural burials so the formaldehyde didn’t give you away, Ray thought.  Some establishments also released the bodies, per the families’ requests, after the ceremonies for use in crime scene investigations.  The FBI could thank the Body Worlds exhibitions, still doing the national circuit, for helping to sell that idea. 

Nick just shook his head.  If I’m this transparent, God help me if I ever go over to the dark side.

Nonsense, Ray said, reassuringly, tapping him on the shoulder, you’d make a great serial killer.  And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

The captain laughed.

Ah, and what makes you say that? Nick said, sounding defensive.  You think I have unexamined issues?  Because I tell you, I’m an open book.  Ask me anything?  Trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t brought up with my therapist already.

Captain Carmichael and Corman laughed.  Carmichael said, All right, you two, you can settle this marital spat later.  For now it’s downstairs for the cutting of the cake.

When they marched back downstairs, Ray noticed the latest bit of stage setting.  A body lay on the floor, with a forensic crime scene line drawn around it.  It was the cake.  They permitted him the first ceremonial slice, the clapping and whistling still going on.  He sliced above and below the man’s eyes, and took that section of the face for himself. 

Nice touch, Carmichael said, for the man who sees all.  Everyone else bent down with their own knives and plates.  They’d gone with a fair-skinned icing and red cake for the insides.  It did look like a macabre form of cannibalism with all of them rising with their slice of John Doe. 

I see they left the cock and balls for you, Nick, Rake said.

Very funny.  It’s pick on the new guy day, I see. 

Every day, came the chorus of jibes.

Nick helped himself to the dick.  At least he’s well hung, because I’m starved.

Nick got plenty of laughs and some back slaps of his own, probably out of pity for having to be Ray’s sidekick. 

Ray noticed lots of pretty girls fawning over Nick from a safe distance.  If the guy entered a room without groupies in tow, he seldom left that way.  Despite his crack upstairs, God help the kid if he chose to be a serial killer.  There was never a moment when eyes weren’t on him.  He was the best cover Ray could hope for; standing next to Nick, he was virtually invisible.  He felt almost guilty taking advantage of his sidekick in this way. 

Carmichael said to Nick, Living in Ray’s shadow too long, kid, will stunt your growth.  As soon as you feel you’ve picked up enough pointers, you can head some investigations of your own.  I leave it to you to decide.

I think she’s trying to come between us, Ray, Nick said.  Nice try, captain.  So long as Ray here is into pretty boys, we’re attached at the hip.

Oh really? Carmichael said.  Her mock penetrating gaze was heightened by her black, piercing eyes, her beak of a nose, her raven black hair, and otherwise poignant, predatory-bird-like features.

Don’t make a joke in the middle of my joke, it’s rude.  Nick said.  I will be with him until the beauty fades, and then there’s Botox and face peels and soft lights to buy me some more time.

Hero worship never ends well, Corman said.  I was where you are a few years ago.

Yeah, I could see you being pretty once, Nick said. 

Corman did look like a mummified, once-glamorous woman, Ray thought.  Much of her beauty was still held in check by drawn back skin, despite the added wrinkles created from too much politically-incorrect smoking.  The drawn back effect was not on account of being under a plastic surgeon’s knife; it was on account of the diet pills, which had the added perk of giving her an energy lift at work.

"Ha-ha.  Now look at me, Corman said, spend half my days trying to destroy the legend.  Hell, I’d arrest him for jay-walking if I thought it’d get him off the streets long enough for me to rise any higher in the department."

Can you imagine what a hack she is not to find something on me yet? Ray said.  Carmichael, Corman and Nick laughed.  We live in a country where anyone is breaking at least three laws at any one time without even knowing it, and she can’t find a reason to arrest me.  Hopeless, simply hopeless.

Nick leaned into him, these wouldn’t happen to be women you spurned at one time, would they?

Nice catch, Nick, Ray said.  Carmichael figured administration was more her thing after I burst her bubble.  She’s less vengeful because as it turns out she can make twice the money with half the brains.  Carmichael bit her lip.  Corman, on the other hand, just can’t stand the idea that men mean more to me than women.  He winked at her.  She’s convinced that’s proof of some deep-seated character flaw, man-hater that she is.

I never thought you were gay for one minute, Ray, Corman said.  Just a deeply confused misogynist.

Ray laughed, choking on, and then spitting out his cake. 

That hit a little too close to home, huh? Nick said, patting him on the back, allegedly to help him dislodge whatever was still stuck in his throat. 

No, you’re wrong about that, Carmichael said to Corman.  He’s just a narcissist who loves to worship sharper images of himself.  Gay would imply he could love someone besides himself.

You can tell this is my birthday party, Ray said, it’s a complete roast.

The four of them laughed.  He leaned into Nick with a mock whisper, First clue about surviving the department, kid.  Confess to everything.  They can tolerate a debauched human being, what they can’t tolerate is someone who’s in denial about it.  Because you know that’s the one who’s got more bodies buried in his backyard than anyone can count.

True that, Carmichael said, holding up her latest glass of champagne in a toast.  The four tinkled their glasses and took another sip. 

Oh, yeah, secret number two, Ray said, in another mock whisper to Nick, "Carmichael is a raging alcoholic.  You can commit murder and get away with it, just so you remember to threaten her about telling all every time she puts in a bid for governor."

This is your birthday, Ray, Carmichael said.  "When it’s mine, you can call me on my shit, okay?  Now, where were we?"

Cataloguing my sins, Ray said.  We’d just gotten to the ones that called for a ‘Hail Mary.’  We hadn’t even gotten to the ones yet that called for an ‘Our Father’.

The foursome laughed. 

Ah, Carmichael said, the things we tolerate in ourselves and in one another, all in the name of genius and the pursuit of perfection.

Hear, hear, Corman said as the four of them touched their champagne glasses in another toast.

Ray’s smile was double-edged as he pondered Carmichael’s words, before he shook off the unsettled feeling in the spirit of the occasion.

THREE

Hi, I’m Ray, and I’m a serial killer.

Hi, Ray! came the familiar chorus from his Serial Killers Anonymous support group.  In attendance today was Neal—he had a thing for replicating the stigmata of Christ on his victims; Roman—Roman was into S&M—he had a way of turning Hurt me, Daddy, into something even sicker than how it sounded; Sandra, basically your typical black widow—she was on her sixth husband; Movinus, who did all his victims up as fine Michelangelo sculptures; if Ray had a thing for faces, this guy wanted everything perfect, from head to toe.  There were a couple odd members out, currently not in attendance.  But that was to be expected.  They might have current ongoing projects keeping them busy.

Happy birthday, by the way, Neal said, waving his hand with the self-inflicted stigmata at him.  At least Ray presumed it was self-inflicted; he couldn’t imagine the almighty gracing Neal with the real thing.  Though that was a sensitive topic Ray knew better than to pursue.  With his gaunt, emaciated look, and long scraggly hair, Neal looked halfway between a drug addict and—not the least ironically—Christ on the Cross.  He smelled of mold, canola oil—perhaps used as a skin moisturizer—and old sneakers; it was the scent of someone who lived on the streets or perhaps at the YMCA.  His remark trigged a chorus of Yes, happy birthday!

To what do we owe the honor of your attendance today, Ray? Roman said.  Black, six-foot-four, well-chiseled, his name seemed to take after the Roman gladiator he could so easily stand in for.  He was wearing mostly leather scented with the coconut oil used to treat it. 

Ray shook his head slowly.  Just a gut feeling.  Nothing concrete.  My new partner...

The one with a face you’ve been dying to put in a casserole dish? Movinus said.  The artist in their group, Movinus was quite fond of masking his plumpish figure with period costuming so ornate and eye-catching, his figure seemed justified.  It would be a sin to give such finery less surface area to hang on.  His outfits ran the gamut from the Rococo and Baroque periods to Renaissance fashions.  His curly hair and close-cropped beard gave his face the regal bearing of a Tudor king.  All the more appropriate, as he was dressed as one today.  He smelled of musk and rose-water.

Yes, and if I can control myself you had better, too.  He’s just your type, you know, perfect from top to bottom.

If the pressure gets too much for you, Ray, Movinus said.

Thank you, Movinus.  I’ll keep you in mind.  Now can I finish my story, or do you need a moment to cum your panties.

Movinus recoiled.  There’s no need for such crude language, Ray.  He wasn’t much on garishness.  Ray figured that would shut him up.

You think Nick’s one of us? Roman said, reading Ray.  Roman was the brightest of the bunch.

Ray shrugged.  Today, for my birthday party, they did a triple homicide.

"God, where do we find friends like these?"  Sandra, with her waxy skin and a face suffering from one too many facelifts, was not helping herself with the near chain-smoking.  Her collagen-endowed lips and high cheekbones, both features overdone in the extreme, set her look apart from Corman’s chain-smoker look.  Corman, at least, had managed to hold on to some of her elegance in her self-mummification process, whereas Sandra had allowed herself to turn into a Hollywood Wax Museum exhibit from a Vincent Price movie.  She smelled of tobacco and burned Teflon.  Roman gestured for her to be quiet.

The same way we met each other, Neal interjected.  By noticing the signs and then sticking our noses into one another’s business, in the way of a fine gourmand, mind you, as opposed to in a way that suggests ‘add me to the menu’.

Enough, both of you, Roman said, switching to a more commanding tone.  By shifting his attention back to Ray, he communicated that Ray once again had the room.

For the festivities, Nick staged the three murders, all by himself.  He would have gotten away with it too, only, he couldn’t help broadcasting clues to me.

You think he was afraid you might figure it out, Roman surmised out loud, and if you did, he just wanted to feel that it was because he cued you, not because you’re smarter than him?

That’s exactly what I think.

Sandra rolled her fingers over her cigarette like so much penis envy.  What’s he like?

Impeccable grooming, from the expensive manicures and haircuts to the tailored suits, none of it affordable on what detectives make...

There’s a clue for you, Sandra said.  Put a check in the plus column for ‘kills well’.

You’re a little biased on the subject, Sandra.  He wants an objective opinion.  As Roman shifted his weight in his seat, his S&M leather getup was doing nothing to deter from his gladiator image in Ray’s mind; maybe that was the point. 

Are there thoughts you have about him that you keep dismissing? Neal asked Ray.  Signs you’ve determined are only in your head.

The way he seeks approval from me, and looks so whipped every time he thinks he’s let me down.  Ray tugged on his tie and loosened his collar.  Combine that with his perfectionism, and I’d say he had a parent or parents for whom things were never good enough, so he feels he has to keep proving himself, and at the same time, keep failing.

So he picks you to mentor him.  Sandra outed her cigarette and started another one.  Makes sense.  You’re what he hopes to be but can never be.  Maybe with a little more approval from you he might be able to resolve the childhood trauma.

Only, I think he’s auditioning for both parts, to be the best detective he can be, and the best serial killer he can be, Ray said.

He really is a chip off the old block.  Sandra smiled and exhaled.  The smoke streamed out of her lungs as if she were a fire-breathing dragon. 

If you can imagine the titanic love-hate relationship going on inside his head that compels him to play both parts... Ray said, trying to keep the hint of irony from underscoring his words too much.

Assuming you’re right.  Sandra crossed her legs, her posture and her face grew more severe.

Constantly under a microscope, Ray said, from a father or mother who dissected his every move, made him feel the smallest of decisions were ones he couldn’t make on his own.

You think he couldn’t help but be drawn to the FBI and to working beside you where he’d be under similar scrutiny and had to hide not just in plain sight, but under a spotlight.  Movinus primped himself as he talked, pulling at his white stockings and the gold bands just below the knees, and fluffing the pleats in his sleeve.  My own victims do so love the spotlight.

It’s all conjecture, of course, but it would explain a lot, Ray said.  And it’s the only theory I can come up with that fits all the evidence.  He wasn’t forgetting about the happy, well-adjusted childhood he’d accused Nick of having earlier.  But all it would take to ruin that would be to be kidnapped and tortured for months on end, or being shipped off to a foster family following something untoward happening to the birth parents.  Experiencing the best heaven and hell had to offer could also invite the love-hate relationship Nick had with himself.  And keeping all these insights into him from FBI probes was easier than it used to be; in a digital age, all it took was a little keyboard finessing.

Short of him simply being an overachiever, Sandra said, playing devil’s advocate with an alternative theory regarding how Nick came to have such a love-hate relationship with himself.  "That’s my area of expertise.  All the men I’ve ever married and later killed fit a similar profile, eager to rise to the top, willing to do whatever it takes to get there." 

That’s another thing.  Ray took a second to crack the knuckles in each hand twice.  Unless I miss my guess, the only way for him to truly heal, he thinks, anyway, is to kill me and replace me as top dog.  That way he can become the father, the one who breathes down the apprentice’s neck.  It’s the only way to fully get inside the head of the man that tormented him his whole life.  Yeah, it had to be a father figure, otherwise, why pick me?  There are plenty of female FBI profilers who could have fit the bill, even in my, to-this-day, male-dominated field.

You haven’t checked out his past?  Roman shifted his weight, as if straining against his leather straps.  Only way to know for sure.

It’d just be another boundary violation.  If I’m right, then I’d be no different than his father at that point.

Let me get this straight.  Neal drove his thumb into one of his stigmata, as if to stimulate his thinking.  You’re a psychopathic killer who thinks another psychopathic killer is planning to murder you, and you care about boundary violations?  Neal tacked on a little chuckle at the end of the proclamation.

Ray shrugged.  It’s the classy thing to do.  What kind of mentor would I be if I couldn’t hold him to a higher standard?

So what are you going to do?  Movinus pulled at his lace cuffs.  Ray could tell from his tone he was salivating again at the thought that Ray was not going to be able to handle the pressure of keeping Nick in check much longer.

I guess I’ll have to tutor him in how to be a better profiler and a better serial killer at the same time, at least until he can heal this fissure in his psyche.  If he can heal, and the killing stops, who knows, my work might constitute a form of social service.  If I can make him over into a better version of me, without any of the downsides, I can recuse myself from the head profiler position, kill two birds with one stone.

"Providing you can heal."  Neal snorted dismissively. 

I wouldn’t keep coming to group if I didn’t think it was right to want to get caught.  I just don’t want to get caught before I can leave a more lasting legacy than the one I’ve left already, a more life affirming one.

Neal laughed, absently fingering the stigmata in the hand he’d left unattended until now.  "Aren’t we special?  What other psychopaths do you know that are this introspective?  I mean, I know we are much less inhibited than typical folks.  But we have anger issues, and people tend to have trouble being objective about their own deep seated rage.  I know I do."

Sandra smiled snidely, exhaled on her cigarette.  Ray is a little further along in his healing than the rest of us, dear.  That’s why he can talk about doing things for their intrinsic goodness as opposed to doing them for secondary gain.  Who knows?  He might actually be able to quit the habit one day.  She bore her eyes into Ray like a carpenter bee, determined to dig out the lies from the truth in his words.  She clearly wasn’t entirely sold, hence the hint of sarcasm in her tone. 

Sensing the conversation degrading into snickering, Roman reasserted his control over the room.  You good for now, Ray?

Yeah, yeah, let someone else take the floor for a while, Ray said.

This last one I had was a real screamer.  Neal unfurled from his slouched position in the chair like a pill bug.  I mean ear-piercing.  You’d think it would diminish in pitch at the very least after a couple hours.  I made an appointment with the ear doctor.  I think I might have permanent hearing loss.

Yeah, the way to go with that, Neal, is the military grade in-ear plugs they use for combat situations, Ray suggested. 

He’s right.  Roman tented his eyebrows.  Seriously?  You never had a screamer before?

I usually like the screaming, Neal confessed.  It clears my mind so I can better hear the voice of God.  I guess I just have to screen for sopranos going forward.

So what did God tell you this time? Ray said, winking at Roman and the others. 

That longer ships are coming.

Actually, Neal, those are the lyrics to a Cat Stevens song, Ray explained.  The others masked their chuckling as best they could.

You know those submarines they call ‘Boomers’ that send the nukes out?  Neal had abandoned fidgeting with his stigmata to pull his hair out, one strand at a time, coiling and rolling the strands in his hand, and slowly applying more downward pressure.  Well, these are just like those, only they send out bioweapons, viruses actually, exploding high into the atmosphere.

If they did that, Neal, they’d wipe everyone out, Movinus said.  I know because I looked into a virus delivery system once, only I wanted just the pretty people to survive it.

Ray laughed.  Sorry, Movinus.  It’s brilliant, actually.

I was going to follow it up with a longevity virus, Movinus said, pulling lint off himself.

That’s right.  I forgot you were head of bioweapons research at the CDC for some time, Ray said.

I gave myself a promotion.  Now I consult for the national equivalents of the CDC worldwide.

Nice.  You can bet I’ll sleep better, Ray said.

The others laughed.

Mock me all you want.  Designer viruses that are that targeted are within our reach today, Movinus explained.

Let me guess, Ray said, you’ve held off because where’s a serial killer to go if there’s no one else to kill?

Oh, there’ll be plenty of people left to kill.  That’s why I want to do it.  Movinus explained, I’ll start by killing the ugly and the plain.  Then I can refine the virus to target the merely good looking, and then the demi-god-like beauties.  Then only the god-like beauties will be left...  And then I can keep winnowing until I have the closest facsimile to the face of God.

Wow, I didn’t see the connection between you and Neal until now, Ray said.

Nor did I, Roman confessed.

It’s not the same thing at all, Neal insisted.  Besides, I thought I had the floor.

Sorry, Neal.  I was just trying to be supportive.  Didn’t mean to digress.  Movinus hung his head low.

Who does God say they’re coming to kill? Ray said, targeting his question at Neal.

It’s a two stage deployment.  First they infect everyone with a virus that makes them smarter to a minimum IQ of 150.  But it doesn’t seem to work on everybody.  The ones it doesn’t work on, they send the second virus to wipe out.  This way the collapsed global economy can rocket back to new heights without anyone to keep dragging it back down.  And as to Movinus’s question, it’s meant to spread worldwide.  In fact the Chinese developed it, and originally they were just going to use it on their own people.  But then the premier realized that infecting everybody was more of a win win, as they just didn’t have the cultural or the genetic diversity to produce all the super-thinkers in all the different fields they wanted.

God, that’s too real.  Ray grabbed Sandra’s cigarette from her and took a calming puff.

Sandra lit a fresh cigarette without missing a beat.  "Don’t encourage him.  The conspiracy side of the brain is