Inside Out

By Ricky D. Douglas

They thought they'd conquered him, thought they'd put him out of commission, thought they were rid of him forever. Him, the most diabolical criminal mind the world has ever known. Him, the serial killer who made all those before him look like choirboys. Well, they were wrong. All of them. Far from being done, he'd discovered a challenge nearly as exciting as was his hobby withering the souls of men.

Randolph Dorfman couldn't remember a time when he hadn't wanted to be a FBI Agent. Not a badge toting, gun wielding street agent either. He could have signed up for any number of law enforcement possibilities for that. No, he wanted a position which allowed him to study the thoughts and actions of the criminal mind putting him in a position to out think and out maneuver future actions. Never had he considered that such a position would land him in a deadly game of cat and mouse, pitting him thought for thought with possibly thy most diabolical serial killer the world has ever known. But it had, with serious consequences to his marriage, his freedom, his friends, and his very life. If he is to survive, theirs is a contest he can't afford to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662458729

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Inside Out

Ricky D. Douglas

Copyright © 2022 Ricky D. Douglas

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-5871-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5872-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

The Season

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Epilogue

If it is possible for the mind to imagine, then it is also possible for it to someday become reality.

—Ricky D. Douglas

Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.

—Luke 23:34, King James Bible

Other Books by Ricky D. Douglas

Checkered Past

Fleeing Mississippi

Room Without a View

Far from Perfect

Prologue

The raging thoughts that were his dreams would not let him sleep. Images from the past flickered in and out of his mind's eye. Teasing memories of the sweet sound of agonized screams of horror and pain sent thrilling shivers washing over him.

They thought they'd conquered him, thought they'd put him out of commission, thought they were rid of him forever. The police, even they were his pawns. Him, the most diabolical criminal mind the world has ever known. Him, the serial killer who made all those before him look like choirboys.

Well, they were wrong. All of them. Far from being done, he was only just beginning. He was the Mole. The unseen interloper. Like the termite that is never suspected until the house comes crumbling down, he, too, worked from the inside out.

The termination of his victim from this world was always at a time of his choosing, leaving a torrid devastation and fear in his wake, before disappearing without a trace. Yes, indeed, before he was done, the entire world would know his name.

1

Randolph Dorfman stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the Mickey Leland Federal Building in Houston, Texas. He followed the carpeted corridor until he came to a marble-floored meeting room. There, fourteen of the most critical thinkers ever assembled in one place sat huddled around a giant conference table. Each was a specialist in his or her chosen field. And each stared chalk-faced at the gruesome photos that had been handed out upon their arrival.

So intense was their scrutiny on their work that only one person even noticed his arrival. The big hairy man sitting at the head of the table cleared his throat and stood.

I can see everyone has viewed their crime scene photo packs, the man said with the air of someone used to being in charge.

In unison, the group seemed to stir with discomfort.

Is there any reason we each got our own take-home version? A curly-headed, pinched-nosed girl with freckles held up her package.

So they'd be close at hand in the event any of us forget why this special task force was formed or why it's critical that we get this monster off the street as soon as humanly possible. But I'll leave the final answer to the man responsible for having the packets delivered. He pointed to where Dorfman stood near the door.

Every head in the room swiveled around to find the unannounced visitor. The pinched-nose woman smiled. A few of the others nodded. They all knew he was the FBI guy if for no other reason than the fact that he was the only member of the team who hadn't been at the initial meeting of the task force.

Dorfman harbored no illusions that his manner of dress pegged him as a Fed. Such a profile was true only in novels and movies. He knew, however, that buck naked and bald, he would still look like a federal agent. It was the attitude, not the look. It was the confidence that came with being a physical part of the most elite law enforcement agency in the world. The only way an FBI man didn't look like an FBI man was if he chose not to.

Dorfman returned the pinched-nosed woman's stare. Huge brown eyes glistened behind giant wide-rimmed glasses, making her look more like a schoolteacher than one of the top forensic specialists in the country. But having known her for years, Dorfman knew that aside from possessing an IQ just north of genius, she had analytic capabilities that would marvel all but the most sophisticated computer. Marcia Strange was her name. Randy smiled at the picture that came to mind every time he thought of it.

The man at the head of the table motioned for Dorfman to take the floor. The file listed him as the special prosecutor and headman of this task force, Halibut Beckman.

Dorfman winced at the thought of the man's Christian name. Who would name their child after a fish? A flat, ugly fish at that. Randolph Dorfman was bad enough, but Halibut? Jeez…

My name is Special Agent Randolph Dorfman. He stepped to the open end of the giant table.

There are numbers in the upper right-hand corners of each photograph. They are for identification purposes only and in no way meant to indicate sequence of events.

Avoiding looking at as many of the pictures as possible, each member of the group fanned through the pack looking at the numbers.

As most of you know, I'm here to offer a profile of the perpetrator, to offer some insight on the type of individual I think we're dealing with.

Don't tell me—a short, squat man a few seats down from Marcia raised his hand—he's crazy. Right?

Dorfman's mental notebook told him this would be Carl Hinesman, detective first grade. A shock of red hair and a soft chin made him appear considerably younger than his fifty years.

Aren't we all? Marcia asked in all seriousness. Just a little?

Cut it out, guys, Halibut admonished his colleagues.

In photos 1 through 5, you can see signs of the systematic torture of the victim, Dorfman went on. Her knees were flattened with a sledgehammer. The octagonal imprint of the anvil can be plainly seen in the bruised flesh. Her toes were apparently smashed one at a time. Her ankles were crushed from the outside against a log or a piece of wood cut for the purpose.

Dorfman had not kept a set of photos for himself. Nor did he need to look at the sets spread on either side of him. As with every case he profiled, every horrible image was imprinted on his mind as if his brain was film itself. Forgetting was not a luxury he was blessed with.

We're pretty sure she was alive to this point. We're also pretty sure that this is when the rape occurred.

Why the beating before the rape? the only other woman in the group wanted to know.

The label on her file said she was Barbara Stern, microbiologist. Her shiny black hair and a skin tone closer to red than brown were testaments to her Native American heritage.

I suspect it was the killer's overwhelming desire to be wanted. It's quite likely that he used pain to force her to beg for sex. He was probably unable to perform in this capacity until she was pleading for him to screw her. Dorfman waited a beat to let this sink in.

In photos 6 through 10, his systematic control is gone. Rage has taken over. A lot of this rage is centered around sex. As is indicated by the extensive mutilation of the genitalia and breast.

But why the change? one of the other men asked. Wasn't sex what he wanted?

Dorfman did not know which of the remaining files belonged to this man. Yes, at first. But later after he was done, he'd be angry that she gave into him, begged him for it. Him, a perfect stranger. And if she pretended that she liked what he was doing to her because that's what she thought he wanted, it would only have served to intensify his rage—

Hey, wait a minute, Carl interrupted. These are before and after pictures. How is it possible to have before photos? Who took them?

The killer took them himself, Dorfman explained.

Jesus Christ, Monica moaned.

Out in the hallway after the meeting, Dorfman knew the identity of the person behind the fast-moving footsteps even before she called out to him.

Randy! Slow down, dammit, Marcia Strange huffed. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to make a hasty retreat just to avoid me.

Would I do such a thing? Dorfman faked a wounded look.

Marcia puckered her kissable lips. Wanna make it up to me?

That depends, Dorfman mused. What's it going to cost?

Got time for a flop in the hay before you fly out?

Nope. Dorfman resumed his walking. And that's roll in the hay.

Roll. Flop. Whatever. Just as long as it's me and you doing the horizontal tango.

Well, the answer is still no. I'm on my way to the airport right now, as a matter of fact.

That's not fair. Even though he walked slower than he had been, Marcia still had to hustle to keep up. Why did you have me brought to this forsaken place if it wasn't to make an honest woman out of me?

An honest woman? Dorfman looked down on her and smiled. He imagined it would be easier to make a virgin out of a prostitute than to make an honest woman out of Marcia, but he'd never say so.

I've been lusting over you for years, Randolph Dorfman, and you know it. Lust is a sin, you know. But you could put an end to it with one roll in the hay. Wadda you say?

Not this time, Marcia.

Why not? Marcia propped tiny fists on ample hips. Give me one good reason two beautiful people shouldn't make beautiful music together.

You've got work to do here. Dorfman held up a finger to count the reasons. Then he held up a second finger. And I've got to get back.

Those are lousy reasons, and you know it. What I need from you can be taken care of in half an hour.

Then there's the matter of my being a happily married man. Dorfman held up a third finger.

I'm not asking you to marry me, Randy. Just fuck me is all. Is that too much to ask?

Well… Dorfman pretended to think about it.

Just one good screw, Randy. This time it was Marcia who held up a finger. Just one.

And therein lies the problem. Dorfman bent forward and kissed her on the top of the head. I don't think I'd be satisfied with just once.

The look of exasperation on Marcia's face was downright comical, but Dorfman dared not laugh because he knew the woman was dead serious.

Not this time, love. Dorfman smiled kindly. He liked Marcia and was always gentle in his rebuff. This time I only need your brain.

Of all the men to want me for my brain, Randy Dorfman, why does it have to be you?

Dorfman stepped around her and moved full stride toward the revolving door. He blew her a kiss as he disappeared in a whirl of glass and steel.

*****

Secure in the knowledge her expert testimony would result in a not-guilty verdict for an innocent man, Susan Dorfman left the courtroom. She was in a good mood, and the anticipation of exchanging the stale recycled air of the justice building for the fresher, although much warmer, air of the great outdoors hastened her steps. Slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses, she pushed through the door and into the brilliant Atlanta sunshine. The fragrant aroma of blooming magnolias was noticeable even through the smog and smut of the city.

Perched atop the steps of the great hall, she took a moment to bask in the scorching sun. Her delicate skin was so easily roasted that she was a sun worshipper more out of necessity than desire. Even a winter sun so cooked her skin that she was forced to use a tanning bed lest she looked like a zebra.

A check of her watch suggested she get a move on if she intended to catch the last flight that would get her home in time for dinner.

Dr. Dorfman! Dr. Dorfman! A moment of your time, please.

Susan did not have to look back to know she'd procrastinated a moment too long. Moaning inwardly, she stretched her lips into what she hoped would pass for a smile then turned to face the press.

Dr. Dorfman! Do you still think the defendant deserves to be acquitted? An overeager, flushed-faced woman was first to get her question out. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her top lip, and Susan wondered not for the first time how some people managed such things. When she sweat, it never remained in one place but ran unchecked down her body to collect in places where a damp stain could be darned embarrassing.

What about the mountain of expert testimony against your client? How can you so blithely dismiss the government's—

Before they could get out of control, Susan held up a hand to forestall the barrage of questions she knew would come. I am not an attorney. Mr. Pugh is not my client. I have no stake in the outcome of this trial. She spoke clearly into the nearest microphone.

I am but a mere expert witness for the defense.

A paid witness, challenged a man Susan decided must work for one of the print media, as he wrote notes on a pad in his hands.

A witness nonetheless, Susan issued a challenge of her own. And for another thing, it's not up to me to decide the guilt or innocence of anyone. That's what a jury is for.

Surely you don't believe that everyone you've ever testified for was innocent! a voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd.

My only concern is that I have faith in what I'm testifying to, Susan said pointedly. "If I am asked if a person I've profiled stole some money, I would not know. If I were asked if an individual killed his wife in a fit of rage, I wouldn't know. And the reason is that any so-called sane person could fall prey to a fit of emotions which could result in either of these events.

However, if the question is—she held up a finger for emphasis—if a man possesses the mental profile of a person who could kill his wife, grind her up like sausage, and feed her to the dogs, I can answer yay or nay with a fair degree of certainty.

That's a heck of a claim to make, Doctor, someone commented from behind a microphone nearly as big around as a cantaloupe.

That's why they call me expert. Now if you'll excuse me. She attempted to step around the man, only to have him block her way.

But, Doctor…

A question was asked, but Susan was so pissed off that she failed to hear it.

The question you need to be asking yourself, Sir, Susan hissed through clenched teeth, "is whether this prominent doctor would knee you in the balls and scratch your eyes out in front of all these cameras and microphones simply because you would not let her pass.

Eyeing the man levelly, she shouldered her handbag, freeing both hands. And I assure you, sir, the answer to both questions is, yes, I would.

After only a moment's reflection, the man stepped aside, letting her by. Susan descended the stairs to a flurry of questions flying after her. Her good mood was gone.

*****

The metallic blue El Camino roared into the driveway of 410 Pirate's Cove, its twin glass packs growling its end of the journey protest. Susan missed the comforting vibration of the rumbling exhaust the moment she turned off the engine.

The auto/truck was her most prized possession, her toy, the single holdover from her tomboyish truth.

Sadly, she'd been ignoring her toy of late. It hadn't been washed or waxed in nearly a month. The seats and tires needed a good coat of Armor All. She would do some serious detailing this weekend, but for now all she wanted was a good hot soak in the Jacuzzi.

The sight of the two large bags of groceries sitting on the seat next to her were a reminder that this, too, would have to wait. First, among other domestic duties she'd neglected of late, there was dinner to prepare. She cursed herself for not following her first mind and going ready-to-eat for tonight's meal.

Cringing at the thought of having to cram her aching feet back into her four-inch heels just for the trip into the house, she decided to brave the trip in her stocking feet. It would mean the end of a good pair of hose, but there were more where they'd come from. On the other hand, she only had one pair of feet.

Her next problem was that there were two bags and only one of her. And making two trips was as daunting a prospect as putting on her heels. If that cretin of a stock boy had divided the cans evenly between bags, if he'd paid more attention to what he was doing than at sneaking peeks at her cleavage… Sighing wearily, she dragged herself out of the car. She'd been nearly twenty before she had breasts to look at, and back then she'd bitched because no one had looked. It was ludicrous that she'd fuss now, even if the looker was only a pimply-faced teenage boy.

Laughing at her own naivete, she grappled the bags into a bear hug. A pain shot down her legs when she bumped the car door closed with her hip, reminding her that men ogled her breasts because she had no ass to speak of.

If not for the concrete steps leading up to the Victorian porch, she might have made it to the door with her load.

While jostling the bags up the uneven terrain, the one most top-heavy split along one side, sending cans rolling down the sidewalk and into the street.

Attempting to stem the flow of the first bag caused the second to rip, dumping fresh vegetables, liquid detergent, frozen orange juice, and the overpriced sirloin she'd planned to cook for dinner onto the steps. It was all she could do to hang onto the dozen eggs and gallon bottle of wine.

Shit. Thoroughly frustrated and clutching what was left of the remaining bag, she let herself into the house. In the kitchen, she peeled off her pantyhose and tossed them into the trash can. The sight of the sink full of breakfast dishes she hadn't had time to wash the day before her trip made her want to cry.

Taking a rigid grip on her emotions, she retrieved a plastic garbage bag from beneath the sink. If she wasn't so dead set on requesting recycled paper over plastic to bag her purchases in the name of a healthy environment, her damned groceries wouldn't be scattered all over the neighborhood.

The sight of movement in the crack of the slightly ajar door gave her a moment's pause. A second peek revealed nothing, so she opened the door. Out on the front walk, just below the level of the porch, the movement she'd seen manifested itself into the form of the shaggy mongrel from down the street.

Susan's shout startled the mutt into running off, but he was not so startled that he was willing to flee without the package of sirloin that was now his dinner.

The amused look on her husband's face as he pulled into the driveway did nothing to improve her mood. Tears welled up in her big brown eyes.

You wouldn't be wearing that silly grin if you knew that mutt just ran off with what was supposed to be your dinner.

Actually, I wasn't grinning at the dog. Randy sat on the steps at his wife's feet. I was smiling at the helpless look on your face. He kissed her lightly on an exposed kneecap.

Oh, yeah. Susan flopped down next to him. Ha, ha, funny, funny.

You look like Little Orphan Annie lost in the cornfield. It was funny. Dorfman collected his wife's feet into his lap and began massaging them.

Susan swooned at the sensation. I didn't hear you drive up, she moaned.

I know. He kissed the top of her head. You were too busy feeding our dinner to the neighbor's dog.

Not funny, she emphasized her displeasure with a jab of her elbow to his ribs.

For the next few moments, they were content just to sit and cuddle while he made love to her feet. There's no telling how long the scene would have lasted if a passing minivan hadn't run over one of the cans that had made its way to the middle of the street.

Well, there goes dessert, Susan sighed sadly. Those peaches were destined for a pie.

A couple of stray cats pounced on the treat. Dorfman got to his feet. I guess I should get the stuff out of the street before it causes an accident.

You're worrying about a can wrecking a car?

Not necessarily, but if our groceries draw any more critters into the street, we may soon have a fresh replacement for our missing steak.

Hum. I see what you mean.

Don't go away. He patted her on the head. When I come back, I'll work some more on those aching feet.

I have to get dinner, Susan protested. As much as she treasured the thought of sitting around getting spoiled, dinner wasn't going to cook itself.

You let me worry about dinner. Collecting the five or so cans from the street, he stacked them on the steps at their feet. Plucking a ring of keys from his pocket, he sought out a tiny penknife and began expertly wedging an opening in one of the cans. Once opened, he handed the can to his wife.

Dinner is served, he laughed.

Ah, baked beans à la natural. My favorite. Susan accepted the offering.

Dorfman busied himself opening his own can.

There's only one problem. Susan eyed her benefactor.

Cold? Dorfman wondered aloud.

No. Susan shook her head. No spoon.

Not a problem. Bending one of the can lids in half, he gouged out a mouthful of beans and fed them to her.

Susan chewed hungrily. What did you get? She eyed her husband's can greedily.

Dorfman dug into his own can. Lasagna.

Opening her mouth in request of some of the lasagna, Susan fed her man some of the beans. This way, we both get a balanced meal.

What a good idea. Popping the top on a can of cream soda, he gulped down a swallow and handed it over. Beverage with your meal, madame?

Susan accepted the drink. After sucking down a healthy swig, she handed it back.

A nice bottle of wine would have gone well with dinner. Dorfman took another sip.

Wine wouldn't have set off the beans as good as this. Besides, there's wine in the kitchen.

Dorfman nodded his agreement. You're probably right. He sucked down a gulp and held up the can. A very good year for cream soda.

You're a pretty handy guy to have around.

Thank you.

Got any more tricks up your sleeve?

Not up my sleeve necessarily, but I could show you a lot of hidden talent if you'd care to get naked with me.

Susan wrinkled her nose. I need a bath first.

Hmmm. It just so happens that back washing is one of my many talents.

2

The early morning sun crept across the bedroom and onto the foot of the bed. It was the perfect setting in which to awaken, as far as Susan was concerned.

With a drowsy hand, she gave the pillow opposite where she lay a cursory inspection. As suspected, the space was empty. Randy was an early riser. The only thing that could keep him in bed past sunrise was the promise of sex.

She, on the other hand, was not a morning person. Rising before eight was a punishment no one should have to endure. And she preferred her sex at night. The best sleep in the world was the semicomatose state induced by a good old-fashioned orgasm.

Stretching languidly, she forced herself to look at the bedside clock. It was seven fifty. Ten minutes before she'd have to drag herself from the comforting embrace offered by the tangle of covers that always wound up on her side of the bed.

Burrowing deeper into her nest, she savored the lingering pungent smells of their night's lovemaking. Inhaling deeply of the feral aroma, she purred like a well-satisfied kitten.

As professionals, their individual careers conspired against the unabashedly wild sex they'd shared in their youth, coupled with the tapering off of appetites that come with twelve years of marriage, and their sexual escapades were not as frequent as in years past. But it was always good. In fact, it was fantastic.

The alarm's irritating signal came much too soon for her liking, but she forced herself to obey its command. The alluring aroma of freshly brewing coffee and oven-warmed croissants assailed her nostrils the moment her head popped above the covers. The promise of breakfast, and the call of nature, hastened her steps into the bathroom.

Showered, dressed, and still damp around the