Page 36 of The Grave Between Us
Cole took his time walking back to the conference table, waiting McHugh out as he fumed, glaring at the wall map and the whiteboard with their lists of potential victims. “You’ve never worked a serial murder investigation before, have you? With a true psychopathic offender?”
“You’re not the expert you’ve made Ingram think you are, either.”
“No, I’m not. He’s my third psychopath, and the first one I’ve taken the lead on,” Cole admitted. “I’m not sure why Michael sent me down here as lead, to tell you the truth. Some days, I wish he hadn’t. Ian is like black oil. He slithers into you, coats your skin and your insides. It’s like trying to breathe underwater, and the more you struggle for air, the more you end up sucking down what’s killing you. I don’t like what I’m doing here, but as long as he’s willing to talk, I’ll keep working him any way I have to.”
“Could have fooled me,” McHugh grumbled.
“I know how to work him,” Cole said. “That’s all.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know how to work you, too?” McHugh stormed across the conference room, pulling a thick manila envelope off the desk they used as a command center, where the agent on duty usually worked. Most of the time, that was McHugh. He brought the envelope back and tossed it on the conference table. It slid down the polished hardwood, stopping in front of Cole. “Look what the prison sent over today. All taken from his cell.”
He flipped open the envelope and pulled out dozens of pages filled with crayon drawings, every one of them of Cole. Cole staring across the interview table at Ian, Cole walking into the interrogation room or walking out. Cole standing, in his suit, his body as detailed as his face had been in the first drawing. Studies of Cole’s face, in portrait and in profile. Cole’s hands, holding his pencil, taking notes, pointing out features on the aerial map of the lake where Shane DeGrassi had lost his life. Cole’s eyes, isolated, like they were looking at Ian. Cole’s lips, fuller than they ever were in real life.
“He’s obsessed with you,” McHugh said. “Completely obsessed.”
Cole stacked the pictures, straightening their edges, and tucked them back into the envelope. Ian would probably want them back.
He told Michael about the drawings, and McHugh’s temper flare, that night as he drove to his hotel. Michael said he would talk to Hillary about giving McHugh some more time off, and then went quiet.
“Nothing to say about the drawings?”
“Dealing with psychopaths is never pretty, Cole. It’s never easy, either. Ingram is certainly fixated on you, but we knew that after your first go at him. You took a shit on all the psychological research on narcissists, but you somehow managed to figure out what Ingram needed: a challenge.”
“An attractive challenge. Did you know, when you sent me down here, that I was Ingram’s type?”
Michael said nothing.
“Is that why you picked me, instead of a more experienced profiler? Because I could be bait?”
“We need more from Ingram,” Michael said. “We need more information to identify his victims. We’ve narrowed the possibilities from thousands to hundreds, but that’s still not enough.”
“I’ve been able to get three approaches out of him: blitz attack, manipulative approach, and lying in wait with stalking elements. That might help narrow down our victim hunt—” He broke off. Swallowed. “Victimsearchmore.”
“It’s good, but it’s not enough. I want you to work on his desire to please you. Impress upon him how much it would mean to you to be told where more bodies are. Or how he committed additional kills.”
More trips to the black waters of Ian’s ocean, where only a dark moon shone. Out into the wilderness with Ian’s psychopathy. “I understand,” he said.
“When you have a likely ID for his backwoods camping victim, let me know. We’ll send a search team out and see what we can find. And then you can go at Ingram with his identity.”
“Will do.”
It took four days, but finally, he and McHugh thought they’d found Ian’s victim: Paul Mason, from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. He’d been missing for ten years. He was a young graduate student spending time camping in the woods over the summer break. His campsite had been found in late fall, months after he’d gone missing, by Forest Service personnel. They hadn’t noticed any disturbed ground nearby, but the leaf cover was already extensive. His car had been located two weeks after his disappearance, abandoned with three flat tires at a different state park.
His driver’s license photo showed a smiling, tan-skinned young man with fluffy dark hair, blue eyes, and a warm, open face. Someone who would wave hello to a stranger in the back country and not be immediately suspicious.
Agents from the Little Rock office descended on the Ozarks, on the coordinates where Mason’s campsite had been located a decade before. Forest Service rangers and biologists joined the search, along with cadaver dogs and search and recovery teams, but they never found any indication of a grave or human remains.
It was enough to make Cole question whether they had the right man. He hesitated to bring Paul Mason to Ian, in case they were wrong. He’d impressed Ian with Shane DeGrassi. He was still riding that respect, that admiration. How sideways would their relationship go if Cole screwed up?
He rolled the dice on a Tuesday morning. He took Paul Mason’s photo, the pictures of his camp and his car, and the drawings taken from Ian’s cell, and brought them all into the interrogation room.
“Morning, Ian,” he said, smiling. Ian smiled back, pearly whites gleaming. “I have a few things for you.”
“I love gifts.” Ian folded his hands on top of the table, waiting as Cole sat down and arranged his legal pad and his pencil and his coffee. Ian’s hands were chained to the steel loop again, giving him freedom to reach and hold. Cole had asked for him to be able to review documents and photos. Ian would want to look closely at the crime scene, if Paul Mason was his. Cole wanted to watch where he looked.
“First, these belong to you.” Cole passed him the manila envelope filled with his drawings. “I thought you’d want them back.”
Ian flipped through each sheet, eyeing his work and then eyeing Cole as if inspecting how faithfully he’d represented Cole through the medium of crayon and recycled printer paper. “Good,” he said, “but not my best. Besides, I’ve already replaced these. I have more.” He set them down, pushed them back. “They’re yours.”
