Suicide Run

come,” I said, squeezing into the room.
    Frankie Sheehan alternately referred to criminal profiling as “bureau bullshit” and “Quantico quackery.” When I had chosen a week earlier to contact McCaleb, the resident profiler in the bureau’s L.A. office, there had been an argument about it. But I was lead on the case; I made the call.
    “Yeah, things are kind of tight here,” McCaleb said. “But at least I get a private space.”
    “Most cops I know like being in a squad room. They like the camaraderie, I guess.”
    McCaleb just nodded and said, “I like being alone.”
    He pointed to the guest chair and I sat down. I noticed a photo of a young girl taped to the wall above his desk. She looked to be about the same age as my victim. I thought that if it was McCaleb’s daughter, maybe it would be a little plus for me. Something that would make him put a little extra drive into my case.
    “She’s not my daughter,” McCaleb said. “She’s from an old case. A Florida case.”
    I just looked at him. It wouldn’t be the last time he seemed to know my thoughts like I was saying them out loud.
    “So, still no ID on yours, right?”
    “No, nothing yet.”
    “That always makes it tough.”
    “So on your message you said you’d reviewed the file?”
    “Yeah, I did.”
    I had sent copies of the murder book and all crime scene photographs the week before. We had not videotaped the crime scene and this distressed McCaleb. But I had been able to get tape of the scene from a television reporter. His station’s chopper had been in the air over the crime scene but had not aired any footage because of the graphic nature of its contents.
    McCaleb opened a file on his desk and referred to it before speaking.
    “First of all, are you familiar with our VICAP program—Violent Criminal Apprehension?”
    “I know what it is. This is the first time I ever submitted a case.”
    “Yes, you’re a rarity in the LAPD . Most of you guys don’t want or trust the help. But a few more guys like you and maybe I can get a bigger office.”
    I nodded. I wasn’t going to tell him that it was institutional distrust and suspicion that stopped most LAPD detectives from seeking the help of the bureau. It was an unspoken dictate that came from the police chief himself. It was said that the chief could be heard cursing loudly in his office every time news of an FBI arrest within city limits was reported. It was well known in the department that the bank robbery squad routinely monitored the radio transmissions of the bureau’s bank squad and often moved in on suspects before the feds got the chance.
    “Yeah, well, I just want to clear the case,” I said. “I don’t really care if you’re a psychic or Santa Claus, if you’ve got something that will help me I’ll listen.”
    “Well, I think maybe I do.”
    He turned the page in the file and picked up a stack of crime scene photographs. These were not the photos I had sent him. These were 8×10 blowups of the original crime scene photos. He had made these on his own. It told me that McCaleb had certainly spent some time with the case. It made me think that maybe it had hooked him the way it had hooked me. A girl with no name left dead on the hillside. A girl no one had come forward to claim. A girl no one cared about.
    In my secret heart I cared and I had claimed her. And now maybe McCaleb had, too.
    “Let me just start with my overview of what I think you’ve got here,” McCaleb said.
    He shuffled through the photos for a moment, ending with a still that had been made from the news video. It showed an aerial shot of the naked body, arms and legs stretched wide on the hillside. I took out my cigarettes and shook one out of the pack.
    “You may have already arrived at these same conclusions. If so, I apologize. I don’t want to waste your time. By the way, you can’t smoke in here.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” I said, putting the smokes away. “What have you got?”
    “Whether this is the actual murder site or not, this scene is very important in that it gives us an avenue to the killer’s thinking. What I see here suggests the work of what we call an exhibition killer. In other words, this is a killer who wanted his crime to be seen—to be very public—and by virtue of this to instill horror and fear in the general population. From this reaction by the public he draws his gratification. He is somebody who reads the newspapers and watches the news for any