“Thank you, Agent Sterling,” the director cut in. He turned to the rest of us. “With the university’s cooperation, we’ve obtained copies of the class schedules and transcripts for every student in that class. What that doesn’t tell us is who they are, what they’re capable of. That’s where you come in.”
“Social media,” Sloane interjected, picking up on what Briggs had said earlier. “Upwards of three hundred million photos are uploaded to leading social media sites every day. Among smartphone owners in our UNSUB’s demographic, somewhere between sixty and eighty percent of time spent using that device will be spent on social networks, rather than direct communication.”
“Exactly,” Director Sterling told her. “We don’t have the manpower to search through every post, and even if we did, your eyes might catch something that Briggs’s team wouldn’t. We’re not asking you to do anything that adolescents all over the country don’t do every day.” Director Sterling wasn’t looking at us when he said those words. He was looking at his daughter. “You’re teenagers. This internet stuff is practically your native language.”
“And you’re okay with this?” Michael asked Agent Sterling, arching one eyebrow. To me, there was no noticeable change in her expression, but Michael must have seen something. “Not okay with it,” Michael interpreted, “but also not as convinced that it’s a bad idea as you’d like to be.” He gave her his most beatific smile. “We’re growing on you.”
“Enough, Michael.” Briggs turned the focus away from Agent Sterling and back to the case. “If the UNSUB is enrolled in Fogle’s class, the profile predicts that he would be an older student—he may not have the credits to be a junior or senior, but he would be in that age range. He probably comes from a working-class family and may live at home and commute to campus.”
Agent Sterling threaded her fingers together in front of her. Her profile had put the younger end of the age range at twenty-three. Briggs had just expanded that downward by at least a year or two.
“Veronica?” the director prompted.
“We’re looking for someone who gets pleasure out of dominating others, but who may not be fully confident in his ability to do so,” Agent Sterling said after a sizable silence. “His father was present, but volatile, and likely left the family around the time our UNSUB entered puberty. His mother may have dated a string of men, but she did not remarry until the UNSUB was at least eighteen. This UNSUB is comfortable around firearms. He will not have a girlfriend or spouse. It’s likely that he drives a dark-colored truck or SUV, and if he has a dog, expect it to be a larger breed, such as a German shepherd.”
I was used to making profiles. Doing the reverse—trying to figure out the specific pieces of evidence that had led Sterling to those conclusions—was harder. A dark-colored SUV and a large-breed dog suggested a need for power and domination. I wasn’t sure where firearms came in—unless the professor had been shot?—but there must have been something about Emerson’s murder that suggested both a need for control and a lack of confidence on the killer’s part. The presentation of the body and the methodical way Emerson had been killed were both characteristic of an organized killer. So where was Sterling getting the lack of confidence?
The fact that he’s copying another killer’s MO? Victim selection? Did the UNSUB’s initial attack come from behind? Did he drug her?
I tried to figure out how Sterling had arrived at her conclusions, but operating with a tiny subset of the relevant case details was like trying to swim with a cinder block tied to each knee and a squirrel stuffed in your pocket. I’d seen Emerson’s body on the news, but that wasn’t enough.
“How was the professor killed?” I asked.
The director, Sterling, and Briggs all turned to stare at me. So did Dean. I realized belatedly that no one had ever said that the professor was dead. That was information that we weren’t supposed to know. It was a guess.
Based on their reactions, I knew I’d guessed right.
“You don’t need to know the details,” Briggs replied curtly. “Consider this nothing more than another training exercise. Find whatever internet profiles you can for each of the students on the class list. Check out their status updates or likes or whatever it is college kids are doing online these days, and let us know if you run into anything suspicious.”
Lia narrowed her eyes at Briggs. “You don’t think we’ll find anything.” She punctuated her words by drumming her fingers, one by one, against the arm of the sofa. “Interesting.”
“You don’t think the UNSUB is a student.” Dean picked up where Lia left off. “But you can’t rule out the possibility, because that’s what my father does: he doles out tiny kernels of truth and dresses them up like lies.” Dean looked at Sterling, then at Briggs. “He wants you questioning your instincts about everything.”
“I’m not questioning anything,” Briggs said, a muscle tensing in his jaw. “If there’s something to his comment about the students in that class, there will be red flags. If there are red flags, the five of you will find them.”
“And if there aren’t,” Dean said, filling in the blanks, “you won’t have wasted your time.”
Every hour we spent wading through social media sites was an hour Briggs’s team was free to hunt down other leads. That’s why you agreed to this, I thought, focusing in on Briggs. If Redding lied, you haven’t lost anything. If he’s telling the truth, we’ll see it. Either way, he’s not the one calling the shots. You are.
I thought about what Dean had said about Briggs’s competitive streak and what Judd had said about crossing lines. You were all for keeping us out of this, I thought, and then you found the professor’s body.
“Dean, if you’d rather sit this one out, that would be fine.” The director straightened the front of his suit as he gave Dean a tight, close-lipped smile.
“You mean that you would rather I sat this one out.” Dean stayed hunched over on the fireplace, but he lifted his eyes to meet the director’s. “Because I’m ‘too close to it,’ but really, because you don’t trust me.” Dean waited a bit, but the director didn’t contradict him. “Not on this case,” Dean continued. “Not with my father.” He stood. “Not with your daughter.”