THE conference room went silent as Maggie walked through the door. “Good morning,” she said, buttoning her jacket. “I’m Special Agent Margaret O’Dell with the FBI. I’m a criminal profiler with the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico. This workshop focuses—”

“Wait a minute, ma’am,” a man in the second row interrupted.

“Yes?”

“No disrespect, but what happened to the guy who was supposed to give this workshop?”

“Excuse me?”

“The program…” He looked around the room until he seemed to find encouragement from his comrades. “It said the guy wasn’t just an FBI profiler, but an expert in tracking serial killers, a forensic psychologist with, like, nine or ten years’ experience.”

“Did the program actually say this person was a man?”

Now he looked puzzled.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Maggie said, “but I’m him.”

“Maybe they should say that in the program,” the man persisted, trying to justify his objection. “They don’t even use your name.”

“Would it matter?”

“Yeah, to me it would’ve. I came here to learn some serious stuff, not listen to some desk jockey.”

“Look, Officer—”

“Wait a minute. What makes you think I’m an officer? Maybe I’m a detective.” He shot a smug grin to his buddies, giving himself away.

“Let me take a shot here,” she said, standing in front of him and crossing her arms. “You’re a street cop in a metropolitan area, but not here in Kansas City. You’re used to wearing a uniform and not business attire. Your wife picked out what you’re wearing now, but you’ve gained some weight since she last bought anything for you. Except the shoes. You insisted on wearing your beat shoes.”

Everyone shuffled in their chairs to get a look at his shoes. She failed to point out the subtle indentations in his close-cropped hair from too many hours wearing a hat.

“You’re not able to carry your weapon at the conference, but you feel lost without your badge. It’s inside your jacket pocket.” She motioned to the tan jacket draped over the back of the chair. “Your wife also insisted on the jacket, but again you’re not used to wearing one. Not like perhaps a detective might be used to wearing a jacket and tie.”

Everyone waited as if watching a magic act, so the officer reluctantly tugged at the jacket and brought out his badge.

“All lucky guesses,” he said to Maggie. “Whatcha expect from a roomful of cops?”

“You’re absolutely right.” Maggie nodded as eyes came back to her. “There’s a certain profile that goes with being a cop. Just like there’s a certain profile that goes with being a serial killer. You can use that knowledge as the foundation for a profile.”

Finally she had their attention.

“However, the tricky part is looking beyond the obvious, picking apart and examining tidbits that might seem insignificant. Like, for instance—I’m sorry, Officer, would you mind telling me your name?”

“What? You mean you can’t guess that?” he smirked.

“No, I’m afraid my crystal ball leaves out names.”

“It’s Danzig, Norm Danzig.”

“If I were to examine your profile, Officer Danzig, I’d try to break down everything I did know.”

“Hey, you can examine me all you like.” He continued to play with her, enjoying the attention.

“I’d wonder,” she continued, “why your wife had bought clothes for you that were the wrong size.”

Suddenly Danzig sat still and quiet.

“I’d ask myself if there was a reason.” From the rising color in his face, her guess was that Danzig and his wife had not shared a bed for some time. Perhaps there had even been a temporary separation, one that included him eating a few more fast-food meals. That could account for the extra pounds. Instead of embarrassing him, she simply said, “I’d guess your wife finally got fed up with the outdated navy suit in the back of your closet.”

The others laughed, and Danzig looked around at them, smiling with relief. But when his eyes met Maggie’s, she saw a hint of humbled awareness.

“It’s also important not to get bogged down by the stereotypes. There are a handful of stereotypes that seem to be perpetuated with serial killers. Anyone care to guess what some of those are?”

She waited out their silence. They were still summing her up. Finally, a young Hispanic man decided to take a shot.

“How about the idea that they’re all mental cases. That’s not necessarily true, right?”

“Right. Many serial killers are intelligent, well educated and as sane as you and I.”

“Excuse me,” a graying detective interrupted. “Son of Sam claiming a Rottweiler made him do it, that’s not mental?”

“Actually it was a black Labrador named Harvey. But even Berkowitz later owned up to the hoax.

“I’m not saying some of these killers aren’t crazy, but it’s a mistake to believe they have to be insane to do the things they do. Killing for them is a conscious choice. Their crimes are all about dominating and controlling their victims. It’s not usually because they hear orders from a three-thousand-year-old demon living inside a dog.

“If they were nuts, it wouldn’t be possible for them to carry out their elaborate murders over and over again—to perfect their methods and avoid getting caught for months, sometimes years. It’s important to recognize them not as deranged crazies, but for what they are. What they are is evil.”

She needed to change the subject before she got carried away with a sermon on the effects of evil. “What about motive?” she asked instead. “What are some of the stereotypical motives?”

“Sex,” a young man in the back said loudly, enjoying the laughs that the word drew. “Don’t most serial killers get some sexual gratification from killing, just like rapists?”

“Rapists and serial killers use sex and violence in much the same way,” said Maggie. “Both are powerful weapons used to degrade the victim. Some serial killers even start out as rapists. But somewhere along the line they decide to take it a step further to achieve their gratification. They might begin by experimenting to reach different levels, starting with torture, working up to strangulation or stabbing. Sometimes that’s not enough, so they begin different rituals with the dead body. That’s when you see cases like the Pied Piper who sliced up his victims, made stew and fed it to his other captives.”

She caught several of them grimacing. Skepticism seemed to be replaced by morbid curiosity.

“Or in Albert Stucky’s case,” she continued, “he began to experiment with different rituals of torture, slicing off victims’ clitorises or nipples, just to hear them scream and plead with him.”

She said these things casually, yet she could feel the tension in her muscles, an involuntary reflex anytime she thought of Stucky.

“Or you find more solemn rituals,” she said, trying to expel Stucky from her mind. “Last fall in Nebraska, we tracked a killer who gave his young victims their last rites after he strangled and stabbed them.”

“Hold on,” a detective interrupted. “Nebraska? You’re the profiler who worked on that case with the dead little boys?”

Maggie cringed at the simplicity of his description.

“Yes, that was me.”

“Morrelli was just telling us about that case last night.”

“Sheriff Nick Morrelli?” An unexpected but pleasant flutter invaded her already tense body.

“Yeah, we all went out for ribs last night. But he’s not Sheriff Morrelli anymore. He’s with the D.A.’s office in Boston now.”

Maggie retreated to the front of the room, hoping the distance would shield her. Five months ago, the cocky, small-town sheriff had been a thorn in her side from the day she arrived in Nebraska. They had spent exactly one week chasing a killer and sharing an intimacy so palpable, just the thought of it was able to generate heat. Her class was staring at her, waiting. How was it possible for Nick Morrelli to dismantle her entire thought process by simply being in the same city?