“But there was no blood anywhere.”
He lowered his voice in deference to the old lady who’d sat down at the table next to them. They’d spent most of the morning going over that hotel room, inch by inch, searching for evidence. Now it was noon, and the restaurant was getting noisy and crowded. “There were other bodily fluids.”
“Not blood,” she said, matching his low tone. “And I think the blood is important to him. The blood reminds him that he’s in control, that he’s the one in charge. He’s killed before. He can kill again. He’s telling me I’m no challenge, I’m nothing to him. That sort of thing. Remember what he put on my note? Stop me…”
“Believe me, se**n makes a man feel in charge, too.” He took another packet of ketchup from the pile she’d placed in the center of the table and squeezed it into the cardboard container that held his fries. “That’s what rape’s all about, isn’t it?” he went on. “Whoever broke in was trying to intimidate you.”
“I know. The panties, the phone—that’s all proof. But…it’s different from the impressions I’ve been getting from the man who took my sister.” Jasmine frowned as she stared out the window, watching a dark cloud roll closer. It was going to start drizzling again. “The man who trashed my hotel room isn’t a lust offender as the panties and the picture on my phone might suggest,” she went on, trying to puzzle it out. “He’s not in it for the sexual high that violence and domination give him. The fact that I got away that night made him mad, so he went back to my hotel room and did those disgusting things to tell me that he’ll win in the end, that he’ll stop me.”
Romain drank some of his shake. “Stop you from what? Breathing?”
“From investigating. From finding out whatever he’s trying to hide.”
He ate a few fries. “I agree that going to the Moreau house threatened him in some way. But if he’s responsible for the body you found there, why bother chasing you down now that you’ve called the police? If he’s afraid of being caught, he should be getting his ass out of town.”
“He doesn’t feel threatened enough to leave, which tells me he’s not afraid of the police. Not yet. He’s still focused on me.”
“So you think there’s something you’ve already found—or might find—that worries him.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Jasmine wished she knew what that could be.
“I’m also thinking that Mrs. Moreau is in on the secret, whatever it is.”
“I don’t understand how the trashing of your hotel room and the cellar incident ties in to Moreau. Certainly his whole family wasn’t involved in what he did. And there’s no need to cover for him anymore. He’s dead.”
“It’s unusual for family members to be involved and supportive of that type of crime,” she agreed. “Beyond covering it up, of course.”
Finished with his own food, Romain eyed her hamburger, and she pushed it toward him. “His mother lied about being there when Huff returned with the judge’s signature on that search warrant.”
“But there are a lot of mothers who refuse to see what their children really are, who try to protect them. I’m guessing Moreau was a disorganized asocial personality,” she mused.
“And that means…”
“There’s a whole list of profile characteristics. But this type of offender is socially inadequate and usually doesn’t have the leadership ability to get others to join him in his crimes—”
“You’re talking about misfits? The kind of people who were shunned and made fun of at school?”
“Made fun of or simply ignored. According to Ray Hazelwood, a legendary FBI profiler, a disorganized asocial is statistically a nonathletic white male with a low IQ. He kills close to home because he feels uncomfortable leaving familiar territory, and he more often than not lives alone. Or, if he doesn’t live alone, he’s got his own secret places.” She helped herself to some of Romain’s shake. “They’re typically nocturnal and sloppy, with poor hygiene.”
“Almost a perfect description of Moreau.”
“That’s why I don’t see him involving others in his crimes, especially his mother,” Jasmine said. “I can’t imagine a woman of Beverly’s age going along with such immoral behavior, either. She has an invalid son to care for, so she’s pretty stressed. I witnessed the worry on her face when Dustin called out to her.”
Romain’s hand halted halfway to his mouth. “No one said anything about an invalid son during the investigation.”
“Why would they? Moreau was living alone when the crime occurred.”
“The entire family should’ve been interviewed by police.”
“Maybe Dustin wasn’t up to it. That’s probably the reason he didn’t attend the trial, either.”
“We need to talk to him if we can.”
“I doubt Mrs. Moreau will let us anywhere close.”
“We could check it out.”
“First, we’re going to find someone with the technology to tell us more about Moreau’s shooting. I want to know whether Huff fired that gun.”
If Romain felt threatened by what they might discover, only a slight tightening around his mouth revealed it. “Don’t you know someone who works for the FBI who can do that?”
“It’d take longer than I’m willing to wait. It’s Sunday. We can’t even ship anything today.” She still had the letter from Romain’s parents’ house that she wanted to send to the lab.
“You could upload the video to your computer and e-mail it.”
“If they have an expert who’s available and willing to work on Sunday. Not to mention that it’s the day after Christmas and a lot of people are out of town.”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“It’s worth a try,” she relented with a shrug. “I can send it to the guy I worked with on the Polinaro case. He seemed grateful for my help. He might do me a favor.”
“Are you going to eat the rest of those?” Romain motioned toward her fries, which were growing cold.
“Where are you putting all this food?” she asked. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but it certainly wasn’t because he counted calories.