Sociopath Read online

  A coding system called the Facial Action Coding System or FACS was developed by a Swedish anatomist named Carl Hjortsjö and was the basis of micro-facial expression analysis. The system uses a scoring mechanism called AU, for action units, to score a subject’s facial movements. In almost everything Dale told me, I saw an inner brow raise, an AU score of one, an upper lid raise, a score of five, and a stretch of the lip, a score of twenty.

  Dale Christensen was lying to me.

  10

  I left the jail with practically no additional information but a strong sense that Dale had either killed Tiffany or knew who did. I checked the jail incarceration records before I left and he had been in custody when David was killed.

  My phone rang. It was Melissa.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey. Thought you’d wanna know that we got your print results.”

  “That was quick.”

  “David had a lot of friends.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Three prints. Tiffany, you, and a John Doe. We ran the John Doe through IAFIS and got a hit on a Carl Velazquez in Park City.”

  “It must be her dealer.”

  “That’s my guess. You wanna head up there with me?”

  “Sure. I’m in the parking lot of the jail.”

  “I’ll swing by right now.”

  “Actually, I haven’t rented a room yet. There’s a Motel 6 down the block. Can you meet me there?”

  “Yup. See you in a jiff.”

  I hung up and got in the car and pulled out of the Justice Complex onto Main Street. I could see the big blue sign for Motel 6 and I drove there. It was rundown but I’d stayed in worse. I pulled to the front and went inside. A man was behind the counter with a permanent grimace on his face as he watched a daytime soap on a little color television behind the counter.

  “Thirty-five a night or ninety a week,” he said without looking at me.

  “Let’s do a week.” I pulled out my credit card and handed it to him. He ran it, printed the receipt and a use agreement without taking his eyes off the television.

  Once I was checked in, I walked to the room on the second floor. I opened the door and went inside and was surprised that it was actually clean with fresh sheets on the bed that smelled like they’d just come out of a dryer. I sat down on the bed and took off my shoes and lay back, staring at the ceiling. My head was pounding and I wished I’d purchased some ibuprofen as well as the Tums yesterday.

  I took out my cell phone and dialed my ex-wife’s number, realizing that Agent Harding and my ex had the same first name. Even though it was inconsequential, I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it earlier.

  “Hi Jon.”

  “Hi. How’s Florida?”

  “Humid as hell. How are you doing? Matt said you’re living in Honolulu now?”

  “Yeah, we bought a little place.”

  “You and the professor, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I could sense the hostility in her voice. Melissa had been stunningly beautiful all her life, and like many gorgeous women, had never had to worry about her intellect, assuming that her looks would carry her through the rest of her life. As she found that looks, and the splendor they brought, faded with time, she grew bitter she hadn’t developed her intellect and was now beholden to men for her style of life. She had a degree but little career history and her husband was her sole source of support. I gladly would have supported her if she needed, but she didn’t know that and had never bothered to ask.

  “The kids are out. I’ll tell them you called.”

  “Jon Junior asked me something the other day.”

  “What?”

  I hesitated. “He asked if he could come live with me.”

  The line went silent a long time.

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I would speak with you.”

  “He’s too young. And I don’t want to split them apart.”

  “Is something going on?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Something that would upset him?”

  A sound came through like plastic against skin; she was chewing on her lower lip, which she only did when stressed. “He’s not doing well with my new marriage. He keeps saying that he thinks it’s my fault we divorced and that his father doesn’t live with us because of me.”

  “He’s just angry. He was angry with me at first and now he’s angry with you. It’s natural.”

  “It doesn’t feel natural. He’s ten and he told me he doesn’t have an emotional connection with me. What ten year old even knows what an emotional connection is, Jon?”

  “He’s always been perceptive. But … I don’t think it would be a bad idea for him to come out. At least for a little while and see what it’s like.”

  “You can’t be serious. With the life you lead?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Mel. I’m not even a PI. I just teach at the University and come home. Nine to five.”

  “Maybe you can fool your new wifey with that, Jon, but I know you. I know what you’re like. You have darkness in you. You’ve managed to control it and put it to good use, but it’s still there and it follows you around. It brings wickedness into your life. I don’t want my children around that. Not ever again.”

  “I can’t respond to anything you’ve said. You make accusations that are unverifiable. And what I used to do has no bearing on what I am now.” I knew this was a lie. What frightened me was how correct she was in her assessment of me. Summing me up in just a few sentences. A darkness in me that brought wickedness. Would the darkness affect Emma too? Would it affect everyone who came near me like some medieval plague?

  “I don’t want him living with you. It’s too dangerous.”

  I heard honking out in the parking lot. “I have to go. We’ll talk more later.”

  “Whatever.”

  I hung up and went to the window and saw Melissa in the driver’s seat of a silver sedan. Stepping outside, I saw the man in the room next door come out too. He leaned over the railing and stared down at her but didn’t say anything.

  “Hey,” I said, getting into the passenger seat.

  “Hey.”

  We pulled out onto Main Street and began heading to Park City.

  THOMAS FISCHER

  “Thomas?” she yelled out from behind me. I ignored her.

  I sat at the laptop out on my balcony overlooking Park City and read about Jon Stanton. The man the media said was called out by the FBI to help in the murder investigation of Tiffany Ochoa.

  I was curious who the FBI turned to when they needed help. That’s how a local crime blog described him: the FBI’s go-to guy. He was … interesting.

  He held the record for the most officer-involved shootings at the San Diego Police Department. Several websites claimed he was a psychic and that he’d provided clues and proof of his supernatural prowess throughout the years. He had a higher clearance rate on murder cases than any other detective in the police department’s history, and one blog claimed, in essence, that it takes one to know one. How delightful that was.

  One of the most interesting bits was that a former partner of his, Eli Sherman, had tried to kill him after Stanton discovered that he’d been murdering young women, using his badge to pick them up. Sherman escaped custody and was still on the loose. How stimulating it would be to meet him.

  I read a few more blog posts, most of them discussing the beautifully gory details of various cases he had handled, and then closed the laptop and sipped my whiskey as I looked over the city below me. I had no neighbors and was surrounded exclusively by pine trees on the slope of a mountain. The parcel had cost me quite handsomely, but what was money for after all.

  “Thomas,” the woman said behind me again, “are you coming back to bed?”

  I looked up to the setting sun that was blood-red and the pink clouds burnt by its glory and grinned to myself. How fortunate she was. Not just to
be with me, but that I did not have any urges currently other than base sexual ones.

  I rose and went inside and grabbed her by the hair, kissing her hard and biting her lip. She was wearing a pink robe and her blonde hair danced on her shoulders. I held on to it as I spun her around and bent her over my desk. I spanked her several times and she yelped with pleasure. I lowered my pants to my knees and lifted her robe over her waist, revealing a perfect ass. I did nothing at first, simply admiring it, before leaning down and biting it.

  I then entered her and thrust violently. So much so that she began telling me to slow down and go easy. When she did this, I would thrust harder and slap the back of her head. At one point she began to cry.

  I came over her back and left her there. As I walked to the bathroom I threw a towel to her and it hit her in the face. Her humiliation was so palpable that I couldn’t move. It was mesmerizing. She looked at me as she wiped her back with the towel and then dressed and headed out the door. She feigned anger but she would be back if I called her. I would need a few simple words and she would be back. How odd it was that women always believed apologies.

  After a shower, I dressed in black slacks with loafers and no socks, a blue button-down shirt and gold cufflinks. I had a party of sorts to attend and a date I was excited about. I regretted now having intercourse beforehand as I wasn’t as motivated, but I knew I would be able to perform again shortly.

  I checked my Mariner Rolex, which revealed I had an hour until I was meeting my date. I went down the stairs to the basement. The door was locked and I used a key to get in and locked it behind me.

  It was pitch-black, a type of darkness that was rare, someplace that no light penetrated, not even a crack underneath the door. I pressed my hand to the wall and gingerly felt around before flipping a switch and flooding the room with lights.

  Carpeted white and with a bearskin rug with fine wood furniture, it was a sanctuary. I had read somewhere that Jack Kennedy had such a room, a reprieve from the world in which he only brought those who were worthy to enter.

  I sat down at my desk and glared at the wall a moment. I then reached into a drawer and came up with several large, glossy photos and spread them on the table before me. Tiffany Ochoa was weeping as I cut her. In one photo she was looking directly into the camera and I couldn’t help myself. I opened my zipper and began to masturbate.

  When I was finished I realized I had nothing down here to clean up with and I placed the photos away to go upstairs and change. How foolish I was not to film the scene. I could still hear her screams in my ears and they were like candy. They had flavors, textures. And I hadn’t thought to preserve it.

  This was my first. I would correct it next time.

  JON STANTON

  As Melissa and I drove down the mountain to Park City, I noticed that her nails were chewed down to her fingers. At the base were flecks of color and I knew she attempted not to bite down on them but couldn’t stop.

  “So,” she said, “you think the dealer had something to do with it?”

  “No, not really. I just want to see what he knows.”

  “He’s as likely a suspect as anyone else.”

  “I don’t think so. Not for this type of offense. We’re looking for someone with specific traits. Tiffany was chosen, she wasn’t random or desired just because she happened to be nearby.”

  “Who do you picture when you see her killer?”

  “White male, thirties, no history of sexual offenses. He’s too intelligent to be caught for the minor ones. But as a juvenile he may have racked up some voyeurism charges. Peeping into neighbor’s windows at night, things like that. Probably arrested or caught at school with violent pornography as well.”

  “Intelligent, huh? David thought he was disorganized and careless.”

  “No, this was purposeful. Everything about it was purposeful. I don’t think he’s sloppy except for one detail and that’s the arrow. He could have dug that out and deprived us of it. But he didn’t. I think he might have been interrupted or gotten frightened and finished earlier than he anticipated. And I think the initial profile was wrong about his being an underachiever. Someone with these types of impulses that goes his entire life without acting on them until now has incredible self-control. There’s a well-established correlation between self-control and intelligence, as well as social and financial success. I think we’re looking for someone that’s probably a professional of some kind.”

  “That’s assuming you’re right about this being the first time for him.”

  “He didn’t cut through the thumb, though he wanted to. He was rushed somehow. Something wasn’t anticipated and he ran. That’s panic. As a sociopath like this progresses in his ritual, he panics less and less and is calmer and more collected. This one had mistakes caused by alarm. He’ll correct his behavior next time.”

  She was silent a moment. “We don’t have Behavioral Science in this field office. I work fraud cases, primarily mortgage fraud.” She looked to me, embarrassed, but I showed no reaction. “I’ve always been fascinated by what the agents in the BSU do, working with sociopaths. I looked you up online. From what I could tell you’ve made a career chasing them.”

  “A small percentage of them. Most sociopaths are actually high functioning. They’re likely to be CEO’s and politicians and doctors and lawyers. A CMO I profiled once during graduate school was known as the Terminator. He enjoyed going into a town and firing twenty-five percent of the staff at factories and plants. He would joke with them as he did it as people cried in his office. He couldn’t relate to the emotions he was seeing and he found them humorous.

  “That’s most sociopaths. There’s a disconnect between their amygdala and frontal cortex that prevents them from feeling empathy. The type I used to chase, and probably the type that killed Tiffany, is a sexual sadist, the most dangerous type of sociopath. He has the amygdala dysfunction of the typical sociopath but violence and sex have become linked in his mind, and unless his sexual partner is feeling some sort of pain or humiliation, he won’t be able to climax. But it takes a while for that connection to solidify. He’ll daydream about the violence, sometimes for years, and when it finally happens it’ll overwhelm him at first. That’s why I don’t think he could perform with Tiffany. I think her sheer terror surprised him and impotence followed. But he’s daydreaming about it now, and it arouses him. He wants to experience it again and this time he will be able to perform. And it’ll be more vicious.”

  She took a deep breath. “Wow. I’m kind of glad I didn’t get assigned to BSU.”

  I grinned, though I didn’t find it funny. “My first assignment in law enforcement was the DUI squad in San Diego. And I was happy to be there. When I was made detective I thought about the major cases I’d be working, the types of people I would deal with that most of society doesn’t know exist among them. That seems like a lifetime ago now.”

  “I’m sorry about the way Adam treats you. It’s not fair.”

  “He’s just scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “That what happened to David could happen to him. Federal agents are the elite of the elite in law enforcement and to think that your badge and gun and the power of the federal government can’t protect you from a single cracked person is terrifying.”

  “Yeah,” she said absently.

  I looked to her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you’re right. It really frightened me when I heard about David. You don’t hear about federal agents dying very often unless it’s overseas. And to think it happened in a hospital with thirty people inside….”

  The trees were a lush green and the street was wide with canyons and streams on either side. The rushing water was pleasant to listen to and I rolled down my window the entire length and stuck out my arm and let the wind hit me.

  Park City was small, but the most expensive place to live in Utah, even though the homes varied from colossal mansions in Jeremy Ranch to small shacks filled with ten p
eople near Main Street. The city council had banned billboards and it added a beauty to the scenery that was difficult to find in most states. The only comparable places I had been to were Ketchum and Sun Valley, Idaho. But the fact that Hemingway killed himself there always gave it a darker tone.

  We came in through a back road and past Park City High School, turned left toward Main Street and the GPS led us to a series of condominiums tucked away behind some older homes. Parking was difficult so we went across the road and parked in the stall of a city government building.

  We crossed the street and went past the homes to the condos. Melissa got a phone call from Adam who was in Salt Lake at the crime lab following up on the prints and rushing the ballistics through. She spoke curtly in “yes” and “no” answers and hung up without saying goodbye.

  “He doesn’t like me, does he?”

  She glanced back to me. “He told Kyle he could handle this and Kyle told him he couldn’t, that he was bringing in an expert. David was Adam’s ASAC when Adam first started with the Bureau.”

  We went up a path between several condos and came to the address listed in the GPS on her phone. The condo was azure-colored with a small white porch. A table sat in front with a few chairs and two ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. One of the butts had lipstick on it and I stared at it for longer than I should have. The red glistened and the smears appeared like blood sliding down the side of the brown tube.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Did you knock?”

  “Yeah. No answer.”

  I took a few steps back and looked into the upstairs window. I saw it move just slightly, as if someone had been peeking out through the blinds and then pulled away.