Off the Deep End

By Jack Phillips

The once star profiler for the FBI, Doug ONeal, who has been able to capture the greatest of serial killers, rapists, and criminals, comes back to San Francisco to find the worst of them. Because of this killer's background, the FBI has never even known he existed. Doug has only suspected that he exists.

The FBI puts together a task force with the San Francisco police, Anne Borges, and Jeff Shinn to hunt down this suspect to prevent any more deaths. The police are always looking for the suspect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781681393896

Jack Phillips

JACK PHILLIPS, PH.D., is chairman of the ROI Institute. He is an active consultant, prolific speaker, and co-author of many HR books and articles.

Book preview

Chapter

1

They both should die in the most terrible way I can devise, both the harlot and her sweaty, horny, little lover, he thought.

I have such an evil mind. He smiled.

He squinted through the foggy windshield at the lover man, nicely dressed in an expensive Nordstrom raincoat, dark hair, light complexion, walking quickly up the deserted street in the pelting rain and turning sharply left into the tiny hotel.

It’s him. Hurry, you loose little prick. Get it in her and get out so I can take my turn. How juicy and yet demented it all seems, the loveliness of death will become her ever so sweetly because I will it to happen. After all, I am in control, he thought.

Okay, here we go, check yourself. Keep things tight. I am overheating way too early as always. I can’t make any mistakes at this point. I am so very close to embracing my demon rising. Focus…focus. Purge this jealousy in me. So what if he’s in there with her and I am out here? he said to himself. No, I am true rage. I will purge the woman, and the man will suffer the consequence of the crime.

The pelting rain sounds like dripping blood on my car. He smiled. I am the essence of evil, he thought.

His mind twisted with these burning feelings as he sat in his car. His teeth clenched, he hissed, Hate…I would hate. I am vengeance. She will die tonight. I will take my turn with her…soon.

His fingers tapped on the steering wheel as the rain beat down sharply on the hood and roof of the car. His hands shook with anger. He gripped the steering wheel until his fingernails chewed into his hands and he drew rivulets of blood. He did not feel it.

He will live to be punished. He was still talking to himself. Yeah, that’s it. A better idea. Make him suffer longer by destroying his life.

The leather seat groaned as he adjusted his body to make himself more comfortable.

He glanced at his black kit in the back.

I just have to wait…Patience is key. I am patient. He picked up the newspaper from the passenger seat. He always leaves first…Guy’s got to get out of there…He can’t wait to get out of there when he’s finished with her.

The windshield wipers flapped back and forth, pushing the water from the windshield.

"Nothing in here about me. He smiled, turning pages. If there was, I would make the front page. Hell, I’d be on the nightly news for a year."

The car sat in front of a hotel as he read, and he looked up from the newspaper and watched as people came and went.

They make this so easy. He flipped through the pages from article to article. I don’t understand how no one else knows, how no one else sees. Oh, yeah, I’m still too careful. That explains it. He deliberated internally.

He threw the newspaper down on the seat next to him, then his frustration soothed as he watched the handsome man in the raincoat walk from the hotel, a little more slowly than when he went in.

I see you…I’ve watched you for weeks. He got out of the car, opened the back door, and grabbed a leather bag from the backseat. Okay…here we go…smooth.

He walked briskly across the street through the rain. He didn’t want to wait for the elevator. He rose slowly up the old staircase and to the room where the handsome man came from. He knew the room well. Always the same room.

Here we are. He put the bag down on the torn carpet. He snapped it open and took out a folded plastic bib apron. He put it on and then reached in the bag and removed plastic gloves, which he slipped on, then took out two objects from the leather case: a sharpened cleaver and a steel ring, which fit nicely over all his knuckles, like brass knuckles, only bigger. The dark man was ready.

Knock, knock, knock…

Did you come back for more? she sang as she opened the door. Couldn’t wait until…next…week?

Her smile vanished. His smile appeared. She had no time to scream. He sent her spiraling back into the room with one solid hit to her pretty face. Violently, in a whisper of plastic, he rushed into the room, his bag in one hand, a shiny cleaver in the other.

The hotel room door automatically clicked shut behind him.

Chapter

2

Anne Borges watched from the balcony as the sedan pulled up. The door opened, and an old man stepped onto the asphalt. FBI profiler Doug ONeal winced as the icy northwest wind bit his red face. ONeal’s face was obviously weathered; his dark hair had faded to a platinum white. The years had not been kind to him. His larger build had given away to time and drinking. The alcohol was never a secret. He slammed the bureau’s car door shut and jumped the flooded storm gutter. The storm had subsided briefly as he ran into the small privately owned hotel just off Geary Street and headed for the crime scene.

Anne had been an FBI agent for a few years now. She was recruited right out of the academy into the organized crime unit and posed as an informant. She proved herself with the arrests of many in the Hells Angels during the late ’90s. Afterward, she moved over to the violent crimes task force where she was matched up with her current assignment in the Bay Area.

During her time as an informant, Anne learned more than what they had taught her in the academy. Lessons from her adolescence returned. She already knew that her lighter complexion, athletic figure, dark hair, and cheerful disposition would open doors to her that might stay closed to most.

Anne watched the elevator doors slowly crawl open at the second floor, and he instantly stepped onto a dingy brown carpet dotted with black cigarette burns and into a yellow police tape blocking the narrow hall with piss-yellow walls. Anne had already been inside the room, though she knew what had happened, but everyone was waiting for the old man’s special insight.

Anne’s skin crawled at the sight of him. Her stomach curled at the smell of alcohol permeating off his coat, and her whole being quaked at his very existence. She hated just being there.

He thought he saw some traces of blood in the hall carpet.

Good evening, sir. A young officer smiled, spotting ONeal’s FBI ID, and pulled up the tape. Lousy night. More storms on the way. Then more serious. Room 205. Straight ahead. It’s not a pleasant sight.

Yeah, damn it, ONeal grunted. He shivered. No f’n’ murder is pleasant. Is the ME here yet?

Yes, sir. Julie Roberts, assistant ME.

As ONeal passed, one of the other officers asked the one holding the tape, Is that who I think it is?

Yeah, that’s Doug ONeal, the other officer whispered back.

I thought he retired. Or died.

At the door, ONeal’s face winced again in dismay when he saw who was already on the scene. The blue and gray suits and uniforms were all piling out of the room, behind them the shrieking sounds of a woman erupting from the room. Julie looked at Anne with distaste.

Julie was petite, to say the least; being a woman was hard enough, but being shorter did not help. She obviously fought the battle of time with the treadmill at the gym, ate right, and colored her hair a darker red to keep anyone from guessing what her true age might be.

You are all contaminating the scene. Get out of here, don’t touch that, Julie Roberts snapped as she pushed a young officer.

In the shoving, she came face-to-face with the sergeant on the scene. Don’t they teach you guys that you shouldn’t trample the crime scene until it’s been cleared?

Her green eyes flared. The local uniforms were used to her yelling at them.

She looked over at ONeal and smiled slyly. Long time no see. When did they let you out? Or have you been on vacation without me?

Very cute. I just got back from Cleveland. I was consulting on the Sowell trial.

Ohio doesn’t sound very warm, she said, still showing fine teeth.

He flushed a little as they both turned, and she motioned for him to follow her, leaving Anne and all the other officers milling in the hallway.

From the front door, the room looked as if the suspect had finished up quickly because the chair and everything that was on the table were now scattered across the floor.

Yeah, from what I can tell, the suspect got her to open the door, then he started right to work. Julie was flirting. The maid found the body this morning when she came in to clean.

The old agent could see a trail of caked blood from behind the bed, splashed across to the bathroom. After advancing a few steps, they both could see the body, naked and supine on the brown shag carpet now stained with a large puddle of blood. A mattress lay up against the wall. Anne listened closely by the door.

The first officer through the door said that the mattress was lying on the top of the vic when he got here. She looked at ONeal again. He moved it to get to the body, checked it for vital signs.

So then the suspect didn’t want to look at the vic. ONeal added.

Look at the body yourself. One of the odd things is that she has no blood marks anywhere on her body below her neck.

The killer knew exactly what he wanted to do. Heavy on the anger side. Real quick and a real pro, he has done this before, ONeal said. Well, maybe not this precisely. His profiling mind was kicking in.

ONeal interned at the FBI Academy’s Behavioral Science Unit in 1977 while he was working on his master’s degree in psychology at the University of California at Berkeley. A degree in hand, he joined the FBI in 1978 and in 1988 was the youngest of several agents who first interviewed Ted Bundy, a convicted serial killer in Florida’s death row. Bundy, who murdered at least thirty-five women from Washington to Florida, was executed in 1989 for the brutal slaying of a twelve-year-old girl in Florida.

ONeal became one of the agency’s first profilers in 1994. In 2001, he published his third book, A Team of Killers, a psychological study of serial killers who worked in teams—the notorious Leonard Lake and Charles Ng in Wilseyville, California, the Hillside stranglers in LA, and the DC snipers.

Or he wanted to appear to be angry. She interrupted his thoughts of the academy.

So, what’s your reconstruction here? ONeal asked.

At first I was thinking that the lover was the murderer, but if this was personal, then there would be marks all over her body, but like I said, there were no marks on her body below the neck.

So then what do you think happened? ONeal inquired.

There was another. He must have watched both of them come in. He waited until her male companion left, then came in.

Do we know who her lovemate was?

Not yet. The names in the hotel register are phony, of course, but we will find him, she said.

The victim was middle-aged, well kept, obvious breast augmentation, snow-white skin. There were no signs that there was any type of struggle, no ligature marks, nothing under her well-kept fingernails, and no signs of pre- or postmortem bruising.

Did we get a TOD yet?

Based on the rigor, lividity, and body temp, I would place her time of death last night about ten or eleven.

Anne caught a glimpse of the old man moving toward the body.

Agent ONeal stepped closer to the body, being careful not to step in any blood. He held up her left hand with his pen. Why would a married woman who is a highly paid professional need a fleabag in her hometown?

"You are getting old, ONeal. Could be any number of reasons. Maybe she was having an affair." Julie shrugged.

I’ve been single and old too long. I don’t know about such things. Have we ID’d the body yet?

Yeah, she’s Melissa Sweeney, a federal prosecutor.

The old man froze and stared coldly at the medical examiner who was still trying to be cavalier despite the horrific scene. The events of the last few hours of his life spun in his head.

That makes this a federal case, doesn’t it? And a real special one given what was done here, ONeal said.

And that is why I called you, Mr. Profiler.

You weren’t the first to call, ONeal commented. Has anyone contacted the spouse yet?

Not yet. Julie turned to the old man. We were going to interview him to find out his reaction.

So you suspect him.

Of course. Julie was confident. He has motive, she was having an affair. He could have been here.

Doubtful. ONeal sounded dubious. This one was detached enough to not know her very well.

All right, you’re the smart one, you tell me. Anne was sarcastic.

He planned it but didn’t plan the cover-up or tried to hide the body. Now the old man was sarcastic. That displays a certain amount of confidence that he thinks he will not get caught.

This could be sloppiness or stupidity? Julie questioned.

He watched the boyfriend leave. He knew he’d get in and knew what he’d do once he got in. ONeal paused and looked around. Did we get any fingerprints off the room yet?

She turned and asked, What would make you ask that question?

Did you? he insisted.

It’s a hotel room. You know as well as I that there are a myriad of fingerprints all over the place. The suspect list would include everybody in town.

Did you get anything for trace? He was getting excited.

We got semen stains from the sheets, two types of blood from the walls, semen from the bathroom, on the towels, and ten different sets of prints around the bathroom. We are collecting fingerprints from the hotel staff here.

You might as well start collecting semen from all the men on the street, ONeal said, looking around the room. Let me know what your DNA analysis is. Then he added, Does our vic have a head?

That is the really interesting part. She started getting excited now. Follow the blood trail.

No! he exclaimed. In the bathroom?

Not just in the bathroom, she exclaimed. Her head is in the toilet! He lifted the toilet lid, and a once beautiful head stared back at him with her glazed eyes still open.

Most vics don’t come up headless except occasionally during extremely violent crimes and industrial accidents, and sometimes in organized crime hits, ONeal said. Our killer is more than angry. He’s filled with hatred. There’s an obvious sexual intent and not so obvious religious overtone here.

Well, we can rule out the industrial accident, Julie smirked. But we have arterial spray all over this wall.

Yeah, that is arterial spray, but you have seen the videos of the terrorists cutting off heads. It’s just messy when they have to saw at it. Blood gets everywhere. This was almost neat and clean. ONeal took a step back from body.

Well, in the terrorist videos, the victims are usually awake and conscious. This vic was probably unconscious. Julie stood next to ONeal, pointing out her findings.

Think about this. ONeal held up his index finger. This guy, he came in here and chopped her head off in one stroke. Most people would make sure their victim was dead by some other means first. He cut her head off and made sure that she was still alive when he did it.

Holy hell. Julie looked shocked. What an animal!

He ignored Julie’s comment and squatted to study a shoe print. Jesus. This guy must be a giant. Do we know what size this bloody print is? ONeal inquired.

Size twelve. We’ll run the tread through the database, and we’ll know everything about this shoe tomorrow. We will know if the perp has athlete’s foot.

Well then, I wonder if we have any witnesses. Anyone who saw a giant leave the room or building. ONeal headed out of the room.

Blocking the door, an officer arrived out of breath from the lobby. He stood right next to Anne, who was still looking on, listing intently, and trying to stay out of sight. I questioned management. The same couple comes…came here every Tuesday for the last six months. Apparently, real regulars. Stayed a couple of hours then checked out. The cop leered at Julie. She knew and liked it.

The peach-faced officer was obviously fresh out of the academy. His uniform was cleaned and neatly pressed, but lacking any service ribbons. Also, none of the other occupants will talk. They all say the same boring things, ‘It was raining’ or ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

What is your name, son?

Officer Mike Kolafransico.

The old man studied the young cop’s face and winced again. Well done, officer. Don’t screw up by stepping in the blood.

Chapter

3

After processing the hotel suite, the old man emerged. Anne Borges shifted to the other side of the hallway as to try to be inconspicuous. She knew the old man was a treasure of information but wanted to remain in the shadows at least for now. Once in the hallway, he could hear Jeff Shinn giving his interpretation of what happened to a few agents, his young partner, some detectives, and officers who had gathered on the landing to hear the story.

So then the suspect sees the boyfriend leave. He is enraged. He stormed up the stairs and burst into the room, knocked the shit out of his old lady. Then, he took out his knife and cut her head off. The young Boy Scout was relishing his moment in the spotlight.

He stood in the middle of them. His blond hair made him stand out. He did not have to work out much, but he did anyways. His Irish descent was well known, and his voice carried.

Next, the coup de grâce. He walks into the bathroom and stuffs his wife’s head in the toilet, where it has been, in his mind, since the marriage began.

The crowd around the young agent laughed on cue. The old man was so focused on what the young agent had to say that he walked right past Anne unnoticed. Shinn, however, noticed that the one person who was not laughing stood outside the crowd, still listening to his interpretation of the killing.

What are you doing here, old man? the young agent asked.

The crowd around the young officer went silent, and a few of the officers began to leave.

Anne knew the two had met during the Larson case. Shinn, her new partner, was the lead agent chasing a murderer across state lines, an irate fiancé who had walked in on his girlfriend getting sweaty with another man. The fiancé killed him, left her alone with his corpse, and traveled to the next state to kill her father, mother, and their dog. ONeal tried to hurry Shinn along, but the FBI did not get there in time to save the dog.

Whenever a murder takes place, you know, there is a possibility that it could be a serial.

Not in this case. This is clearly rage-premeditated murder. Her husband is our number one suspect. He did it. The young agent was trying to prove himself in front of the other agents and officers.

I only said that there was a possibility that this was a serial, the old man replied. If you want to conduct your investigation as if this was a plain violent crime, then go ahead. I won’t get in your way, but I am going to just tag along to keep the director happy. Is that all right with you?

The young agent did not like his senior’s tone, nor did he like having the director mentioned with such esteem. Up until this point, the only times he had contact with the director was when he broke a big case. He always got his orders from the assistant director.

All right then, but this is still my case, the young agent clarified. I make the calls, I do the interviews. The husband is first.

Really? The old man’s wisdom saw through the inexperience of the young man who stood before him. This is not your ordinary killer. This one is no amateur. He knows what he is doing, and he has most likely killed before.

"Yeah, yeah, you’re probably going to tell me next how this case is