No, I thought. I’m sleep-deprived, and I can’t tell you why.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. I could see Dean piecing his way through the dozens of ways that I was just a shade off this morning. “I just can’t believe Agent Sterling’s idea of training us is…this,” I added, gesturing toward the textbook. From the moment I’d joined the program, I’d learned by doing. Real cases. Real crime scene photos. Real victims.
But this textbook? Bryce and Derek and Clark had probably all read one just like it. There were probably little worksheets to go with it.
“Maybe it is a waste of time,” Dean said, plucking the thought from my mind. “But right now, I’d rather waste our time than Sterling’s.”
Because Agent Sterling was hunting down Emerson’s killer.
I took the textbook from him and turned to chapter one. “‘Criminal Psychology is the subset of psychology dedicated to explaining the personality types, motives, and cognitive structures associated with deviant behavior,’” I read, “‘particularly that which causes mental or physical harm to others.’”
Dean stared down at the page. His hair fell into his face. I kept reading, falling into a steady rhythm, my voice the only sound in the room.
“‘Chapter Four: Organized vs. Disorganized Offenders.’”
Dean and I had taken a lengthy break for lunch, but my voice was still getting hoarse.
“My turn,” Dean said, taking the textbook from me. “If you read another chapter, you’re going to be miming things by the end.”
“That could get ugly,” I replied. “I’ve never been very good at charades.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?” Dean’s lips twisted into a subtle smile.
I shuddered. “Let’s just say that family game night is a competitive affair, and I’m also pretty dismal at Pictionary.”
“From where I’m sitting, that’s not exactly a character flaw.” Dean leaned back in his chair. For the first time since we’d seen the body on the news, he looked almost relaxed. His arms dangled loosely by his sides. His chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. His hair still fell into his face, but there was almost no visible tension in his shoulders, his neck.
“Did someone say character flaw?” Michael sauntered into the room. “I believe that might be one of my middle names.”
I glanced back down at the textbook, trying to pretend that I hadn’t just been staring at Dean.
“Middle names, plural?” I asked.
Michael inclined his head slightly. “Michael Alexander Thomas Character Flaw Townsend.” He shot me a lazy smile. “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“We’re working,” Dean told him flatly.
“Don’t mind me,” Michael said, waving a hand in our general direction. “I’m just making a sandwich.”
Michael was never “just” anything. He might have wanted a sandwich, but he was also enjoying irritating Dean. And, I thought, he doesn’t want to leave the two of us in here alone.
“So,” I said, turning back to Dean and trying to pretend this wasn’t awkward. “Chapter four. You want to take over reading?”
Dean glanced over at Michael, who seemed amused by the entire situation. “What if we didn’t read it?” Dean asked me.
“But it’s our homework,” I said, adopting a scandalized expression.
“Yeah, I know—I’m the one who talked you into reading it in the first place.” Dean ran his fingertip along the edge of the book. “But I can tell you what it’s going to say.”
Dean had been here five years, and this textbook was Profiling 101.
“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you give me the abbreviated version? Teach me.”
There was a time when Dean would have refused.
“Okay,” he said, staring at me from across the table. “Disorganized killers are loners. They’re the ones who never quite fit in. Poor social skills, a lot of pent-up anger.”
At the word anger, my eyes darted involuntarily toward Michael’s. Never fit in. Poor social skills. I could tell from the look on Michael’s face that I wasn’t the only one thinking that sounded like a bare-bones description of Clark.
Dean paused. I forced my eyes forward and willed Dean not to think too hard about why it was that hearing a few words about disorganized killers had led to something unspoken passing between Michael and me.
“In their day-to-day lives, disorganized killers are generally seen as antisocial and inept,” Dean continued after a long moment. “People don’t like them, but they’re not scared of them, either. If the disorganized killer has a job, it’s likely to be low-paying and low on respect. Disorganized killers may behave like adolescents well into adulthood; it’s statistically likely that they still live with one or more of their parents.”
“So what’s the difference between a disorganized killer and a loser?” Michael didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.
“If you were like Cassie and me”—Dean stared Michael down—”you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Dead silence.
Dean had never admitted that the two of us were the same before. He’d never believed it. He’d certainly never said it to Michael.
“Is that so?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, a sharp contrast to the seemingly unruffled smile on his lips. I looked down at the table. Michael didn’t need to see the expression on my face—the one that said that Dean was right. I didn’t have to ask Michael’s question, because I did instinctively know the answer. Being antisocial and angry and inept didn’t make someone a killer. Traits like those couldn’t tell us whether Clark had the potential for violence, or how much. The only thing they could tell us was what kind of killer someone like Clark would be, if he ever crossed that line.
If Clark were a killer, he’d be a disorganized killer.
“Organized killers can be charming.” Dean swung his attention from Michael back to me. “They’re articulate, confident, and comfortable in most social situations.” His hair fell into his face, but his gaze never moved from mine. “They tend to be intelligent, but narcissistic. They may be incapable of feeling fear.”
I thought of Geoffrey with a G, who’d lectured me on the meaning of modus operandi and mentioned Emerson without a whiff of grief.