Profiler

If you would like to know how we arrived at this story/chapter, you may want to read The Christening,  then  Flying Pizza, then Position Vacant: Pizza Delivery Driver, then And Just Like That He Was Gone.

“Until this taskforce was established, Christopher Dawson had slipped under the radar,” said the moderately attractive woman.

A trained eye would have noticed that she was nervous, and the room was full of trained eyes. Fortunately for her, they just wanted the meeting to be over, so they were less than observant.

“Exhaustive research, revealed his name several times in domestic violence cases going back more than a decade. Always as a peripheral character. He has never been wanted for anything. Never been a suspect.”

“Until now,” said Inspector McBride to his Sergeant.

The speaker gave him a glance.

“Several women have stated that he helped them escape violent partners. So how is he constantly on hand in these situations? It has been hypothesised that he is receiving information from someone inside the police force.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” said the Inspector and the speaker gave up her campaign of withering looks — police officers seemed immune.

The speaker was Inspector Glenis Waters. 

She had worked her way up through the ranks and had studied psychology in her own time. She specialised in criminal profiling and had spent time in the United States at the FBI’s headquarters.

She was considered a ‘rising star’, particularly after writing a profile of the Sandpit Murderer. She described him in remarkable detail, down to the unmatched socks.

“We have discounted this theory because of the widespread nature of the domestic violence cases. There is no central registry for domestic incidents.”

Inspector Waters paused. If it were blokes who were getting the shit kicked out of them, there’d be a central registry, she thought.

“So there is no-one who had access to all the incidents.”

“What we have here is a classic hero type. A guardian angel delusion. A tiny brain that needs significance. I’m not sure yet why he broke his carefully constructed mould and branched out into murder, but I do know that he now has a taste for it and we need to stop him,” said Inspector Waters.

“What’s with his costume?” said a voice from the back.

There were a variety of police officers wedged into the muster room. Some were directly involved in the task force, and a couple had invited themselves out of curiosity — curiosity about the case, and curiosity about the star profiler.

Inspector McBride and Sergeant Wilson were sitting on a desk at the back of the room.

“His winged helmet and leather jacket are a sign of his flamboyance. The wings are obvious.”

“Not to me,” said Sergeant Wilson. 

Another attempt at a withering glance.

Withering glances aside, McBride and Wilson felt that they had been judged and found wanting.

The chief commissioner summoned them to his office some three weeks prior.

“I want this bozo caught! We do the police work in this state, not this nutbag. I’m getting calls from the Minister and I’m sick of reading about this bloke in the papers. Sort this out. Get a task force together.”

Inspector McBride wanted to ask where the money would come from, but his Sergeant stopped him just in time. These meeting types were traditionally one-way conversations, finished off with a “Yes Sir,” at the end.

“Christopher Dawson does not appear to exist prior to about ten years ago, which means that he probably came here from interstate. We’ve sent out a general alert and are waiting to hear back, but in the meantime, here’s what we have found out.” Inspector Waters consulted her notes.

“He’s probably from bloody Queensland,” said a voice from the back. A light smattering of laughter broke out.

Inspector Waters waited for it to die down.

“He doesn’t have a driver’s licence, which fits with why he delivers pizza on a bicycle.”

“We have people working on the idea that he might have been involved in a road accident back in the day. Maybe he was driving or was hurt by another driver,” said Sergeant Wilson. The eyes in the room were on him, but he didn’t have anything else to add.

“There aren’t many photographs of this man, with the single exception of the newspaper shot. It’s a profile shot and a bit shaky, but it shows enough to tell us that this man has not changed his appearance, in the slightest, in more than ten years.”

“Maybe he’s Dorian Grey,” said a young female, who was sitting on the window sill. She’d rather noisily opened a window before she sat down.

A young constable asked his mate who Dorian Grey was, and his friend said he was a local pimp. The young constable seemed even more confused.

The general absence of laughter made the young female feel on the outer. Either the occupants of the room were not well-read, or they just didn’t like her. She decided on a mix of the two.

“What about CCTV?”

“I was coming to that and it’s weird. The local station went looking for footage around the time of the newspaper photo. Nothing. Some of the businesses in the area delete their footage after forty eight hours, but some keep their footage on a cloud server. Every one of them reported the same situation. Whenever they should have recorded the pizza delivery driver ride by, the footage was blank. Only for a few seconds, but blank. All the stores use different storage companies so that rules out hacking. Even if this bloke was skilled enough to hack all these accounts, he should have missed one — it’s the law of averages.”

Inspector Waters banged her hand on the lectern, which was her first sign of emotion.

“Why not delete the whole file?” she added. No one had an answer.

Someone’s tummy rumbled, and the people around them laughed.

“I know it’s lunch time so I’ll sum up what I know so far. Other than what I’ve mentioned, we know that he lives a simple existence. He doesn’t have a lot of possessions. He always wears the same clothes — no one reports seeing him anywhere near a laundromat. He doesn’t eat at local cafes and doesn’t appear to eat at home. No groceries in his cupboards, either that or he stopped to gather them up when he left in a hurry after the murder — unlikely, if you ask me.”

Inspector McBride dug cellophane lollies out of his pocket and offered one to his Sergeant.

“Might stop us from starving,” said the Inspector. His Sergeant took one with a smile.

“He always rides a white bicycle. No one reports him walking any distance — possible due to an accident?” The Inspector looked in the direction of McBride and Wilson, as an acknowledgement.

“His chrome helmet seems to be homemade and the wings stuck to his leather jacket are remarkably well maintained. How does he manage this? Does he have spare sets somewhere. He has to renew them sometime. Is someone supplying them?”

“Going back to something you said earlier,” said the female sitting on the windowsill, and the room gave a groan, which increased her belief that it was her they didn’t like.

“How do we know that he hasn’t changed much in ten years.”

“Sorry, I forgot to mention, we have a photo that someone took when he was working at Bazza’s Pizza in Benalla. They had a camera and asked for what passed as a selfie, back in those days.”

A slightly out of focus photograph flashed up on the screen that had previously been showing the newspaper shot. Three smiling females and one serious man looked at the camera. The man was dressed in the same jeans and leather jacket, and he was holding his chrome winged helmet under his arm as a soldier would when standing at attention. His hair was dark and wavy and was unkempt in a way that suggested that he didn’t worry much about his appearance.

His eyes were the first thing you noticed — piercing, but kind and gentle. They made you want to hug him or buy him a beer — probably both.

“The woman on his right, is one of the women he ‘saved’. She still had the photo when we contacted her. She was reluctant to part with it. I had to take a photo of it on the spot, which explains why it’s a bit out of focus.” 

Gentle laughter.

“As you can see,” the photos were placed side by side by constable Perkins, who prided himself on his I.T. abilities, “he looks exactly the same. Hasn’t aged a day.”

“Blokes get it easy in the ageing department,” said the window sill.

“Piss off, you sheilas have all those wonder drugs — anti ageing shit. All we have is beer and a comfy couch,” said someone who was too hungry to care anymore.

Generous laughter, including the window sill. 

The mood toward her had softened, even if she was at the end of the joke.

“Okay. I know you creatures are hungry, so I’ll ask if there are any questions?”

Sergeant Wilson hesitated before asking, “Why do you think this bloke went from saviour to killer?”

Inspector Waters stretched her arms above her head and gave a customary sigh that comes with a stretch. She put her arms by her side and looked at Sergeant Wilson.

“Maybe he just got fed up. Do you ever feel that way Sergeant?”

Sergeant Wilson didn’t answer.

The room emptied at the pace you would expect. Inspector Waters was invited to lunch by the station commander.

“There is a good Chinese restaurant close by?” he said.

“I don’t mind where we go as long as it isn’t a pizza place,” said Inspector Waters and the Commander smiled. 

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