Free The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) by Ingrid Black Page B

to.’
    ‘Sure he could, if he wanted to make an abstract academic point about profiling,’ Tillman agreed. ‘But most murderers aren’t interested in playing those sorts of fussy intellectual games. They’re obeying a more primitive instinct. You can’t get away from sex.’
    ‘Tim manages it most weekends,’ another student piped up.
    Everyone laughed, though Tim didn’t even seem to have heard the mocking. He was listening too intently as Tillman continued.
    ‘Even if our hypothetical murderer wanted to buck the profile,’ Tillman said, ‘every contact leaves a trace. Every physical contact leaves a trace – that’s the principle of forensics. But every contact leaves a psychological trace too. We may only be at the start of finding out how to interpret that trace, but we need to keep at it. Even if it’s only knowing if the killer was in a hurry, if there was excess violence, whether he’s organised or disorganised. It all adds up to building a rounder picture of the offender. We can’t hide the way we are in our actions. We can change aspects, but how we behave still has an inner logic of its own that can be mapped.’
    Tim shrugged, unconvinced.
    ‘Don’t just take my word for it. Ask Saxon here.’
    He nodded at me, and twenty heads turned in my direction.
    I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
    ‘Saxon,’ Tillman said, ‘is an FBI agent.’
    ‘Former FBI agent,’ I corrected.
    ‘Clarice Starling or Dana Scully?’ asked someone with a laugh. The same class wit who’d wound up Tim.
    ‘Nowhere near as effective as either, sadly,’ I said. ‘That’s why I left.’
    ‘And why she now writes books. She was working on a book about our friend Ed Fagan when he went missing. The one the local newspapers tell us is up to his old tricks again.’
    There were a few nods from people who obviously recognised who I was. A look of embarrassment on a few other faces too, as those who’d bothered to read up about their guest lecturer realised his uneasy relationship with me.
    ‘Are you helping to catch him?’ one girl asked.
    ‘As I said, I don’t work in law enforcement any more.’
    ‘You’re not here to ask Dr Tillman’s help then?’ she said; but before I could think of a noncommittal answer, a bell sounded outside in the courtyard for five o’clock, and Tillman rose to his feet with what seemed very much like relief.
    ‘Time’s up,’ he said, and he started gathering his papers together into a briefcase as the students filed reluctantly out.
    He waited till the last one had gone before speaking.
    ‘I have a meeting,’ he said then.
    ‘This won’t take long,’ I said. ‘I’ll walk you there.’
    He considered it, then nodded, though with little enthusiasm.
    ‘Interesting bunch of students you have,’ I said as he showed me out and we set off down the corridor, Tillman greeting people occasionally as they passed. He seemed to have become pretty well known in his first couple of weeks in Dublin.
    ‘Bright kids,’ he agreed. ‘This is a new ballgame for them. The college has only invited me here for a few months to see what interest there is in classes on criminal psychology. So far, it’s going well. They’re learning quickly.’
    ‘Like Tim.’
    ‘Tim’s got a first-rate mind,’ he said. He didn’t elaborate.
    ‘I was surprised to hear you were in town at all,’ I tried again. ‘Small world. You should’ve called me.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘We could’ve had dinner. A drink.’
    ‘For old times’ sake?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘You’ve had better ideas,’ he said.
    ‘You’re still mad with me about my book.’
    ‘I’m not mad,’ said Tillman. ‘I got over it. It just changed our relationship, that’s all. I don’t think it’s going to be root beer and potato chips for us from now on, you know?’ His sarcasm made root beer and potato chips sound like an offensive suggestion. ‘But that’s no reason why we can’t keep things professional. Like now.