In fact, criminal profiling—so commonly used today and so familiar to law enforcement and civilians alike—was still something of a fledgling science in the mid-eighties. That was what we think of now as the golden age of the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit. Those were the days of the Nine: nine legends in the making (Conrad Hassel, Larry Monroe, Roger Depue, Howard Teten, Pat Mullany, Roy Hazelwood, Dick Ault, Robert Ressler, and John Douglas) who came together in three or four different groups over that time span to bring profiling and the BSU to the forefront of law enforcement.

In 1985, the unit was housed at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, in offices sixty feet belowground—ten times deeper than the dead—in what agents referred to as the National Cellar for the Analysis of Violent Crime.

Setting Deeper Than the Dead in 1985 gave me the opportunity to write about those days and to insinuate a character into that mythical circle of the Nine. It also gave me a chance to walk down memory lane and remember the days of Dallas and Dynasty, Michael Jackson’s Thriller, and Members Only jackets.

We were all happenin’ in the eighties, and if anyone would have suggested then that we were living in an age of innocence, we would have thought them crazy. So much has happened in the decades since. Not all for the better, to be sure. Still, I’ll definitely take the advances made in forensic sciences, and I’ll definitely take my cell phone.

Chapter 1

1

My Hero

My hero is my dad. He is a great person. He works hard, is nice to everyone, and tries to help people.

His victim would have screamed if she could have. He had seen to it she could not open her mouth. There would have been terror in her eyes. He had made certain she could not open them. He had rendered her blind and mute, making her the perfect woman. Beautiful. Seen and not heard. Obedient. He had immobilized her so she could not fight him.

Sometimes he helps me with my homework because he is good at math and science. Sometimes we play catch in the backyard, which is really fun and cool. But he is very busy. He works very hard.

Her uncontrollable trembling and the sweat that ran down the sides of her face showed her terror. He had locked her inside the prison of her own body and mind, and there would be no escape.

The cords stood out in her neck as she strained against the bindings. Sweat and blood ran in thin rivulets down the slopes of her small, round breasts.

My dad tells me no matter what I should always be polite and respect people. I should treat other people the way I would like to be treated.