Savelly pushed to bring in an experienced criminal psychologist from the city. The consultant was Professor Victor Neff, a respected expert in profiling serial offenders. The gray-haired academic in wire-rim glasses spent several days studying the case files in detail.
His conclusions unsettled even veteran detectives. “Your suspect,” he said, pacing the cramped office, “is not a conventional profit-driven offender. Money is not the goal. To him, it’s a symbol of someone else’s undeserved success.”
“He kills in service of a distorted idea. He fits the type we sometimes call the aggrieved avenger. Most likely he grew up in severe neglect, perhaps in state care. Early in life he suffered a deep humiliation that never healed.”
“It may well have come from a domineering adult woman. His victims are not random. He selects women who symbolize authority, control, and female power.”
“This broken man is acting out revenge, and each murder feels to him like a sacred correction of the balance. He will not stop on his own. He will keep killing until you stop him.”
“Look for him where social contrasts are impossible to miss—big markets, construction yards, transit hubs. He wants to stay close to his victims while remaining invisible, just another working man in the crowd.”
The professor summed him up as a dangerous man who lived in plain sight. The profile was disturbingly accurate. Savelly immediately ordered a review of former residents of children’s homes, shelters, and juvenile facilities.
It was a mountain of paperwork involving hundreds, maybe thousands, of files. Sorting through the names could have taken years. Meanwhile, Kravitz had no idea a serious manhunt was beginning to close around him.
He was calmly preparing the final act of his long game with Susan Orloff. One cold evening, the business owner was closing up her spacious flower shop. Her obedient handyman was helping carry out heavy boxes.
“Andrew,” she said, locking up with visible irritation, “drive me home in my car tonight. I’m worn out, and the engine’s acting up again.” It was exactly the invitation he had been waiting for.
He quietly slid behind the wheel of her expensive sedan. Susan settled into the passenger seat and began giving sharp instructions to her daughter over the phone. Her tone was as hard and commanding as ever.
Then the obedient driver suddenly turned off the well-lit main road onto a dark, rutted side road. “Where are you going?” she asked, annoyed and surprised. “I know a faster way, ma’am,” he said softly.
She never had time to understand, protest, or really feel fear. The blow from his massive fist knocked her unconscious instantly. After that, everything followed the same bloody routine he had already perfected.
The same abandoned summer camp. The same damp basement. The same sharp tool in his duffel bag. But this time, his perfect plan developed one small, fatal crack. He was in too much of a hurry to get rid of the weighted sacks because dawn was already beginning to show.
One of the bundles he threw from a high bridge had not been weighted properly. Instead of sinking, it snagged on a submerged branch near shore. Hidden under muddy water, the canvas sack was never carried away by the current…
