“So if you have any ideas, I’m all ears. I figure Wessels is grabbing at any straws he can and that’s why you’re here. I don’t put a whole lot of stock in profilers—” “I’ve got more experience than—” “But you used to be a cop,” he went on grimly. “Maybe a more than decent one, if the chief is requesting you. So if your instincts haven’t been destroyed by all this profiling crap, maybe you have something to offer. I don’t mind admitting that so far we’ve got jack shit.” He seemed to have a knack for igniting her temper and disarming it in the next moment. It’d be difficult to recall the last time she heard a cop confess to a lack of direction in a case. So in the end, she ignored the slam embedded in the invitation. “You do like off-the-cuff assumptions, don’t you?” He’d made a similar demand of the ME, with a discernible lack of result. “Fine. You’re likely looking for a male. They make up eighty percent of arsonists, and those odds jump significantly when you figure in the statistics for serial homicide.
