Aromatic hydrocarbons, such as those found in gasoline, stimulate sensory cells, causing a certain kind of pleasure. Many people think they enjoy the smell of gasoline for this reason. In situations where illegal drugs are difficult to obtain, these substances became substitutes. This phenomenon once swept through Taiwan and later spread to Seris.
In impoverished regions of Southeast Asia and Latin America, particularly among children, the abuse of volatile organic solvents (VOS) became rampant.
These substances can temporarily satisfy hunger and stave off cold when inhaled, which is why they became so popular among the destitute. People who use VOS regularly are easy to spot, as prolonged exposure to these fat-soluble volatiles leads to eczema around their nose and mouth.
"Long-term use of VOS can lead to emotional detachment, which might explain the killer's extreme brutality and violence," Jack explained.
"How did the killer get into the house?" Rossi asked.
"Here," Detective Daniels responded, walking briskly to a door leading to a half-basement.
"This is their laundry room. There's an unlocked window inside."
Rossi pointed to the iron on the table. "It's clear that he found the weapon there as well."
"Excessive violence, using whatever weapon was at hand, yet the killer remained methodical. After the attack, he followed a routine: cleaning himself up, searching for valuables, eating, and then sleeping in the victim's bed. This is a calm, methodical madman."
"Can you explain why he left behind these clothes?" Detective Daniels pulled out a large evidence bag.
Rossi looked surprised. "His own clothes? His personal belongings?"
"Yes," Daniels knelt near the human-shaped outline on the carpet. "The male victim, the head of the household, was found with these clothes draped over his chest and legs."
"We didn't encounter this detail in the previous cases. This is the first time we've heard of this," Jack said as he opened the evidence bag and inspected the filthy clothing. He noticed large mud stains on the pants legs.
"Why cover the body?" Rossi mused. "The killer put on the victim's clean clothes, slept in their comfortable bed, and draped his dirty clothes over the male victim."
"A form of transference, perhaps?" Jack suggested.
Rossi nodded. "He's seeking recognition of equal status. Everything this family has is something he lacks. Dissatisfied with his own life but unable to change it, he finds solace in destroying others' lives and pretending he's part of them. That explains why he lingers in the house after killing. He needs time to create the feeling of being at home."
Jack sensed that profiling the killer's psychology wasn't the difficult part of this case. He had a strong hunch that the police would soon identify the suspect. The real challenge was finding this transient murderer before he disappeared again.
Detective Daniels, nodding thoughtfully, raised another question. "A homeless drifter with no transportation—how's he moving so quickly across central California? Even the most charitable driver wouldn't let a filthy drifter hitch a ride."
"Perhaps if we figure out how he's traveling, we can track him down," Rossi said with a smile. "Jack, fill up the tank of your new car. Let's drive along Highway 99 and see if we can spark any ideas."
---
"You're in the Central Valley now. Hot and dry climate, but it benefits from the snowmelt from the surrounding mountains, making it the most important agricultural region in California. Seventy percent of the nation's citrus and forty percent of its wheat come from here, along with a variety of other fruits and vegetables."
Reid's encyclopedic voice rambled on over the phone, while Jack took in the endless farmland and irrigation channels before him, thinking to himself that this was truly a land of abundance.
They spent most of the day driving along Highway 99. Jack was amazed by the landscape. This wasn't like the vast grasslands he'd seen in Texas. The artificially cultivated and interconnected fields stretched as far as the eye could see, evoking a sense of human triumph over nature, a testimony to the accomplishments of mankind's efforts to shape the land.
"It's becoming clear now how the killer's been moving across California. He's been committing murders near Highway 99, but it's not necessarily about the highway," Rossi said, pointing to a nearby railway line.
"What do you mean?" Reid's voice, slightly raised in confusion, came through the phone.
"Trains. Freight trains," Jack and Emily said simultaneously.
At that moment, a long train rumbled by, its wheels clattering loudly against the overburdened tracks.
"We need to pick up the pace. With the frequency of derailments on federal freight lines—at least three times a day—I'm worried this killer might end up dead in a derailment before we find him," Jack joked, with a hint of malice.
Almost all American freight railways are privately owned. After Congress passed the Staggers Act in 1980, which deregulated the railroad industry, the freight rail sector became largely unregulated.
In contrast, passenger trains, including subways, are run by the government-owned Amtrak. Though Amtrak's stations are often criticized for their safety and cleanliness issues, the accident rate has remained low.
After spending the night in a small agricultural town, the three set out again the next day, heading straight for the nearest freight train station. They eventually got in touch with one of the officials.
A middle-aged, balding, and overweight white railroad cop greeted the three FBI agents.
"We suspect the killer has been hitching rides on freight trains, targeting homes within walking distance from the tracks," Jack explained, laying out their reasoning.
The cop, looking resigned, offered little hope. "Bulls and bums don't usually cross paths, so I might not be much help."
Emily, unfamiliar with the terms, asked, "What are bulls and bums?"
The balding officer shrugged and led them along the crooked railway tracks, explaining as they walked.
"They call us railroad police 'bulls,' and we call them 'bos,' short for hobos."
"You're saying you rarely come across these hitchhiking drifters?" Rossi asked, puzzled.
The officer chuckled, shaking his head as he greeted a few passing railway workers, most of whom were people of color in orange safety vests.
"I've seen plenty, but we rarely interact. Honestly, I'm just an armed scarecrow. The moment those guys spot me, they vanish without a trace."
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