by Josh Lanyon
You couldn’t stand in the presence of that indifferent malevolence and not be affected. Or at least Jason couldn’t. Kennedy was clearly made of tougher stuff given he had made the pursuit and capture of creatures like Pink his life’s work.
“When?” he asked reluctantly.
“Today. Now,” Kennedy said.
“Now?”
If Kennedy heard the note of dismay, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Right, and this time we’re going to try a different angle,” he said. “One more suited to your personality.”
“My personality? What does that mean? What’s my personality?”
Kennedy wasn’t exactly smiling, but his mouth had a wry curve. “You’re curious, imaginative, and have a flair for the dramatic. You like to talk, you’re a born smartass, and you get bored following a script.”
“The hell,” objected Jason. Flair for the dramatic? Born smartass? “You’ve known me all of two days!”
Kennedy shrugged. “It’s what I do. Remember?”
“How could I forget, O Oracle of Quantico?”
Kennedy grinned, and Jason, hearing his words, curled his lip.
“You sure you don’t want to go yourself?” Jason said after they parked in the visitors’ lot. He stared at the long, white, forbidding-looking building. “You’d probably get more out of him.”
“It’s tempting.” Jason realized Kennedy wasn’t joking. “I don’t want to give him that.” His mouth quirked a little. “I have every confidence in you, Agent West.”
“Sure you do,” Jason said dryly. “But thanks.”
He was startled when Kennedy reached over and gave his shoulder a quick, hard squeeze. As gestures of affection went that fell somewhere between buck up, little buckaroo and see you on the other side.
Which was actually kind of embarrassing because the last thing he wanted Kennedy to think was that he was having trouble with this—or worse, that he was afraid. When he glanced at Kennedy, Kennedy was staring out the windshield, frowning at his own thoughts, and Jason had already been dismissed.
Jason got out of the car and headed for the visitors’ entrance.
* * * * *
Pink was smiling as the interview room door closed behind Jason. He looked almost genial although the cold look in his eyes never changed. “What can I do you for, Special Agent Mulder?”
Kennedy had two instructions for round two with Pink: go with your gut, and keep him guessing.
“Let’s quit playing games. You know why I’m here,” Jason said.
Just for an instant Pink looked confused. That was a good thing, of course. That was what they wanted. Jason had spent the entire walk from the car to this room trying to think of ways to keep Pink off-balance. He just wished he didn’t feel equally off-balance.
He said briskly, “What can you tell us about the Huntsman?”
Pink stared at him without blinking.
Again Jason was struck by how unnaturally calm and focused Pink seemed for someone who had spent years with almost no human contact. He displayed none of the behaviors prisoners who spent extended periods in the special segregated units typically exhibited. No trouble meeting Jason’s eyes, no trouble sitting still, and certainly no fear. No fear at being out of his cell and no fear of Jason.
“You look familiar,” Pink said suddenly. “Do I know you?”
Jason asked coldly, “Do you?”
He remembered Pink. Not well. Remembered watching him fish along the banks of Holyoke Pond. Remembered joking with Honey that he only seemed to turn up on the days she was the scheduled lifeguard, never on Jason’s days. An odd guy. A guy you kept your distance from. Not someone you were afraid of. Not someone you thought about enough to be afraid of.
He could not afford to remember these things now.
Pink narrowed his eyes, considering. “What are you, twenty-nine? Thirty? You’re too young to have been on the Huntsman taskforce. Huh. Yeah. I know you.” He smiled. “I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”
The skin prickled between Jason’s shoulder blades. But then that was no doubt intended as intimidation. Image was everything in the serial killer business.
He kept his voice flat and unemotional. “I understand you’re allowed television and radio in your cell. You must be aware of the situation in Kingsfield. You’re not going to pretend you didn’t know the Huntsman—the real Huntsman—has returned?”
“The real…” Pink stopped. He laughed. A high breathy sound that raised the hair on the back of Jason’s neck. Pink stopped laughing. “Some little girl’s boyfriend breaks her neck, and you think that’s the work of the Huntsman?”
“This offender has the exact same MO.”
“This offender,” mimicked Pink. “Says who?”
“This offender has knowledge of things no one but the genuine Huntsman and law enforcement could know about those crimes.”
“The genuine—” Pink got control. He smiled again. “Maybe I have a-a disciple.”
Jason laughed. Maybe Kennedy was right. Maybe he did have a flair for the dramatic. “Yeah, right. Maybe you were the disciple.”
“No.”
Jason shrugged.
Pink’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t know everything. This brand new Huntsman of yours. I’ll bet money on that.”
Jason looked amused. “What do you think he doesn’t know?”
Pink watched him, as though trying to read Jason. He was probably very good at reading people. Jason stared right back. And again, he couldn’t help thinking Pink simply did not show the mental wear and tear prolonged solitary confinement typically inflicted. It was kind of depressing. Jason would have liked to know that Pink was suffering.
“It’s personal, isn’t it?” Pink said suddenly.
Jason felt a flicker of unease. “Yeah, personally I loathe psychopaths.”
Pink sat back in his chair, smiling knowledgeably. “Yep. It’s personal.” He clasped his hands, gently shaking the manacle chains as though he liked the sound of the links clinking. “I’ll tell you what this other Huntsman doesn’t know: the things you don’t know. The things that fucker Kennedy and the cops didn’t notice.”
“Like?”
“You’re fishing.” Pink’s rosebud mouth pursed scornfully.
“You’re faking.”
Something bright and inimical lit the empty depths of Pink’s eyes. “No, you little squirt. I’m not. You tell Kennedy to go over all his reports. All his files. All his notes. All his crime scene photos. His autopsy reports. He missed something ten years ago. Something he should have seen from the start. Something they all should have caught. You tell him to look again and look good. And then come and see me himself. I’m not wasting my time with the B Team.”
Jason nodded, picked up his file and rose. Pink watched him with cold satisfaction.
“Oh, wait.” Jason turned back. As though the idea had just struck him, he said, “Could you be talking about the mermaids?”
There was no clock, but he could hear the moments ticking by in the resounding silence.
Pink seemed genuinely stricken. Still as a statue, he stared at Jason. He didn’t seem to be breathing.
Jason smiled. “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”
Pink stammered, “Y-you—they—how do you know? No one ever—”
It was sort of fascinating to watch Pink’s confidence crumble. He’d been clutching that secret to his black and twisted heart all these years. So sure that in the final analysis he had outsmarted everyone even if only on this one point.
To him it would have been a major point.
Jason said, “There was already so much evidence against you. The trophies you took from the victims. The DNA splattered all over that van. All that hard forensic evidence. And the last thing anybody wanted to do was romanticize those homicides. So that piece of information was withheld until such time it was needed. Except it never was needed. It didn’t take that jury even eight hours to convict you.”
“
No one knew,” Pink whispered. “No one else could have known.”
“Somebody knew. I’m thinking the Huntsman.”
“I am the Huntsman!” Pink leaped to his feet and nearly overbalanced. His leg irons were fastened to the floor. He steadied himself on the steel edge of the table, breathing hard. “I am the Huntsman. Me. There is no one else.”
The guard had buzzed open the door, but Jason held up a hand. He threw over his shoulder, “We’re okay here.”
Pink sat down in the chair. He began to rock in a tiny, tight, agitated motion.
“Why mermaids?” Jason inquired.
Pink flicked him a peculiar look but did not answer.
“Well, you probably don’t know that either.”
This time the look Pink cast suggested Jason would be dead if things were different. They were not different, so there was more rocking back and forth.
“Because you’re not the Huntsman,” Jason pressed harder.
“I saw a mermaid once.” Pink stared down at the table.
“Where?” Jason was thinking of Rexford. Pink, who had extensively hunted and fished the area around Kingsfield, would almost certainly be familiar with Rexford. Maybe he’d seen the Fiji Mermaid. Maybe the sight of that grotesquery had sent him off his rocker.
Or maybe he was born with it.
“She had long blue hair,” Pink said. He smiled at the memory. “Down to her waist. And blue and gold scales on her tail. Cute little fins. And her boobs were covered by these two gold shells.”
“Where was this?”
“She stuck her tongue out at me.” Pink was still smiling. “And I thought…some day I’m going to cut that cute little tongue right out of your big mouth, you fucking fish cunt.”
Pink leaned forward to spit out the last three words with unsettling viciousness. Jason didn’t move a muscle, didn’t let anything show on his face.
What he was thinking was, they should have put you down when they had the chance.
“I bet you got that a lot,” he said.
Pink tilted his head. “What’d you say your name was again? Agent North? South? East? West.”
“That’s right,” Jason said. “Special Agent West. I’m in the phone book under F.U. So how do you think this copycat found out about your mermaid? You must have told someone.”
Pink rolled his eyes. Was he being devious, or was he just trying to look like he was being devious? Mostly he just looked unhinged. Granted, that went with the territory.
“He promised,” Pink mumbled. “No one would know. It was our secret. Only the two of us. No one else would ever know.”
Jason asked skeptically, “Who would never know?”
“Him. My disciple.” Pink rose. “Guard!” He thumped the table with his manacled hands. “Guard! We’re done here. Guard!”
Jason stepped away from the table as the guard entered the room.
As Pink was led away his eyes met Jason’s. There was an unholy gleam of laughter in his gaze.
Chapter Eleven
“You think Pink had an accomplice?” Kennedy asked.
They had left the prison and gone for coffee, although by then Jason could have used a real drink. He was glad to sit out on this patio, glad of the open air and sunlight. Even the exhaust of cars circling the small parking lot was refreshing after the gray atmosphere of MCI Cedar Junction.
“I think at the end he was trying to make me think he did,” Jason replied.
Kennedy’s face was grim, and no wonder. If he had missed this—missed an accomplice to Pink’s crimes—there would be no living that down.
Jason was pretty sure that was not the case. He said, “I think, belatedly, he wanted to create the illusion he’s the one in control. He’s still the mastermind. He’s the important one.”
Kennedy drummed his fingers on the pink melamine surface of the patio table, thinking. “Not bad, West.”
Jason scowled. “Don’t sound so surprised. I did graduate from the academy.”
All at once he seemed to have Kennedy’s complete and critical attention. “I know. And you did very well. Top of your class. You’re on the fast track to promotion from everything I hear. I’m curious as to why someone with a Masters in Art History would want to go into law enforcement.”
“I like to keep busy.” Jason crumpled his cup and tossed it into the trash bin.
Kennedy, continuing to eye him, offered one of those humorless smiles.
Jason wasn’t sure if he was flattered or alarmed Kennedy had bothered to check up on him. Especially now.
“And a Harley to boot.”
Jason narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t worry. I have no idea who the Harleys are. Nor do I care.”
Now that Jason believed. He asked, “What’s the real reason you sent me in there to talk to Pink rather than interviewing him yourself?”
Kennedy’s blue appraisal grew unexpectedly chilly. “The real reason? I needed an impartial judge.”
Jason thought this over. “To determine whether Pink really was the Huntsman?”
“You got it. It’s what you’re here for, right? To make sure I didn’t screw up that earlier investigation—and that I don’t screw up this one.”
“No one suggested you screwed up the earlier investigation.”
Kennedy’s gaze grew mocking. “Tactfully put. You’ll do well in management.”
“Fuck off,” Jason said quietly.
Kennedy’s pale brows rose.
“Sir,” Jason added.
Kennedy laughed. It was a sound of genuine amusement. “Or maybe not. Anyway, don’t sir me. I’m not your supervisor as you know very well.”
Yes, they were both aware of their roles. Even so, Jason was a little startled by his reaction. Kennedy had a way of getting under his skin. But then, Kennedy had a way of getting under everyone’s skin. That was part of what made him good at his job.
It was also part of why he didn’t have a lot of friends to back him up when he needed it.
Jason said, “If you really were worried, you can relax. I’ve got no doubt Pink is the Huntsman. I don’t believe he ever had an accomplice. I believe he acted alone. And as far as acquiring an apprentice, it was clear to me in the initial part of the interview he was floored at the idea that there could be a successful copycat.”
Kennedy said, “That doesn’t rule out the possibility that he’s got one.”
“If he does, it’s news to him. And not good news either.”
“Maybe.” Kennedy seemed unconvinced. Was he genuinely afraid he had missed something crucial in that initial investigation? Self-doubt seemed out of character for him.
Jason said, “I don’t think Pink plays well with others. And I don’t just mean the homicidal maniac thing, though that’s an obvious factor. I don’t think he’s the type to share the glory or the gory. He’s a one-man show.”
“Yeah.” Kennedy drained his coffee and dropped the cup in the trash. “But someone’s waiting in the wings.”
As they walked back to their car, Jason said, “He honestly didn’t think you were aware of the mermaid connection. I don’t know how he imagines every single person on that taskforce could have missed it, but he’d convinced himself you had. I think that was important to him. Believing he’d gotten away with something. Believing there was still something that was his and his alone.”
“Very possible. It would be his final shared intimacy with the victims.”
At Jason’s questioning look, Kennedy said, “That’s the real point of taking trophies. Serials like to relive their relationship, if you will, with the victims. Trophies help facilitate that.”
“By relationship you mean murder.”
“There’s more to it, but yes, murder is always the keystone of the relationship. Trophies are like talismans. They’re tangible. They’re proof it actually happened. In Pink’s case he took trophies, but he also left something of his own, of himself, with the victims. It was another way of keeping the connection.”
“Delightful,” Jason said bitterly.
“In some ways Pink was pretty naïve. It was more luck than cunning that allowed him to run free so long. In an urban environment, he’d have been caught right away.”
“What was the significance of the mermaids? He told me some cock-and-bull story about a mermaid sticking her tongue out at him once. I think he must have been talking about one of the girls who used to work at the Blue Mermaid. But nothing ever happened to any of those girls. At least not that I remember hearing.”
“No. We were never sure what the significance of the mermaids was.”
Jason stared at the highway and the never-ending stream of cars racing into oblivion.
Kennedy glanced at him and said, “You’re never going to get a satisfying answer on the why. Serial killers don’t kill for the normal reasons of gain or revenge or lust. Their motives don’t even qualify as motives as recognized by a rational mind.”
“Insanity is a legal definition not a medical diagnosis.”
“True. But how else do you classify the brain of a ruthless predator that kills and tortures for pleasure? People want to understand the why and the how, but there are some things there’s no understanding.”
Yes. Kennedy had this right. Despite his training and education, Jason still wanted to understand, still wanted to be able to make some sense out of…insanity. Because regardless of legal definitions, there was nothing normal about a person who could do the things Pink had done.
Jason forced his thoughts to the practical. “Couldn’t you track the manufacturer down?”
“We tried. We didn’t get anywhere. George Simpson had only purchased the gift shop that year. The mermaids Pink bought from him were the last of already existing stock. It was a dead end.”
Kennedy pressed the key fob unlocking the doors, and they climbed into the sedan. However, Kennedy didn’t start the engine. He seemed to be thinking.
“Something wrong?” Jason asked.
“No.” Kennedy glanced at him. It was an odd look. A measuring look.
“Are you sure?”