“What am I supposed to make of that?”
“Well, let’s take a look at the next six-month period. July through December, 1984. Maybe it’ll become clearer.”
Frost laid the next transparency over the map. A new set of dots was added, these marked in red.
“Again,” he said, “You’ll see some scatter around the country. But notice we have another cluster.” He sketched a circle around a group of three red dots. “San Jose, Sacramento, and Eugene, Oregon.”
O’Donnell said, softly: “This is getting interesting.”
“Wait until you see the next six months,” said Rizzoli.
With the third transparency, yet another set of dots was added, these in green. By now the pattern was unmistakable. A pattern that O’Donnell stared at with disbelieving eyes.
“My god,” she said. “The cluster keeps moving.”
Rizzoli nodded. Grimly she faced the screen. “From Oregon, it heads northeast. During the next six months, two pregnant women vanish from Washington state, then a third one disappears one state over, in Montana.” She turned and looked at O’Donnell. “It doesn’t stop there.”
O’Donnell rocked forward in her chair, her face alert as a cat about to pounce. “Where does the cluster move next?”
Rizzoli looked at the map. “Through that summer and fall, it moves straight east to Illinois and Michigan, New York and Massachusetts. Then it makes an abrupt drop to the south.”
“Which month?”
Rizzoli glanced at Frost, who shuffled through the printouts. “The next case shows up in Virginia, on December fourteenth,” he said.
O’Donnell said, “It’s moving with the weather.”
Rizzoli looked at her. “What?”
“The weather. See how it moved across the upper Midwest during the summer months? By fall, it’s in New England. And then, in December, it suddenly goes south. Just as the weather turns cold.”
Rizzoli frowned at the map. Jesus, she thought. The woman’s right. Why didn’t we see that?
“What happens next?” asked O’Donnell.
“It makes a complete circle,” said Frost. “Moves across the south, Florida to Texas. Eventually heads back to Arizona.”
O’Donnell rose from her chair and crossed to the screen. She stood there for a moment, studying the map. “What was the time cycle again? How long did it take to complete that circuit?”
“That time, it took three and a half years to circle the country,” said Rizzoli.
“A leisurely pace.”
“Yeah. But notice how it never stays in one state for long, never harvests too many victims in a single area. It just keeps moving, so the authorities never see the pattern, never realize it’s been going on for years and years.”
“What?” O’Donnell turned. “The cycle repeats?”
Rizzoli nodded. “It starts all over again, retracing the same route. The way old nomadic tribes used to follow the buffalo herds.”
“Authorities never noticed the pattern?”
“Because these hunters never stop moving. Different states, different jurisdictions. A few months in one region and then they’re gone. Onto the next hunting ground. Places they return to again and again.”
“Familiar territory.”
“Where we go depends upon where we know. And where we know depends upon where we go,” Rizzoli said, quoting one of the principles of geographic criminal profiling.
“Have any bodies turned up?”
“None of these have. These are the cases that remain open.”
“So they must have burial caches. Places to conceal victims, dispose of bodies.”
“We’re assuming they’d be out-of-the-way places,” said Frost. “Rural areas, or bodies of water. Since none of these women have been found.”
“But they found Nikki and Theresa Wells,” said O’Donnell. “Those bodies weren’t buried, but burned.”
“The sisters were found November twenty-fifth. We went back and checked the weather records. There was an unexpected snowstorm that week—eighteen inches fell in a single day. It took Massachusetts by surprise, closing down a number of roads. Maybe they couldn’t get to their usual burial spot.”
“And that’s why they burned the bodies?”
“As you pointed out, the vanishings seem to move with the weather,” said Rizzoli. “As it turns cold, they head south. But that November, New England was caught by surprise. No one expected such an early snowfall.” She turned to O’Donnell. “There’s your Beast. Those are his footprints on that map. I think Amalthea was with him every step of the way.”
“What are you asking me to do, a psychological profile? Explain why they killed?”
“We know why they did it. They weren’t killing for pleasure, or for thrills. These are not your usual serial killers.”
“Then what was their motive?”
“Absolutely mundane, Dr. O’Donnell. In fact, their motive is probably boring to a monster hunter like you.”
“I don’t find murder boring in the least. Why do you think they killed?”
“Did you know there are no employment records for either Amalthea or Elijah? We can’t find any evidence that either of them held down a job or paid into Social Security, or filed an income tax report. They owned no credit cards, had no bank accounts. For decades, they were invisible people, living on the outermost fringes of society. So how did they eat? How did they pay for food and gas and lodging?”
“Cash, I assume.”
“But where does the cash come from?” Rizzoli turned to the map. “That’s how they made their living.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Some people catch fish, some people pick apples. Amalthea and her partner were harvesters, too.” She looked at O’Donnell. “Forty years ago, Amalthea sold two newborn daughters to adoptive parents. She was paid forty thousand dollars for those babies. I don’t think they were hers to give.”
O’Donnell frowned. “Are you talking about Dr. Isles and her sister?”
“Yes.” Rizzoli felt a twinge of satisfaction when she saw O’Donnell’s stunned expression. This woman had no idea what she was dealing with, thought Rizzoli. The psychiatrist who so regularly consorts with monsters has been taken by surprise.
“I examined Amalthea,” said O’Donnell. “I concurred with the other psychiatrists—”
“That she was psychotic?”
“Yes.” O’Donnell released a sharp breath. “What you’re showing me here—this is a different creature entirely.”
“Not insane.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what she is.”
“She and her cousin killed for money. For cold hard cash. That sounds a lot like sanity to me.”
“Possibly . . .”
“You get along with murderers, Dr. O’Donnell. You talk to them, spend hours with people like Warren Hoyt.” Rizzoli paused. “You understand them.”
“I try to.”
“So what kind of killer is Amalthea? Is she a monster? Or just a businesswoman?”
“She’s my patient. That’s all I care to say.”
“But you’re questioning your diagnosis right now, aren’t you?” Rizzoli pointed to the screen. “That’s logical behavior, what you see there. Nomadic hunters, following their prey. Do you still think she’s insane?”
“I repeat, she’s my patient. I need to protect her interests.”
“We’re not interested in Amalthea. It’s the other one we want. Elijah.” Rizzoli moved closer to O’Donnell, until they were almost face-to-face. “He hasn’t stopped hunting, you know.”
“What?”
“Amalthea has been in custody for almost five years, now.” Rizzoli looked at Frost. “Show the data points since Amalthea Lank was arrested.”
Frost removed the earlier transparencies and placed a new one on the map. “The month of January,” he said. “A pregnant woman vanishes in South Carolina. In February, it’s a woman in Georgia. In March, it’s Daytona Be
ach.” He laid down another sheet. “Six months later, it’s happening in Texas.”
“Amalthea Lank was in prison all those months,” said Rizzoli. “But the abductions continued. The Beast didn’t stop.”
O’Donnell stared at the relentless march of data points. One dot, one woman. One life. “Where are we now in the cycle?” she asked softly.
“A year ago,” said Frost, “it reached California and began heading north again.”
“And now? Where is it now?”
“The last reported abduction was a month ago. In Albany, New York.”
“Albany?” O’Donnell looked at Rizzoli. “That means . . .”
“By now, he’s in Massachusetts,” said Rizzoli. “The Beast is coming to town.”
Frost turned off the overhead projector and the sudden shut-off of the fan left the room eerily silent. Though the screen was now blank, the image of the map seemed to linger, burned into everyone’s memories. The ringing of Frost’s cell phone seemed all the more startling in that quiet room.
Frost said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
Rizzoli said to O’Donnell: “Tell us about the Beast. How do we find him?”
“The same way you’d find any other flesh-and-blood man. Isn’t that what you police do? You already have a name. Go from there.”
“He has no credit card, no bank account. He’s hard to track.”
“I’m not a bloodhound.”
“You’ve been talking to the one person closest to him. The one person who might know how to find him.”
“Our sessions were confidential.”
“Does she ever refer to him by name? Does she give any hint at all that it’s her cousin, Elijah?”
“I’m not at liberty to share any private conversations I had with my patient.”
“Elijah Lank isn’t your patient.”
“But Amalthea is, and you’re trying to build a case against her as well. Multiple charges of homicide.”
“We’re not interested in Amalthea. He’s the one I want.”
“It’s not my job to help you catch your man.”
“What about your goddamn civic responsibility?”
“Detective Rizzoli,” said Marquette.
Rizzoli’s gaze stayed on O’Donnell. “Think about that map. All those dots, all those women. He’s here, now. Hunting for the next one.”
O’Donnell’s gaze dropped to Rizzoli’s bulging abdomen. “Then I guess you’d better be careful, Detective. Shouldn’t you?”
Rizzoli watched in rigid silence as O’Donnell reached for her briefcase. “I doubt I could add much, anyway,” she said. “As you said, this killer is driven by logic and practicality, not lust. Not enjoyment. He needs to make a living, plain and simple. His chosen occupation just happens to be a little out of the ordinary. Criminal profiling won’t help you catch him. Because he’s not a monster.”
“And I’m sure you’d recognize one.”
“I’ve learned to. But then, so have you.” O’Donnell turned to the door. Stopped and glanced back with a bland smile. “Speaking of monsters, Detective, your old friend asks about you, you know. Every time I visit him.”
O’Donnell didn’t need to say his name; they both knew she was talking about Warren Hoyt. The man who continued to surface in Rizzoli’s nightmares, whose scalpel had carved the scars in her palms nearly two years ago.
“He still thinks about you,” said O’Donnell. Another smile, quiet and sly. “I just thought you’d like to know that you’re remembered.” She walked out the door.
Rizzoli felt Marquette’s gaze, watching for her reaction. Waiting to see if she’d lose it, right there and then. She was relieved when he too walked out of the room, leaving her alone to pack up the overhead projector. She gathered up the transparencies, unplugged the machine, and wound up the cord into tight coils, all her anger directed at that cord as she wrapped it around her hand. She wheeled the projector out into the hallway and almost collided with Frost, who was just snapping his cell phone shut.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Natick. They’ve got a missing woman.”
Rizzoli frowned at him. “Is she . . .”
He nodded. “She’s nine months pregnant.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“YOU ASK ME,” said Natick Detective Sarmiento, “this is just another Laci Peterson case. Marriage off the rails, husband’s got a mistress in the wings.”
“He admits he’s got a girlfriend?” asked Rizzoli.
“Not yet, but I can smell it, you know?” Sarmiento tapped his nose and laughed. “Scent of the other woman.”
Yeah, he probably could smell it, thought Rizzoli as Sarmiento led her and Frost past desks with glowing computer screens. He looked like a man familiar with the scent of the ladies. He had the walk, the confident strut of the cool guy, right arm swinging out from years of wearing a gun on his hip, that telltale arc that shouted cop. Barry Frost had never picked up that swagger. Next to the strapping, dark-haired Sarmiento, Frost looked like a pale clerk with his trusty pen and notebook.
“Missing woman’s name is Matilda Purvis,” said Sarmiento, pausing at his desk to pick up a folder, which he handed to Rizzoli. “Thirty-one years old, Caucasian. Married seven months to Dwayne Purvis. He owns the BMW dealership here in town. Saw his wife last Friday, when she dropped in to see him at work. Apparently they had an argument, because witnesses said the wife left crying.”
“So when did he report her missing?” asked Frost.
“On Sunday.”
“It took him two days to get around to it?”
“After the fight, he said he wanted to let things cool down between them, so he stayed in a hotel. Didn’t return home till Sunday. Found the wife’s car in the garage, Saturday’s mail still in the box. Figured something was wrong. We took his report Sunday night. Then this morning, we saw that alert you sent out, about pregnant women going missing. I’m not sure this one fits your pattern. Looks more to me like your classic domestic blowup.”
“You checked out that hotel he stayed in?” asked Rizzoli.
Sarmiento responded with a smirk. “Last time I spoke to him, he was having trouble remembering which one it was.”
Rizzoli opened the folder and saw a photo of Matilda Purvis and her husband, taken on their wedding day. If they’d been married only seven months, then she was already two months pregnant when this photo had been taken. The bride was sweet-faced, with brown hair, brown eyes, and girlishly round cheeks. Her smile reflected pure happiness. It was the look of a woman who had just fulfilled her lifelong dream. Standing beside her, Dwayne Purvis looked weary, almost bored. The photo could have been captioned: Trouble ahead.
Sarmiento led the way down a corridor, and into a darkened room. Through a one-way window, they could see into the adjoining interview room, unoccupied at the moment. It had stark white walls, a table and three chairs, a video camera mounted high in one corner. A room designed to sweat out the truth.
Through the window they saw the door swing open, and two men entered. One of them was a cop, barrel-chested and balding, a face with no expression, just a blank. The kind of face that made you anxious for a glimpse of emotion.
“Detective Ligett’s going to handle it this time,” murmured Sarmiento. “See if we get anything new out of him.”
“Have a seat,” they heard Ligett say. Dwayne sat down, facing the window. From his point of view it was just a mirror. Did he realize there were eyes watching him through the glass? His gaze seemed to focus, for an instant, directly on Rizzoli. She suppressed the urge to step back, to recede deeper into the darkness. Not that Dwayne Purvis looked particularly threatening. He was in his early thirties, dressed casually in a button-down white shirt, no tie, and tan chinos. On his wrist was a Breitling watch—a bad move on his part, to walk in for police questioning flashing a piece of jewelry that a cop couldn’t afford. Dwayne had the bland good looks and cocky self-assurance that some women migh
t find attractive—if they liked men who flaunted pricey watches.
“Must sell a lot of BMWs,” she said.
“Mortgaged up to his ears,” said Sarmiento. “Bank owns the house.”
“Policy on the wife?”
“Two hundred fifty thousand.”
“Not enough to make it worth killing her.”
“Still, it’s two hundred fifty G’s. But without a body, he’ll have a hard time collecting. So far, we don’t have one.”
In the next room, Detective Ligett said: “Okay, Dwayne, I just want to go back over a few details.” Ligett’s voice was as flat as his expression.
“I’ve already talked to that other policeman,” said Dwayne. “I forgot his name. The guy who looks like that actor. You know, Benjamin Bratt.”
“Detective Sarmiento?”
“Yeah.”
Rizzoli heard Sarmiento, standing beside her, give a pleased little grunt. Always nice to hear you look like Benjamin Bratt.
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time here,” said Dwayne. “You should be out there, looking for my wife.”
“We are, Dwayne.”
“How is this helping?”
“You never know. You never know what little detail you might remember that will make a difference in the search.” Ligett paused. “For instance.”
“What?”
“That hotel you checked into. You remember the name of it yet?”
“It was just some hotel.”
“How’d you pay for it?”
“This is irrelevant!”
“You use a credit card?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Dwayne huffed out a sound of exasperation. “Yeah, okay. It was my credit card.”
“So the name of the hotel should be on your statement. All we have to do is check.”
A silence. “Okay, I remember, now. It was the Crowne Plaza.”
“The one in Natick?”
“No. It was out in Wellesley.”
Sarmiento, standing beside Rizzoli, suddenly reached for the telephone on the wall. He murmured into it: “This is Detective Sarmiento. I need the Crowne Plaza Hotel, in Wellesley . . .”
In the interrogation room, Ligett said, “Wellesley’s kind of far from home, isn’t it?”
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