“That’s the best you could come up with?” said Brendan. “Another Irish alcohol joke? You need some new material, buddy.” Brendan stood up as Mitch handed him a beer. “This is a great apartment, Mitch. What’s your rent, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Eight hundred.”
“You’re kidding. For an apartment in Harvard Square?”
“Welcome to the People’s Republic of Cambridge.” Mitch smiled. “I got this place when I was in law school. I don’t think I’ll ever move out.”
Brendan walked over and tapped a door that was off to the right of the television. “What’s back here?”
“My bedroom. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. It’s a mess. I cleaned up by throwing half my shit in there.”
Brendan opened the door and looked in the room. “Bedroom? I can’t even see a bed.”
“I told you. Now, get out of there.”
“Whew! It stinks worse than a locker room.” Brendan pulled his shirt up and held it over his nose. “You need to do the laundry before that stuff comes to life.”
“Close the door. I’m serious.”
“Okay. Don’t get your bloomers in a twist. What about this room?” Brendan reached for another door at the foot of the couch, where Connie was sitting. “What’s with the dead bolt?”
“That room’s really off-limits,” Mitch said. “I’ve got personal family stuff in there.” He suddenly realized that this was what he was worried about: someone trying to intrude on his private life. Having people over was one thing, but having them pry into his secrets was another. He wasn’t sure what their reaction would be if they saw what was in the room, but he was certain they wouldn’t understand it. That room was the one sanctuary he had in his life. It was the place he could go to when he wanted to be alone, but not feel alone.
Nick stood up, nudging Brendan away from the door. “It looks like we’re onto something here. Wouldn’t you all love to know what’s behind door number one?”
“The door’s locked, Nick.” Mitch began to gnaw at his fingernails. It was a bad habit he usually managed to control. “Don’t even think about going in there.”
“Maybe you forgot to lock it. Let’s see. It must be something good.” Nick reached for the knob.
Mitch moved quickly and knocked Nick’s hand away, sliding himself between Nick and the door. He could feel the anxiety rising in his chest. He never should have invited them over. He didn’t want them to see him lose his temper. He needed to defuse the situation without making himself look like a nut.
“I was right, guys,” Nick smiled. “We’re onto something here.” He tried to reach around Mitch to get to the knob again.
“That’s it.” Mitch grabbed the smaller man in a headlock and started grinding his knuckle into Nick’s scalp. “You want a noogie, is that it? I’ll give you a noogie, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Connie and Brendan started laughing as Nick struggled to get out of his grasp. He managed to free his head after a couple of seconds.
“Hey, that hurt.” Nick backed away from the door, rubbing his head. “All right, I get it. You don’t want me going into that room.”
“That’s right. Try it again and you get an atomic wedgie,” Mitch said.
“I was just kidding around. I didn’t see you jumping down Brendan’s throat for going in the bedroom.”
“Brendan weighs, what, fifty pounds more than me? I’m not stupid enough to try and noogie him.”
“Have a seat, Nick, before you get your ass kicked again,” Connie said.
“I would like to see what’s in that room, though.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Mitch said.
“Fine.” Nick started back to his seat, then made another quick lunge toward the door. “I almost had you there.” Nick laughed before taking his seat on the chaise.
Mitch sat at the end of the couch near the door so he could guard it. He had played it off pretty well, making a joke out of it. But he was sure they were all curious now about what was in the room. He never should have invited them over.
CHAPTER 49
Alves watched Mooney step through the tall French doors into the entrance hall of the old mansion, now broken up into a handful of upscale condominiums. It was four in the morning. Mooney didn’t appear to be fully awake, his eyes half open, his face devoid of color. He wore a clean, newly pressed suit with a starched white shirt. They never knew if they’d be caught on camera, so they always looked professional.
“What’s her name?” Mooney asked.
“Jill Twomey. An investment banker.”
“Was it him?” Mooney asked.
Alves nodded. “The call came in about a half hour ago. Never said a word. Left the phone on the kitchen counter. No signs of forced entry. Our man either got out of lockup somewhere or he got bored.”
“Where’s her unit?”
“Down the hall, on the right. The bathroom is just off the bedroom,” Alves said, leading Mooney to the entrance of her condominium.
A uniformed officer was looking around the living room as Mooney and Alves arrived at the front door. Behind him was a guy wearing tan khakis, a button-down oxford shirt, tasseled loafers with no socks and sunglasses flipped up and balanced on his gelled hair. A regular Joe Cool.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mooney asked.
The young cop spun around to face them, offering a thin smile. Joe Cool hesitated for a second and then tried to take control of the situation. He reached into his pocket and took out his credentials. “Richard Wahl. I’m with the district attorney’s office. I work out of the East Boston Court.”
“I’m sorry. That’s why I’ve never seen you before,” Mooney said, now with a pleasant voice. Alves recognized that Mooney was ready to explode on the young lawyer. “Is this your first night being on call?” Mooney asked.
“First week. I actually went out to a shooting Saturday night and a sudden death last night—”
“Gee, Dick, that’s great,” Mooney cut him off. He put his hand on his shoulder and led him toward the door. “There’s just a few things you probably want to remember when you go out to a call.”
“What’s that?” Joe Cool asked, nonchalantly, sauntering along toward the door, not suspecting a thing.
Alves could see Mooney’s knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on the back of Mr. Cool’s neck, almost bringing him to his knees. “Don’t you ever walk into another one of my crime scenes. Now, get the fuck out of here, Dick.” Mooney shoved him through the door and turned to the young patrolman, who still hadn’t said a word. “Your job is to make sure no one comes in here, including yourself, without my permission.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” he said as he hurried into the hallway and disappeared.
Alves would have felt bad for the two of them if Joe Cool hadn’t been such a cocky bastard. Mooney had taught them never to compromise a murder investigation.
Mooney turned back to Alves as if nothing had happened. “Angel, where are the guys from the crime lab?”
“They should be here any minute. I talked with Eunice. She’s coming out too.”
“We have to make sure we don’t miss anything. Any thoughts on how he got in?”
“I checked around the back of the house before you got here. It’s pretty dark back there. And there’s an overgrown rhododendron blocking her windows. He could have gotten in that way. Nobody would have seen him.”
“Put a couple of uniforms back there to make sure no one goes near those windows until the crime lab gets here.”
“Already done,” Alves said. “I told them to keep everyone away from the house so they don’t mess up any possible shoe prints.”
“Then I want that whole area around the windows fumed for fingerprints, inside and out. Have them set up a tent ten feet in all directions. Same for the inside. If they can’t do it with a tent, remove the windows and take them back to the lab for processing. Cut the whole wall out with a Sawzall if yo
u have to.”
“I’ll talk to Eunice about the best method.”
“I have to call the commissioner. He wants constant updates. I wish I had more for him. The only thing we know for sure is that this guy likes to kill on weekends and holidays. He might be holding down a regular job, and these are the only times he can squeeze his murders in. I don’t see any other pattern. Fuck, I even checked if he’s working on a lunar cycle.”
Alves felt sick about it, but he was grateful to have a run at another crime scene. Now, at least, they had the possibility that the killer might have made a mistake and left them something. How else could he find Robyn?
CHAPTER 50
Richter sat in the darkness, meditating. His work was not yet complete but soon, God willing, it would be. If God willed it, then God would continue to provide Richter with the necessary opportunities. He always had.
Richter grew closer to God with each of his achievements. When he was a child, a woman, maybe a teacher at school, had told him that “cleanliness is next to godliness.” She couldn’t have been more wrong. The only thing that was close to godliness was power, absolute power over others.
Richter thrived on the power he achieved by saving the chosen few. There was no greater feeling than controlling, and then taking, the life of another. Most people, ordinary people, spent their lives trying to increase the amount of power and influence they had over others. Foolishly, their main goal was to use this power for financial gain, popularity, fame. They were not seeking true power.
Richter received his greatest satisfaction watching the lifeblood slowly leave a person’s body at his hands. He understood that there was no greater way to influence someone’s life than to take it away from them, and then watch the domino effect of how that death altered the lives of those around them. This was absolute power, the ability to affect the lives of others against their will and in a way that could never be reversed.
But exerting this power had never been Richter’s real reason for killing. He was making a serious sacrifice for the people he had killed. Each time, he was risking his own life, his own liberty.
He took these ordinary people and gave them something more. He showed them that there was something greater. People cried for them, prayed for them, created small shrines by hand. No one had done this for them when they were going about their everyday existence. Before, they were sheep. Now they were immortal.
Once they overcame their initial fears and realized that it was futile to struggle, they had all accepted their deaths willingly, quietly slipping into a peaceful slumber. He could have killed them more easily, and perhaps less painfully, but it was important for them to see their savior as they breathed their last breaths. Richter was comforted knowing that even if they felt any pain, it was brief. Now they would never have to experience pain again. Once they became a part of his creation they would appreciate all he had done for them.
Richter stood and walked over to his DVD collection. The darkness felt cool against his naked skin. He inserted a disk and sat back on the couch before pushing the play button on the remote control.
This was his tribute to Jill Twomey. Only two days had passed since her death and Richter had plenty of television footage. It started with a television reporter standing in the street outside Jill’s home talking about the tragedy that “had rocked this quiet neighborhood in Jamaica Plain.” Jill lived on Moss Hill, an exclusive area where the mayor of Boston also lived.
The reporter spoke with one neighbor after another about what a nice woman Jill Twomey had been and how they could not believe something so horrible had happened to her. One woman talked of playing tennis with her every Sunday morning and the mayor, although he did not know her personally, talked about seeing her running past his house a couple of times a week.
The mayor promised to put as many officers as possible on the case. He announced, his face intense with the graveness of the situation, that he’d get the FBI involved in the investigation. Jill Twomey was the fourth woman murdered in less than six months and the police still didn’t have a single suspect or any viable leads.
Richter began to get aroused as he watched. He always did. Even that first time in Arizona. But he couldn’t allow it. He wasn’t weak like the others. Many of them would deny that there was anything sexual about their killings, but it was always about sex with them. He could control his urges. He was above that.
The image switched to a news anchorwoman talking about the tragedy of Jill Twomey’s death. Behind the anchorwoman was a still photograph, probably taken from Jill’s college yearbook. There she was, with her big 1980s hairdo that was probably held up by half a can of Aqua Net hair spray, ready to take on the world. Maybe she’d hoped to be famous someday. If only she knew how famous Richter had made her, she’d be thanking him now. The story then cut to a field reporter who spoke with some of Jill’s work friends, all of them crying.
This was all building up to his favorite part. One of the syndicated tabloid news shows had gotten hold of a tape of Jill at a company cookout. She looked good in her cutoff jeans and tight white T-shirt. She was making silly faces at the camera as several men tried to put the moves on her.
Richter hit the rewind button and watched the footage a second time. This was the real Jill Twomey. She wasn’t sitting in a stiff, uncomfortable pose for a yearbook photo.
Richter watched as Jill walked toward the camera, acting sexy, arching her back, sticking out her chest and shaking her hips. She looked to be a little drunk, trying to put on a show for the cameraman as she danced toward him. She caressed her hands up and down her body from her hips to her breasts, with the men watching her every move. Wolves closing in around Richter’s innocent little lamb.
Jill Twomey would never have to worry about the wolves again. Richter shivered knowing that he had saved her.
CHAPTER 51
Not a good sign. Four empty coffee cups scattered in front of Mooney and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Mooney started talking before Alves got through the doorway.
“In case you didn’t know this already,” he said, his feet propped up on his desk, “you can never trust the feds.” Behind Mooney’s head, filling almost the entire wall, was his dry-erase board with columns written in different color markers. There was a column for each victim, listing leads, evidence recovered and connections among the cases. There was a lot of white space on the board.
Angel Alves had only had one experience working with the FBI and it wasn’t a good one. It was before he’d made it to Homicide. He and the BPD Drug Control Unit had been working a case for months with DEA agents. As they were getting ready to wrap up the investigation, the FBI got involved in the takedown of the big dealers and ended up taking credit for the whole operation. “I hate those guys as much as anyone,” Alves said, “but I don’t think we have any choice.”
“After the mayor goes on TV and makes the announcement, there’s nothing we can do.”
“What do we know about the people they’re sending?” Alves asked.
“They’ll be here tomorrow. The commissioner told me they’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. They probably have less street smarts than a fifteen-year-old kid from Dorchester.”
Alves recognized the beginning of a familiar rant. If no one interrupted him, Mooney would go on for hours.
“The commissioner wants us to share all our files. They’re supposed to be two of the bureau’s top profilers. They’re going to fill us in on the general characteristics of our killer and give us some investigation tips. Then we’ll be in a better position to catch the guy.” Alves detected the sarcasm tinting Mooney’s voice. “Bullshit. Profiler or no profiler, it’s going take hard work and luck on our part. A mistake by the bad guy wouldn’t hurt either.” Mooney gestured for Alves to take a seat. “Profiles are just common sense. I’ve already come up with my own. It’s the same one that they have for most serial killers. I guarantee you it’s what these guys from Quantico will come up with. I’ll bet y
ou two slices and a Coke, if you’ll take my action,” Mooney stuck his hand out toward Alves.
“No thanks, Sarge. I’ll take your word for it.”
“White male, age twenty-five to thirty-five, lives with his mother or alone, doesn’t have many friends, has a history of arson and/or animal abuse as a child, commits organized and planned killings, may have lost his job or a promotion to a woman due to affirmative action, has had difficulty dating but may currently have a girlfriend, although there is a strong likelihood that he doesn’t have sexual relations with her and he may actually be impotent.”
Alves smiled. Not much different from the profiles the experts always came up with on the crime shows Marcy watched. But Mooney was rolling. Let him go with it.
“Say I were to come up with a profile of a drug dealer in a largely black neighborhood like Roxbury or Mattapan, he would be a young black male wearing loose-fitting, dark clothing, possibly riding a bike. That could describe almost every kid in that neighborhood. He would also come from a poor background. He’s not interested in school and sees that he can make money easily by selling drugs.
“I could come up with the same profile for every other neighborhood in the city. In Brighton the kid would be white or Asian, in East Boston he’d be Hispanic, and in Southie he’d be white. We can’t go around arresting every kid who fits the description. That’s why police departments get sued for profiling. Once our guy makes a mistake, we can use our profile to build a case against him. But we still need to have evidence that he committed the crime.”
Alves snuck a glance at his watch. Enough with the profile lecture. He wanted to get back to work, anything to feel like he was doing something besides sitting in Mooney’s office, a captive audience.
“This isn’t hard science. Our guy might not fit this profile at all. He could be black, Asian or Hispanic. He could be forty-five years old and have ten girlfriends and a great job. Just like the drug dealer in Dudley Square might be white. It’s not as likely, but it certainly is possible.”
Eight in the Box Page 15