The questions persisted, this man in his mid-fifties lapping at her feet like a puppy.
“You know, I’ve had a very long day. I have no intention of giving an interview.” She tucked her black valise close to her chest, her heels clicking faster on the beige marble floor.
The man would not take no for an answer.
She tried to be pleasant, offer the idiot an alternative. “Perhaps if you leave your card with the front desk, I can call you in the morning.”
Still not good enough. Typically reporters with any heart let her be after a day like today. She had been going nonstop since seven, with barely a break to use the bathroom.
She got a good look at him as he squared off in front of her like a high school quarterback waiting for a delayed hit. Tall and rangy, a modest build, disproportionately enormous hands. She recognized him from the press conference.
“OC Metro magazine, isn’t it?”
“Very observant.” He seemed fascinated by her observation, or perhaps that he was the object of that observation. Either way, she had no intention of answering his questions.
She stopped in her tracks. “As you can see,” she glanced at his press pass, dangling like a dog tag, “Cooper, is it? I am very tired. When I’m tired, I turn real bitchy, you get my drift? So unless you’d like your press credentials suspended for any future press conferences I hold on this case, I suggest you get out of my way.”
“Come on, doc. Not everything’s so black-and-white. The public’s got a right to know. You up for dinner?” He spoke to her as if they had known each other all their lives; she was taken aback by it.
“What?”
“You do look beat, worse than my kid sister when we used to use her for defensive football practice. She made for a great battering ram and all.” He grinned in her direction, trying to provoke a smile. There was something disarming in his demeanor, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“What in God’s green earth are you talking about?”
“Come on, sis. I’m harmless. A big puppy dog. And you look like hell warmed over. Haven’t eaten a decent thing all day, have you?”
He was reading her mind, though she didn’t want him to know it.
“I have work to do.” She tried to step around him, but he rolled left, sensing her direction.
“Very good, and do you play tackle too?”
“Let me take you to dinner, doc.”
“Absolutely not. I have a number of rules I live by.” She stopped, remembering his name. “Cooper, first, I don’t buddy up to reporters, no matter how charming or ‘harmless’ they are. Second, I don’t have dinner with strange men I hardly know. And third,” she patted her firearm, holstered beneath her shoulder, “if you don’t get the hell out of my way, you’re going to meet Clarence here. Do I make myself clear?”
The man stepped to the side, scratching his head. “Jesus, just trying to be friendly and all.”
She ignored him and walked toward the elevator. In the aftermath of the encounter, Cat thought what an odd man. Did he honestly believe she would grant him an interview in the middle of this investigation? She was stunned by his audacity, his informality. Learning more and more about the Burning Man, she felt herself disengaging from any intimate contact with men. It had always been this way.
At this point, relationships seemed neither important nor particularly fulfilling.
Her life was systematized. Get the call, a plane flight to Anywhere USA, then the analysis, the inevitable body trail. Although she wished it were not so, she was married to her work. There had to be a release for her at some point. Right now, she did not know what that might be.
Inside, her emotions felt all twisted up.
When she got inside Room 428, she didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t check her messages, didn’t turn down the bed.
Instead, in the semidarkness, she walked through the room, poured a glass of merlot from the wet bar, and sat down in a wing chair facing a big window. The curtains were open. The window loomed in front of her—a big unfamiliar black void, a few stars from apartments and high-rises here and there.
Kicking off her shoes, she curled her feet up under her, leaning back, letting the wine fall down her throat. Hoping it would ease her nerves. Wincing, she could feel the throbbing over her left temple, pain down toward her jaw. She tried to draw a breath. See if it would help. It didn’t.
Close your eyes.
When she opened them, she knew tonight would be no different than before. As she expected, the need to know more rose up in her. Sometimes this came early in a case, sometimes not at all. She didn’t know. She only knew it would last till sunlight, as it had done fifteen years ago—when she had her first date with a serial killer.
Placing a manila folder on the immaculate hotel desk, she opened her laptop. No death certificates here, just death faces—fanned out across the laminated desktop. Rubbing her eyes, she took a sip of wine, wishing the fluid would wash away her tension. The girls’ faces, her headache. She was tormented by these girls’ looks, but more so because they were all someone’s daughter.
“I’m a professional,” she said, trying to convince herself. “What am I missing?”
She read her notes, wanting something to develop. Nothing came but flashes of waxy lifeless bodies.
Then a new image.
A silhouette of a well-tailored dark-suited man. Standing straight. Looming over something. Can’t make out the details. A flash of light washed over him just as she glimpsed a gentle, loving, maddening mouth…a smile.
Memories stirred. Cat stifled a gasp. She had seen that smile before. But where? She closed her eyes again and the vision returned. Through gritted teeth, a clenched jaw, she wanted to remember. “Come on, dammit, focus,” she said out loud, surprised at the sound of her own voice. In her mind, the vision came closer— closer on the mouth. His lips moving, tongue licking them. He was speaking to her but there was no sound. A message she could not decipher.
Hot confusion, like the waking panic of a nightmare. It was always like this. Fluttering in her belly, nerves like insect wings. The mouth was moving, speaking, but no voice. Cat opened her eyes. A chill of panic flooded her, the panic of not knowing what is real and what isn’t.
Cat pushed back from the table, massaged her closed eyelids with her thumb and index finger. When she opened her eyes, they felt red, her body numb. She sat heavily for a while, staring out the window. She had learned to live with the episodes, as she called them, learning that they did not mean she was any less of a woman, but perhaps more of one. She used her sixth sense sparingly. Always in private, never revealing it to anyone else. It always came at times like this, when she was so exhausted she could hardly think. Cat typed what she remembered of the vision into her laptop notes.
She stretched her legs and yawned. Lying out on the bed, she stared at the ceiling. “Time to get some sleep,” she said to herself as if she were a child, as if she were Joey. It was too late to call him tonight. In spite of her discipline and steady resolve, Cat knew there would be no sleep tonight. The illusion of control had a crack, and it all might come crashing down.
TWELVE
Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Light of the Stars”
Running would be good for her she decided, despite the kink in her back. It was a bright, glorious day, the sun making her eyes squint. She had gotten just two hours’ sleep, but she would not let it slow her down. Not today. There was too much to do.
Cat donned a bright red sweatshirt and sweatpants one size too big, the way she liked them. Lacing up her running shoes, she was on Main Street in Irvine, heading south, within five minutes.
She was right. Running felt good. Exhilarating. By the time she had done a mile, she had put a few things together. For the first time, she was able to correlate a possible connection between the first victim and the killer.
Four weeks ago, Nancy Marsh had
been killed. Her father was a respected, prominent doctor. Cat firmly believed that the killer had medical training. There was no way the average layperson would know enough about anatomy, physiology, to make the kind of cuts Burning Man did masterfully without killing someone. Maybe Dr. Marsh had an enemy that he wasn’t disclosing? It was the only link she could find at the moment. She would pay the good doctor an informal visit.
For the run’s remainder, she thought about Jane Doe. She believed there had to be someone out there who knew who the girl was, had to be a photograph that fit the girl’s face. So far the crime had been publicized mostly on a statewide level. The brutal details had not been splashed nationwide. As far as the rest of the country was concerned, this was a Southern California case. Other states had their own criminals to worry about. The fact that no parent had come forward to claim the body yet worried Cat. Did it mean that the killer was a far more serious threat than they imagined, able to traverse large distances, to go out of state for victims? Or did it simply mean that Jane Doe was a transient? Cat knew in investigations that the simpler answer was usually the right one.
Criminals, especially serial killers, get away with what they do by being right under your nose, being the quiet guy next door, the pleasant neighbor. How many cases had she cracked only to later speak to neighbors who professed an utter lack of knowledge that anything was wrong? It wasn’t that these people were stupid. Far from it. It was the fact that serial killers knew how to blend in. To make it appear to the reasonably intelligent observer that everything was just fine. That was one of the major reasons why people like Gacy went on killing for so long. No one suspected anything. She shuddered.
Reaching the four-mile mark, Cat checked her pulse and turned around, only to hear a car horn behind her. It made her jump. Glancing over, she was ready to give the idiot a piece of her mind. Cooper, the reporter, smiled at her, his angular body crammed into a Toyota Prius, huge hands wrapped around a little leather-bound steering wheel. She hated the way these electric cars made no sound.
“Hey, doc. How’s it going? I thought that was you.”
She wanted to reach in and strangle him but smirked instead.
He seemed not to notice or, if he did, simply disregarded it.
“Can I give you a lift back to the hotel? Don’t suppose you’d be interested in a meal by any chance?” His eyes scanned her up and down. “God knows, looks like you don’t eat much.”
She felt utterly infuriated by this man, yet there was an easy charm to him.
“Okay, I’m up for breakfast, but only if it’s good.”
“You’ve got a deal.” He was already leaning over opening the passenger side door. “Hop in.”
Behind him, cars were honking and swerving around, but he did not care. She liked that.
“I didn’t get your full name from last night.”
“Steven Reginald Cooper. At your service, ma’am.” He nodded his head in respect. If he hadn’t been sitting, she was sure he would have bowed at the waist, like a chivalrous knight. “But everyone just calls me Cooper.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“I can assure you the pleasure is mine.”
“One rule though,” Cat said, watching the words bring an immediate frown to his face. “I can’t tell you anything about the case that hasn’t been fully disclosed so far, understood?”
The corners of his mouth drooped more.
“Not even a little something?” He was teasing her, his voice like Joey’s when he wanted something really badly.
“Nope. And I don’t want another word about it.” She put on her authoritative “mom” voice, playing along.
“Okay. Scout’s honor.” He held up his fingers in a salute. “Want some pancakes? You look like a pancake sort.”
“That would be great. But what does the pancake sort look like?” Cat heard the rumbling in her stomach, thinking the last real food she ate was three bites of Chinese at lunch yesterday. Had it really been that long?
“Kind a like you,” he said.
Cat rolled her eyes at him.
Again heading south on the freeway, they passed the exclusive horse community of Nellie Gail Ranch, huge homes like giants, perched on hilltops. “Beautiful homes,” Cat commented, making small talk.
“Yes, one of the nicer areas of Orange County. All horse country. Lots of people with stallions and thoroughbreds, money. Matter of fact, I’ve got some friends who live up there. Want to go riding sometime?”
He had a forward manner but seemed oblivious to it. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Well, as you know, I’m just in town to conduct the investigation.”
“Come on, doc”—Cat believed that was now his favorite phrase—“you gotta take a break from all that death and murder stuff for a while. The horses would do you good. Get out in the open.”
Cat had to admit the jog today had done her good. Cleared away some cobwebs. “Maybe if I have time. But I need those pancakes now, kappish? ”
Cooper gave her a slight punch in the bicep. “That’s the spirit, doc.” Turning off the freeway, they drove up toward the homes. Although it was called Nellie Gail Ranch, these weren’t ranch-style homes at all. Rather there was a combination of Spanish Mediterranean, English Tudor, and Cape Cod styles, each property separated by horse trails, stables, and plenty of land.
“It’s lovely up here. Feel like you’re in the country.”
Cooper peered out the window and scrunched up his nose. “I guess that’s what having a little money can do. You can create a fantasy, whatever fantasy you want.”
She said nothing, thinking how true his words were. At some point she’d like to own a place like this, maybe retire with horses and land and trees. Somewhere with wide open spaces. At this point, that fantasy was a long way off.
“So tell me about our boy?”
“Who?”
“You know. The Burning Man.”
“We said we wouldn’t discuss it, remember?”
Cooper made the sound of a buzzer and said loudly, “Wrong, doc. We said you wouldn’t discuss anything you haven’t discussed with the media. We can discuss the basics; that much has been disclosed.”
The reasons why Cat had her rule not to be seen with the press all came flooding back, like water after a dam breaking. You trust them and they take advantage. Prey upon prey. She was angry but hid it well.
“Only the basics,” he said once more, apparently sensing her misgivings.
“All right then. The Burning Man fits the profile of a serial killer, but he is well trained in medicine and meticulous in his craft. He appears normal, probably extremely well groomed.” Cat stared out the window as she spoke. “Age, late twenties to fifties. I believe he is in shape, takes care of himself. Extremely intelligent. Probably genius IQ. He fits into society easily; he could be your pharmacist, your teacher, your neighbor.”
“Like Ted Bundy?”
“Yeah, probably a lot like Bundy. A real charmer. Comes across smooth, soft-spoken, analytical. There is no disputing he is an attractive man to women; that is how he is able to lure them. He seems harmless.” Cat’s face looked sad. “What’s ironic is that people consider him a sensitive, caring person, and in one sense he is. But something in his past drives him to kill…women.”
“Why do you think he does it?”
She at least appreciated this man’s directness. “There is no doubt that his parents abused him as a child. Parents probably didn’t get along, may have beat him. Or the exact opposite may be true. He may have had a father and mother who paid no attention. There are many kinds of abuse.” Cat spoke from personal experience.
“As a child, he was likely far more intelligent than either parent, and that may have threatened them. Yet that intelligence would not have fit a pattern of behavior almost always associated with this type of murderer. The ‘homicidal triad’ as it is called consists of bedwetting, a fascination with childhood cruelty to animals, and fire starting. The first of these must
have alarmed his parents and possibly, even more, distanced them.”
Cat rolled through her own memories, her father’s distance from her. In the end, she could do nothing physically to ease his pain, nothing except be there. Perhaps that was what had been the hardest—being a doctor, taking an oath to heal, and not being able to heal one’s own. Only now did she realize he had needed her much more emotionally, needed her love more than her medicine. Tears gathered in her eyes. She looked away from Cooper, thankful he did not notice them.
“So our guy fits a profile.”
“Well, sort of. He does and he doesn’t. Superior IQ is going to make him hard to catch. He’s either going to make a mistake, or he will want to be caught. From what I’ve seen so far, I doubt we will bring him in based on the evidence.”
“Why is that?”
“We weren’t going to talk about this.”
“Come on, doc.”
His favorite phrase, Cat thought.
“It’s a simple question.”
She sighed. “Because we don’t have anything concrete. Nothing that’s going to ID him out of four million other men. He could be you for all I know.” Cat laughed.
“Come on.”
Cat waited for the “doc” but it didn’t come. “Do I look meticulous to you?” He lifted the rumpled collar—a day-old white oxford shirt.
“Actually, no.”
They chuckled some more, pulling into the Original Pancake House off of Moulton Parkway. Inside, the pancakes were hot and good. Cat and Cooper spoke no more about the case. She needed to eat and get away from it for a while.
“I want him off the case!” McGregor was shouting at Richmond at nine in the morning.
It’s too damned early for this shit, Richmond thought.
McGregor could see it in his eyes. “Was it your idea?”
“I think you know we need all the help we can get on this.”
“What? Whose idea was this?”
Richmond bit his lip. “I’m not a hundred percent certain who suggested it. After the autopsy yesterday, it came up, and frankly, I think it’s a good idea.” He could tell this wasn’t going to be easy.
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