Lee slipped off his shoes and propped his feet on the footstool before reaching for a yellow legal pad to jot down some notes. He wanted to be prepared for the meeting tomorrow in Butts’s office. He jotted down a few notes about the offender.
• Stabbing—phallic symbol—meaning of sword in particular?
• Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
• Threatening note—bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
• Knows Mindy & Sara, at least by sight
• Careful planning, low-risk victim
• Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
• Blends in with social milieu of victims
• Upper middle class, educated?
• Probably white, young (25-35)
• Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
He put down the legal pad and took a swallow of scotch. Had the offender used a sword, as the crime scene tech, Okorie, had surmised? He hoped the autopsy would produce further evidence about the murder weapon. The only bright side was that a sword was much more difficult to conceal than a knife or a gun.
He yawned and looked at the Seth Thomas clock on the bookshelf, a gift from his estate-sale-addicted mother. It was after eleven. Lee had been awake for nearly twenty hours. His stomach reminded him that his last meal had been a long time ago, and he padded out to the kitchen in his socks to rummage through the fridge. There wasn’t much, so he ate a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich standing at the counter. Laura had loved that combination on Sunday nights when their mother let them have whatever they wanted for dinner.
Whatever Fiona Campbell’s faults, Lee thought, she had provided a sense of security in rituals—family dinner every night, bedtime stories, birthday parties. And his father had been an equally enthusiastic participant—until the day he walked out. After that, something drained away from everyone he left behind. It was more than just loss; it was a filing away of life’s possibilities, as if some of the magic in their world had evaporated. Duncan Campbell was so charismatic, energetic, and enchanting that the three people who should have mattered most to him were left wondering what they lacked, that he could desert them so easily and finally.
Lee looked at the letter on the kitchen counter, neatly tucked into its envelope. The knowledge that his father had suffered as a result of his actions moved him not a bit. His heart was so steeled against the man that the only emotion he felt was a vengeful satisfaction. He hoped Chloe’s death left his father as sad and lonely as he had left his family when he deserted them. He didn’t hate her—he thought she was as much a victim of his father’s whims as the rest of them, in a way.
He slid the letter into one of the cubbies in his roll-top desk on his way to the bedroom. He needed sleep, and had far more important problems to attend to than the welfare of Duncan Campbell. He lay down on the bed and was asleep before he had time to pull the covers up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carver looked in the mirror and smiled. Carver. Of course it wasn’t his real name; it was the one he gave himself when he did . . . what he did. It was his little way of playing a role, just as he played roles as an actor. He studied the crow’s feet under his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the crosshatching on his cheeks from too much sun, and sighed. He didn’t much like his face, and being an actor, he had to look at it more than he cared to. Before shows there was makeup to apply, costumes to wriggle into, wigs and putty and greasepaint. Mirrors were stock in trade for an actor. Because he didn’t care for the sight of his own face, Carver enjoyed roles in which he was able to hide it. He specialized in character parts—disfigured, deformed cripples and clowns, the more bizarre the better. He was never happier than when playing a tortured, reviled loner, feeling more comfortable in costume than in his own identity.
That’s why being Carver was so much fun. It was a part he had invented for himself—a kind of ongoing improvisation where life was the stage and the other actors were his victims. He hadn’t known how much fun it would be—that came as a surprise. Originally he’d been motivated by rage, by desire for revenge, but the satisfaction he got from the deed itself was a revelation. He liked killing.
Of course he was meticulous—the planning, the careful preparation—all of that was important. But the moment of the attack itself brought a thrill, a rush of pleasure unlike any he had ever experienced. Oh, he had killed people onstage plenty of times, but this was different—this was real. He had actual control over his victims—the ultimate power of life and death. It was intoxicating, and he would have more of it, he vowed, no matter what.
He lifted the long blue cloak from the coatrack and wrapped it around his shoulders, admiring the figure he cut in the mirror. The seeds for his bloodlust had been sewn in his childhood—he knew this, just as he knew that he had successfully hidden his darker urges from those closest to him. Even as a child, the injustice of his father’s treatment was clear to him—he alone was singled out for tongue lashing, belittlement, humiliation. Physical beatings were rare, but the emotional violence had done its work. Faggot! Pansy! Girlie boy! His father’s words still rang in his ears whenever he put on a costume or smeared greasepaint on his cheeks—but with it came a grim satisfaction that he was doing what he wanted, his father be damned.
He had been only twelve when he spied on his cousin for the first time, peering through the window of her bedroom while she undressed, and the thought of that moment satisfied him for weeks. Then came the underwear theft—at first from his female relatives, but later on he became bolder, creeping into the girls’ locker room at school, and even breaking into neighboring houses on weekends when they were away.
And now he was playing Carver, the role of a lifetime. He reached down for the sword on the table beside him. He held it up to the light and admired the polished steel of its blade. An appropriate weapon, and one he was skilled in using. His fencing lessons were paying off in more ways than one. He smiled as he slid the sword into the scabbard at his side.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well, there’s not a lot I can tell from this,” said Elena Krieger, holding the evidence bag between her manicured thumb and forefinger as though it contained excrement. “I’m a forensic linguist, not a magician.” With her German accent, “linguist” came out “lingvist.”
Detective Butts snatched it from her and tossed it on his desk. “Well, pardon me for asking.”
It was ten o’clock the next morning—the two of them had been in each other’s company less than fifteen minutes, and already they were quarreling. Perched on the side of Butts’s desk, Lee was already regretting their decision to call in Krieger for a consult. If there were two people more unsuited to be in the same room with each other than Detectives Butts and Krieger, he hadn’t met them. This was their fourth case together, and the air was still charged with their mutual enmity.
“It’s two words, for god’s sake!” she said, the base of her elegant neck reddening. Even at this hour in the morning, it was hard not to look at her. She wore a creamy pantsuit over a black silk blouse, her strawberry blond hair gathered back in a ponytail fastened with a gold clip. She crossed her arms over her stately bosom defiantly. “What did you expect me to say?”
“I don’t know—nothin’, okay?” Butts growled. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“I mean, there are no obvious grammatical mistakes—a lot of people misspell ‘you’re’ as ‘your,’ so we know he’s not a complete moron. Probably has a decent education.”
“That’s something,” Lee said hopefully. Butts just shook his head and turned away.
“You probably knew that already,” Krieger remarked. “Based on your profile, I mean.”
“I’ve worked up a few ideas,” Lee said.
“Can I see what you have?” asked Krieger.
“I guess,” Lee said, with a glance at Butts, who threw his arms up in surrender.
“Sure, whatever. Stay, go—do whatever you want.”
“How ki
nd of you, Detective,” Krieger replied icily. “I choose to stay.”
“Whatever,” Butts muttered under his breath.
Lee copied the list he had made the night before onto the whiteboard, adding a couple of things he had thought of that morning.
• Stabbing—phallic symbol—meaning of sword in particular?
• Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
• Threatening note—bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
• Knows Mindy & Sara, at least by sight
• Careful planning, low-risk victim
• Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
• Blends in with social milieu of victims
• Upper middle class, educated?
• Probably white, young (25-35)
• Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
• Mask—part of ritualistic staging of the body
“I gotta say,” Butts said, “just about every guy in that theatre company fits this profile.”
“Except Carl Hawkins,” said Lee.
“ ’Cause he’s black?” said Butts.
“More because he’s the wrong age.”
“But the others—”
Lee nodded. “They all fit. And given all the factors, it has to be one of them.”
“Do you think he has a record?” Krieger asked, studying the list.
“He might have,” Lee said. “If he does, it could be Peeping Tom offenses, or even breaking and entering. On the other hand, he might have been smart enough to avoid getting caught.”
“None of the actors showed up on VICAP,” said Butts.
“He’s just getting started,” Lee said.
“Jesus,” Butts said. The phone on his desk rang and he grabbed it. “Butts here. Yeah? Okay, thanks—yeah, let me know if anything turns up.” He turned to the others. “That was the crime lab. No prints on anything so far.”
“What about trace?” asked Krieger.
Butts shook his head. “Nothin’. The mask was wiped clean of any prints, so he musta worn gloves.”
“What about the autopsy?” asked Lee. “Is there a chance that might turn up something?”
“It’s possible—the weapon might have left something behind that we can use to trace it,” said Butts. “So what makes you think this guy is gonna kill again?”
“Well, apart from the fact that he’s threatened someone else—”
“Assuming the note came from him,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right. Assuming that, the bizarre nature of the crime points to someone who is motivated by something other than personal dislike for the victim. He didn’t even take her money, and leaving the mask is highly ritualistic behavior. So is the sword, for that matter—if that’s what he used.”
The phone rang again and Butts snatched it up.
“Detective Butts here. Yeah? No kiddin’? Yeah, fax me the results, great. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at them triumphantly. “That was the ME’s office. We got trace after all. There were some fibers in the wound that didn’t match the vic’s clothing. Blue wool, like from a coat.”
“Well, that’s something,” Krieger said.
Butts looked at his watch and frowned. “I gotta go meet Mindy’s parents. They flew in from Ohio last night and I told them I’d stop by their hotel.”
“You want me to come with you?” Lee asked.
“Naw, that’s okay—I know you hate it as much as I do.”
“I’ll come,” Lee said, putting on his coat.
“One last question,” Krieger said to Lee. “Before you leave.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you sure this killer is working alone?”
“It’s likely, but no, I’m not sure. Why?”
“No reason—I just wondered.”
Butts frowned. “So you think one guy might be doin’ the killing while the other one is writing the threats?”
“I just asked the question, Detective,” said Krieger. “I don’t think anything.”
Butts grunted and put on his coat. “You got that right,” he said under his breath as they left the office.
Krieger’s voice rang out behind them. “I heard that!”
Butts rolled his eyes as he and Lee walked through the precinct lobby. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Why, Detective,” Lee said. “I do believe you’re in love.”
CHAPTER NINE
Facing bereaved family members was one of the most uncomfortable tasks of homicide detectives, and the meeting with Mindy’s parents was predictably draining. The worst part was that Lee and Butts couldn’t give Mindy’s parents any concrete information about her killer, other than to say they were working very hard to find him.
When Lee got home that night he was bone tired. Not for the first time, he felt the heavy relief in closing the front door behind him and slipping on the three locks, the tumblers clicking into place with a satisfying sound, locking out the demands of the world. He stood looking out of the window at the lone mimosa tree in front of his building before heading for the piano, hungry for the soothing purity of Bach.
When he was halfway across the living room, the phone rang. Without looking the caller ID, he answered it.
“Hello? Is this Lee Campbell?”
The voice was light, breathy, with a pronounced French accent. Lee knew immediately who it was. His first impulse was to hang up, but with the receiver halfway down, he stopped his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “This is Dr. Campbell.” He’d inserted his title out of panic, a feeble impulse to cloak his identity, but he heard how arrogant it sounded.
“Sorry, yes—Dr. Campbell.” She was being humble, polite, and it made him cringe. He would have preferred it if she were a slattern, a bitch, a French whore, but her voice was educated and refined.
“What can I do for you?” he said, trying to sound harsh but failing.
“My name is Chloe Soigné.”
“Yes?” He was going to make her say it, spell it out.
“I was wondering—did you get my letter?”
He wanted to make her grovel, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “Yes, I did.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not hanging up on me.” Her voice was tremulous, on the edge of tears. She was making it very hard to dislike her. He took a deep breath.
“Ms. Soigné, I appreciate your effort, and I don’t blame you for—for what happened. But I have no wish to see my father.”
“And your sister? How does she feel?”
“My sister is dead.”
Her heard her gasp, then cough—a harsh, hacking sound, the cough of a very sick woman.
“I am so sorry,” she said when she regained her breath. “When did she—how long ago?”
“Six years ago. She was murdered.”
“Mon Dieu,” she said softly. “That’s horrible.”
“So my father knew nothing about it? It was in the papers here.”
“Alas, your father rarely reads the American newspapers. I am so very sorry. Have they caught the person who did it?”
“No.”
There was a long, lonely pause, and then she said, “I am very sorry to bother you.”
“Does my father know you’ve contacted me?”
“He has no idea. He doesn’t even know how sick I am.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re not well.”
“I’m dying, Dr. Campbell—I have stage-four lung cancer. And I am very worried what will happen to your father when I am gone. That is why I was hoping you might. . . take pity on him.”
“Look, Ms. Soigné, I—”
“Call me Chloe, please.”
“I’ve lived this long without my father. I don’t need to forgive him, and I don’t want to see him.”
“I see.” Again she gave a little gasp and a cough, but mastered herself. “Perhaps in tim
e your heart will soften and you will forgive him, or at least be willing to speak with him.”
“What makes you think he wants to talk to me?’
“I know he does. He is a proud man, and a foolish one in many ways, but I know he has thought about you and your sister constantly over the years.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Ms.—Chloe.”
“Will you at least think about it, Dr. Campbell? It’s the wish of a dying woman.”
“All right,” he said, irritated at being manipulated so boldly. He thought he heard someone talking in the background, and she lowered her voice.
“I must go now—may God bless you.”
The line went dead. He stood with the phone in his hand, a link to broken promises and shattered dreams. He stared numbly out the window at the mimosa tree, its branches bare and cold in the bitter February wind.
CHAPTER TEN
Sara Wittier pulled back the green brocade curtain covering the front window of her apartment and looked down into the street at the patrol car parked at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Ninth Avenue. They had just changed shifts about half an hour ago. The officer on duty had arrived with enough supplies to last a week: a huge bag from Dunkin’ Donuts, another from McDonald’s, and a large cup of coffee. It was too dark to see what he was doing down there, and she couldn’t help wonder how these cops managed to stave off boredom. Was he allowed to listen to the radio or do crossword puzzles? Probably not—the killer could slip right by him unless he was watching every minute.
She shivered and let the curtain drop. Wrapping her arms around her body, she turned from the window and went into the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, but she longed for the comfort food could bring. Being an actress, and very young, Sara was given to self-dramatizing. Right now she was feeling sorry for herself. Since she couldn’t have the comfort she craved—to feel safe—a bowl of Häagen Dazs would have to do in the meanwhile. Maybe it was an excuse, but she didn’t care. After all, she was being stalked. She opened the freezer and pawed through her roommate’s cartons of organic vegetables until she found the lone pint of chocolate ice cream in the back.
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