“They may be right, though a more likely explanation is that methods of detection and record keeping have improved. Contrary to popular opinion, it’s not a recent phenomenon. There are well-recorded examples of serial offenders going back to the Middle Ages. I would guess they have always been with us, even when they managed to escape detection.”
A thin young woman in the front row shifted in her seat and bit her lip.
“Nonetheless, there is cause for concern. As law enforcement becomes more sophisticated, so do the criminals. We have to use every means at our disposal to make sure they don’t gain the edge. One of those means is what has come to be known as criminal profiling—working up a psychological fingerprint of the offender. Just as the so-called ‘hard sciences’ of forensics have advanced, so has our understanding of criminal psychology.
“Ideas about these criminals have evolved since the early groundbreakers at the FBI first began collecting and examining data in the 1970s. Some terms are still with us—like organized and disorganized, for example. But we now have a more nuanced idea of how these offenders operate—what drives them, what we can expect if they continue and, most important, how to stop them.”
A few people in the audience leaned forward in anticipation; others scribbled energetically in notebooks. Still others typed into their laptops, netbooks or tablets. In the back row, Butts pulled out a stick of licorice and began chewing on it.
“Robert Keppel and Richard Walter have come up with four classifications of murderers,” Lee continued. “Today I want to talk about the most dangerous of all, the sadistic sexual offender.”
A tall, thin man in the back row leaned back in his seat and licked his lips. His body language displayed arrogance, contempt and, above all, pleasure. Everyone else in the audience looked interested and apprehensive—and the waifish girl in the front row actually looked frightened. Lee took a drink of water and tapped the bottle on the lectern. Butts’s head immediately shot up, his body instantly alert. Once he had the detective’s attention, Lee glanced at the tall man in the back row. Butts followed his gaze, nodded, then went back to his licorice.
The whole thing took only a few seconds, but in that brief moment Butts knew who their suspect was, and the thin man knew equally well that he had been fingered. His sly smile let them know that it didn’t bother him a bit. He settled back in his seat, locking his hands behind his head in an insolent gesture.
That was when Lee knew he was either very arrogant or very, very smart. Either way, it was bad news. Taking a drink from his water bottle, he continued.
“The term Keppel and Walters use for this offender is an ‘anger-excitation’ murderer. There are several reasons this type is the most dangerous of all. They tend to plan their crimes carefully and are classic ‘organized’ offenders. They often have a knowledge of forensics and are better at eluding capture. They blend in with society, often having good jobs, a stable marriage, and may even have children. They may even be active and well respected in their community. A prime example would be Dennis Rader, the so-called BTK killer, who had a wife, children and a stable job and was active in the local Lutheran church.”
The man in the back row took out a notebook and began to write in it. Butts, too, noticed this—Lee could see he was keeping an eye on the guy. To do any more at this point would be a mistake. The last thing they wanted to do was cause him to leave, especially if he was their mark. He cleared his throat and went on.
“Because these killers are psychopaths or sociopaths and feel no empathy, they are masterful at compartmentalizing. They often live two completely separate lives.”
The man in the back row tilted his head to one side and licked his lips. Several seats down from him, Butts shifted in his chair and chewed more vigorously on his licorice stick.
A young Asian man in the third row raised his hand.
“What do you mean, they feel no empathy?”
“They seem to lack the ability to experience any fellow feeling for other people. Research indicates this may be physiological—hardwired in their brain.”
The young man frowned. “Why are they like this?”
“No one really knows. Genetic factors may play a part, but continued and severe childhood abuse is often present.”
The man in the back row frowned and crossed his legs.
“Whatever the cause,” Lee continued, “they lack that essential aspect of being human the rest of us have, so they learn to fake it to blend in. What most people would think of as their ‘normal’ life is for them just a set of surface behaviors, allowing them to engage in their ‘real’ life, acting out fantasies they have had for years, usually since childhood.”
Lee glanced at his notes, though he didn’t need them.
“These fantasies are violent, sexual and sadistic. While other sexually motivated killers are seeking power, revenge or even reassurance, the payoff for the anger-excitation offender is the suffering of his victim. That is the element he finds most exciting, and another reason he is so dangerous.”
The young woman in the front row squirmed, and several audience members winced, chewed on their pencils or frowned. The man in the back row leaned forward, fingertips pressed together, his expression calm but interested.
“This type of killer can be highly intelligent, charming and charismatic. Ted Bundy is a classic example. This makes it easier for him to find high-risk victims, who may also be intelligent, educated and attractive. However, this offender has a weakness: he enjoys attention. One of the ways Dennis Rader was finally caught was that he couldn’t resist communicating with the police.”
A hand shot up in the front row. It was the nervous blond girl.
“Yes?” Lee said.
“Do you believe that’s how you’ll catch the Alleyway Strangler?”
He paused before replying; it was important to choose his words carefully.
“I believe that the killer you are referring to will make a mistake as a result of his arrogance and ego, yes.”
A serious-looking young black man with a buzz cut raised his hand.
“Has the Alley Strangler been in touch with you?”
“I’m sorry, but there are certain details that haven’t been released to the public at this time.”
“What can you say about him?”
“We’re pursuing all possible leads.”
“Do you think you’ll catch him?” the man in the back row asked in a thin, dry voice that crackled like dead leaves.
“Oh, yes,” Lee said. “In the end, we’ll get him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Detective Leonard Butts was irritated. Sitting at the back of the lecture hall, he was only half listening to Campbell’s lecture; most of his attention was focused on the tall, thin man a few seats away. He couldn’t look at the guy directly, but he could sense the man’s presence. Butts was only there in case the UNSUB turned up, and Campbell had given Butts the signal that this could be their perp. He longed to jump from his seat, collar the guy and drag him down to interrogation. But all he could do was sit tight and wait.
Butts fidgeted and scratched himself, sighed and shifted in his seat, until he thought he would go nuts. He kept an eye out in case the thin man bolted from the lecture hall, but his mark showed no evidence of any desire to leave.
The room was too hot, his shirt collar was itchy, and his feet were beginning to swell. He longed to pull off his leather oxfords and rub his toes. He wished the thin man would leave so he could dash after him. Not that he could do anything, really—the man had committed no crimes they were aware of, and you couldn’t arrest a guy for acting suspicious. Too bad, Butts thought. If this was the UNSUB, it would be frustrating to just watch him walk out.
Finally the lecture was over. Butts gathered up his coat and hat, trying to act like just another spectator. But he kept an eye on the thin man, who was also putting on his coat. The man didn’t look his way once, which was good—Butts was doing his best to remain anonymous. He was
closer to the exit door, so he shuffled behind the line of people into the hallway. The thin man was right behind him.
Once outside, Butts turned around to see the man smiling at him as he buttoned his coat.
“Hello, Detective Butts. I thought that was a very interesting lecture, didn’t you?”
Leonard Butts was not usually at a loss for words, but all he could do was stare at the tall specter of a man who stood before him. In the lecture hall, he had only caught glimpses of him from the side, and now for the first time he had a really good look. The man’s height and excessive leanness were arresting enough, but there was something terrible and mesmerizing about the thin, jagged scar across his face. It was like the mark of Cain, physical evidence of the evil in his soul. It seemed to pulsate with an angry red heat. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.
“You know, I was taught it’s rude to stare,” the man said. Butts wasn’t good with accents, but this guy’s seemed vaguely British.
“Yeah?” said Butts. “You wanna take a slug at me? Go ahead.”
A couple of students leaving the lecture room glanced at Butts as he spoke. A young Latina woman whispered something to her companion, and both girls giggled.
The thin man brushed some lint from the sleeve of his elegant wool coat. “Fisticuffs are so vulgar. And, speaking of vulgarity, don’t you find that name a bit overwrought—the ‘Alleyway Strangler’? I mean, talk about Gothic!”
Butts narrowed his eyes, hands on his hips. “You got a better one?”
The man leaned back on his heels and crossed his long arms as he watched the rest of the stragglers leaving the lecture hall. “Nice try, Detective. But if I were to suggest a name to you, it might just match a communication you may have received from a person claiming to be the killer. Notice I say, claiming to be. Who knows if he or she really is?”
“How do you know we’ve received somethin’?”
“I said, may have received. If you have, allow me to congratulate you.”
“Why’s that?”
“This killer is obviously clever. You’ll need all the clues you can get.”
“I don’t think he’s that smart. In fact, I think he’s pretty stupid.”
“Oh, really?”
“He thinks he’s a lot smarter than he is. Where I come from, that’s called arrogance. And anyone that arrogant is pretty stupid.”
The man attempted to smile, but the result was a grimace, as though the muscles of his face didn’t work properly. “What if he’s as smart as he thinks he is?”
“I got news for you. No perp is as smart as he thinks he is.”
The man’s grimace broadened. The effect was grotesque, like a death mask. “There’s always a first time, Detective.”
Butts suddenly had the idea of snapping a picture of him with his cell phone. But the man must have read his mind—by the time Butts dug the phone out of his jacket, he had slipped around the corner. Butts nodded to McKinney, the plainclothes officer who had been leaning against the wall pretending to be absorbed in a conversation on his cell phone.
McKinney nodded back and followed The Professor.
CHAPTER FIFTY
“Where the hell have you been?” Butts barked at
Lee when he emerged from the lecture hall.
“Trying to escape the usual well-wishers and hangers-on. I did my best to dodge them, but Lucille Geffers came over and wanted to chat. I got away as soon as I could. So,” he said, looking around, “did you get anything from him?”
“He’s our guy.”
Butts proceeded to recap the conversation, speaking in a low voice in case anyone might be eavesdropping. But the hall traffic had thinned out to the occasional backpack-toting student preoccupied with the approaching Christmas holidays, and no one was paying attention to them.
“If you do another lecture, you think he’ll come to that?” he asked Lee.
“He might. It would be a risk, but he enjoys risk.”
“I put a tail on him,” Butts said.
“I suspect he’ll be very good at shaking anyone following him.”
“McKinney’s a good man.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Butts shook his head. “I actually tried to get him to take a swing at me, for Christ’s sake, so I could arrest him for assaulting an officer.”
“He’s too smart to fall for that.”
“No kiddin’, Doc. Look, I’m gonna go down and book an appointment with a sketch artist, get this guy’s mug on paper, at least. Then we can circulate it within the department so our guys can be on the lookout for him.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Did you get a good look at his face?” Butts asked as they took the stairs down to the first floor.
“I’m a little nearsighted, and the back row was kind of far away.”
“That’s some scary looking scar he’s got,” Butts remarked as they joined the throng of students and professors headed for the exit.
“A scar, huh? That should help identify him. Unless. . .”
“What?”
“There’s a chance the scar is actually part of a disguise.”
A couple of students turned around to look at them. Lee put a finger to his mouth and exchanged a glance with the detective.
“You mean he might have faked it, to mislead us?” Butts whispered.
Lee didn’t answer until they were out of the building, surrounded by the ambient noise of Tenth Avenue. A swath of yellow taxis rattled uptown, their suspensions clattering over the potholes, the sound blending with the chatter of pedestrians and the click of leather heels on concrete. Lee pulled Butts over to the side of the building.
“It’s such an obvious identifying feature. Why would he engage in a long conversation with you and let you get a good look at him, unless what you were seeing was really an illusion?”
“So I’ll have every cop out there lookin’ for a guy with a scar—”
“And he could slip through the net because he hasn’t got one.”
Butts gazed at the pocket park across the avenue, where a man was selling Christmas trees. They were lined up in front of the park’s chain-link fence, a miniature forest of evergreen. “Christ. I don’t know what to tell the sketch artist now.”
“Why don’t you start by describing him as well as you can? You can add the scar later. It might be real, you know—he certainly is scarred psychologically.”
“So it could be real.”
“It might be. He is deeply damaged, and it could be physical as well as emotional. Sorry I can’t be more definite.”
“Whaddya gonna do, Doc? We all got our cross to bear,” Butts said, thrusting his arm out to snare a taxi. “That’s what the wife says, though I gotta say, I think some crosses are a hell of a lot heavier than others.”
“You can say that again,” Lee agreed as a cab screeched to a halt in front of them, brakes squealing.
“What’s goin’ on with that forensic anthropologist of yours?” Butts asked after giving the driver the address for the precinct. “Haven’t seen her for a while. What’s her name—Kathy?”
“Right, Kathy Azarian. We’re kind of... taking some time off.” Lee looked out the window of the cab as it sped past an Italian restaurant. The facade had been painted pumpkin orange. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater. He wondered what she was doing with him. The thought stung like acid.
“That’s too bad,” said Butts. “I like her.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if we’re really right for each other,” Lee said.
“Why don’t you make a list?” Butts suggested, fishing a sandwich out of his pocket. Lee was dismayed to see that it appeared to be egg salad.
“A list?” he said.
“Pros and cons—good things and bad things about each of ’ em.”
“That sounds kind of... clinical.”
Butts settled back in his seat and unwrapped the sandwich. “It worked for me. When I met my Muriel, I was datin’ another girl, see? I l
iked ’em both, but I knew I had to make up my mind. So I made a list. I put what I liked about them each on one side and what I didn’t on the other.”
“What happened?”
“I broke up with the other girl.” He took a large bite of his sandwich. “ ’Course, I got in trouble later.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Muriel found the list, and she wasn’t too thrilled. I tried to explain that she won, so she should be happy about it, but that didn’t help much.”
“But she married you.”
Butts grinned. “How ’bout that? I got lucky in the end.”
“Did you manage to convince her that the list was a good thing?”
“Hell, no. Listen, when you see Kathy, whatever you do, don’t mention that damn list, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?” he said, wiping off a stray chunk of egg salad from his mouth.
“Cross my heart, hope to—”
“Don’t say that. I don’t like people sayin’ that.”
“I forgot you were superstitious.”
“Nothin’ to do with superstition—I just don’t like hearin’ people say that, okay?”
“All right.”
Cross my heart, hope to die.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Fiona sent Kylie into the city as promised on Friday, and Lee took her to her favorite restaurant, the Gothic-themed Jekyll & Hyde Club on Sixth Avenue. An actor dressed as a mad scientist escorted them past the gargoyles and skeletons to a table in a corner next to some French tourists.
The air was tight between them. Kylie seemed indifferent to everything, with none of her usual excitement when they visited Jekyll & Hyde. Instead of watching the waiters dressed as macabre characters prowling among the tables, she twisted a strand of blond hair idly between her fingers, a bored expression on her face. She then picked up her fork and swirled her vegetables into a whirlpool on the plate, concentric circles of green and red. Like Christmas lights.
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