by Jo Macgregor
I glanced up to find him staring at me expectantly. “Um, there isn’t much to go on in terms of the remains,” I said, even as I wondered if that was true for the latest site.
“Ah!” Deaver rubbed his hands together in pleasure like an old timey detective considering a fresh clue. “So there are only partial remains. Perhaps just skeletons? Then these would be old deaths. How do the police know they’re murders?”
“I— I’m not sure.” Deaver looked ready to pelt me with more questions, so I quickly steered his attention back to the part that most interested me. “Can you explain what you meant about things taken or left at the scene and the murderer’s motive?”
“Taking or leaving something would be a feature of a killer’s signature.” At Perry’s questioning glance, Deaver clarified, “His distinctive style. His stamp, if you will.”
“Such as?” I asked.
Deaver contemplated the remaining contents of his lunchbox. “A lot of things contribute to the signature. His choice of victim, for example, or his modus operandi. The killer might leave his mark — literally, sometimes — by carving a symbol onto the body or painting a message on a surface or inserting an object into an orifice.”
My ears pricked at that, and a flashback of a button sliding over teeth and onto a tongue, hovered at the edge of my attention. I dug the edge of a nail under a cuticle and pushed hard, welcoming the pain that kept me anchored to where I was now rather than letting me drift into what had happened back then.
“Or they might take a trophy, like a driver’s license or a piece of jewelry, some such small item belonging to the victim.”
I nodded. Ryan Jackson had told me a bit about trophies when I got involved in the last murder investigation.
Deaver stared up at the ceiling, thinking. “They may even take a body part.”
Perry tucked back his chin in surprise and said, “Come again?”
“Oh, yes. Often,” Deaver said. “Ted Bundy kept the decapitated heads of some of his victims in his apartment. Jack the Ripper made off with a victim’s kidney.”
“Bloody hell,” Perry said faintly. “Why?”
“To eat it.” Deaver chuckled, stabbing a chunk of beetroot and popping it into his mouth, leaving his lips bloodied by juice.
“Bugger me.”
“And Charles Albright, who killed three sex workers in Texas in the early nineties, carried their eyeballs off with him.” Deaver pointed his fork at my mismatched eyes and said, “He’d have loved to have collected yours, my dear.”
– 7 –
I winced at the idea of a killer scooping my eyeballs from their sockets. “Why did the killer take their eyes rather than any other body part?” I asked Deaver.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied. “Perhaps he didn’t want his victims looking at him, judging him. Or perhaps he did, ha-ha!”
I imagined a killer keeping that particular type of trophy in a bottle on his desk, where he and his victim could eyeball each other, and shuddered.
“Had someone in his history always said they’d be keeping an eye on him? Or did he perhaps believe that his victims were demons who could be destroyed in that way?” Deaver said. “This is psychology, not math; multiple interpretations are always possible. From what was learned subsequently in Albright’s case, it seemed he’d been obsessed with eyes since his work as a taxidermist. Perhaps he’d originally intended to stick his victims’ eyes into some of his stuffed animals.” Deaver ate the rest of his beetroot with gusto, the gruesome details of these murders seemingly not sufficient to kill his appetite. “Whatever the reason, Albright spent the years of his incarceration endlessly sketching female eyes, so clearly he hadn’t quenched his idée fixe.”
“But why take anything?” Perry asked.
“As a memento of the murder. A little keepsake, you see?”
From his expression, Perry didn’t see at all.
“They often keep a whole collection of souvenirs and pore over them, touching them” — Deaver rested the fork against the side of his lunch container and stretched out pale fingers as if reaching for a pair of earrings — “remembering the touch, the feel of the victim. Masturbating to relive the sexual excitement of the kill.” He closed his hands as though throttling an invisible throat and made a squelching noise.
This man was creeping me out. He seemed to enjoy the details of the crime and the violence of the killers entirely too much. Where was the respect for the victims? I cleared my throat. “So why would they leave an object at the scene?”
“What kind of object?” Deaver asked quickly.
“I can’t say.”
“Who swore you to silence? The police? FBI?”
I gave the sort of half-nod and shrug that could mean yes or no or anything in between.
“You can’t expect me to hazard an opinion unless I know the details of what the authorities found,” he said, sounding pissy.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t say,” I repeated.
“Can’t you give me a hint? Just a little one?” His beetroot-stained lips stretched into a smile. “I’m a psychologist, you know, a colleague. Your secrets are safe with me.”
When somebody doesn’t hear your no, they’re trying to control you. Where had I heard that? “No,” I said bluntly.
Deaver sniffed, looking both disappointed and miffed. A loud buzzing underscored the sudden silence. The bee was back, circling the African violet this time.
“Could you perhaps tell us, in general terms, what it would mean if you found something left with the body?” Perry said, giving me a look that clearly advised me to be more conciliatory.
“Yes, Professor Deaver,” I said, softening my tone. “I’d be very appreciative of anything you can tell me, even if only in general terms.”
Deaver looked mollified. “Are they even sure he left it? It could be something that was already there, or subsequently left by someone else.”
“They’re pretty sure he left it, I think.”
The bee lifted off the violet and drifted closer to Deaver; he batted it away from his food. “It might mean nothing; it might be something he dropped at the scene accidentally. Or it could be his ‘calling card.’”
That wasn’t enough of an answer for me. “And what could you hypothesize about him — the killer — from the type of item left at the site?”
“Again, I can’t tell you without more detail.” He cast me a sidelong glance, but I said nothing. “I suppose if it’s something that has a general symbolic meaning — a crucifix, a peace sign, or a heart — we could make some guesses. If he were to leave a red rose with his victim, for example, that might symbolize love for the one he killed or for all women like her. Or that he killed her as a proxy because in some way she reminded him of his true love.”
So what might a button mean? Connecting things, maybe? Fastening separate pieces?
The bee circled back and landed on Deaver’s little mound of pineapple. He frowned and fanned it away then closed his lunchbox. “But often the meaning of the object is more subjective, privately symbolic rather than generally so.”
Perry leaned forward, curious. “You’re saying it could mean something to him because of his personality or history?”
“Exactly,” Deaver said, his gaze following the path of the thwarted bee from over his head to a resting spot on Perry’s desk, where it paused to wipe its antennae. “Perhaps his mother once ripped his back to shreds by beating him with a bunch of thorny red roses or his father made him work in the family garden center instead of letting him party with his friends. Or he might just want the media to christen him the Red Rose Killer.”
So basically, a button could mean literally anything. Wonderful.
Deaver half-rose from his chair and leaned forward slowly. Then quick as a flash, he upended the empty glass over the bee, trapping it inside. “Hah!” he said in satisfaction and sat back down.
Perry squinted from the glass to Deaver and looked set to challenge this in
carceration, but while I felt sorry for the bee, I was running out of time to pick Deaver’s brain, so I quickly asked, “What sorts of things are commonly left behind?”
“Again, it could be anything,” Deaver replied, watching impassively as the bee furiously dashed itself against the walls of the glass. “Keith Hunter Jesperson, the so-called Happy Face Killer, always left a sketch of a smiley face. The Beltway Snipers in Virginia left tarot cards.”
My mother would be interested to hear that.
He reopened his lunch box and took out the bread roll. “Sometimes, of course, it’s not an item per se. Killers might leave bitemarks or a distinctive knot in the ligatures or cover the victim’s face with her own clothing.” He took a big bite of the roll and chewed it meditatively. “Henry Ramirez, the Night Stalker, would use the victim’s own lipstick to draw an inverted pentagram on walls or mirrors at the scene, sometimes on the victim’s own skin. But he didn’t always leave one. Why not?” Another bite. More chewing. “And why an upside-down pentagram? Did that mean something to him personally? Was he making a statement of some kind, or did he perhaps have dyslexia and not know which way was up? And why use lipstick? These are the things that keep the machinery of my mind turning when I should be sound asleep.” Chuckling, he popped the last piece of roll into his mouth, dusted crumbs from his shirt and jacket into the Tupperware, and closed its lid, leaving the pineapple uneaten.
“If they want to evade detection, why leave anything at the scene?” Perry asked.
“Some theorists argue that they don’t want to escape detection, that they have a subconscious wish to be caught and stopped. I, however, tend to believe that they simply want to take credit for their kills. It’s at least partly that age-old desire to stamp your presence on a place, or in this case, a person or scene.” Deaver placed his lunch container on the desk, beside the overturned glass where the bee raged silently against its imprisonment. “The teen rebel paints graffiti on a wall, the impassioned lover carves a heart into a tree, the big game hunter wants a photograph with his foot on the lion’s neck.” There was a slight smile on Deaver’s lips as he contemplated those images. “It says, ‘I was here. I did this. I exist.’”
“I kill, therefore I am?” I said.
Deaver nodded and winked at me.
“I don’t know how you can immerse yourself in this awful stuff, Brad,” Perry said. “It turns my stomach just thinking about it.”
“I find it fascinating. But” — Deaver turned to me — “our time’s almost up. Any last questions?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do serial killers typically have only one way of killing?”
“For the disorganized type, there’s a wide range of variability, but organized killers generally favor one modus operandi, although not necessarily. No rules, remember? Additionally, the method usually evolves over time because they tinker, reiterate, and refine, always aiming for the perfect kill that matches their fantasy.”
I frowned. “Their fantasy?”
“One theory about what finally tips disturbed individuals into killing is that they’ve invested huge amounts of time and emotional energy into dreaming about catching and killing and torturing a victim. They frequently use pornography, especially of the nastier paraphilias, to fuel this process. And one day, dreaming about it is no longer enough. They want more. The real thing rather than a pale imitation. They want to experiment with bringing their monstrous fantasy to life. So they kill. And initially, it’s wonderful,” he said, rolling the word around in his mouth like a sweet, firm grape. “They feel excited, aroused, ecstatic!”
I stared at Deaver, whose face was alight with a kind of manic intensity. Perry’s gaze was fixed on the poor bee, which was now crawling in circles under the glass on his desk.
“But,” Deaver said, “after the frenzy and the climax, disappointment sets in because the real-life experience never quite matches the fantasy. Well, it can’t, can it? It’s never perfect, and so it’s never completely satisfying. The thirst, one could say, is not quenched.”
“That’s why they go on to do it again?” I guessed. “It’s a cycle?”
“Indeed, an addictive cycle. There’s rising tension and excitement as they fantasize, the joy of finding and snatching precisely the perfect victim, the prolonging, perhaps, of the thrill of power and control by keeping the victim imprisoned for days or even months at a time, watching, touching, toying, torturing … Then, finally, comes the orgiastic high of the kill and the petite morte recovery period of quiescence.” Deaver sighed. “Discontent inevitably follows, leading the killer to refine the fantasy. The urge to do it again mounts. This time, he wants to make it better, to bring the perfection of the imagined to reality.”
I was repelled by the way he described murder in the language of lovemaking, but I understood what he meant. The killer couldn’t stop until he got it right, and it was impossible to get it right enough to match the fantasy, so he kept going.
Deaver glanced at his watch. “I need to make my escape, I’m afraid. My class commences in precisely eight minutes.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“I’d be most interested in hearing more about this case or in consulting with any and all law enforcement agencies,” he said. “What wouldn’t I give to be inside an active FBI investigation team? Particularly of a serial killer whose career covered multiples states and spanned many years.”
“I didn’t say any of that.” I said worriedly.
If Singh found out that I’d somehow let slip some details, he’d … he’d … I didn’t quite know what the agent would do. I couldn’t imagine him ever losing enough control to show real anger. He’d probably just scowl and give me a look, but coming from him, it would feel like a death ray from Darth Vader’s mother ship.
Deaver smirked. “You didn’t have to. You” — he inclined his head to Perry — “said the serial killer was operating in New England, which implies more than one state. And if the murder occurs in different states, jurisdiction passes from local police to the FBI. You also said that Ms. McGee here was hoping to help the authorities, which would tend to suggest an open investigation with recent developments. And you, Ms. McGee — may I call you Garnet? Such a pretty name — said there wasn’t much in the way of remains, which implies skeletonization, which in turn implies these murders happened many years ago.”
“Oh,” I said. I really needed to watch my mouth, especially with such a clever man.
“But if that’s so, what’s making you want to find out more now, eh?” Deaver cocked his head, keeping his gaze fixed on me as if wishing he could cut open my brain and peer inside. “It makes me wonder if there’s been a recent development. And putting two and two together, I come up with last week’s discovery of multiple bodies up in New Hampshire.” He waggled his eyebrows and chuckled.
“I don’t— I couldn’t— Please don’t assume I have anything to do with that.”
Deaver stood up. “May I leave you with a ‘calling card’ of my own in case you’d like to contact me?” With a smile so wide it bordered on a leer, he handed me his business card and, with a little wave of his fingers, stepped out of the room.
“Wait!” I called after him. “Your lunchbox.”
My fingers prickled as soon as I grabbed the plastic container. No images filled my mind, and I felt no emotions, but strong sensations flushed through me. Order. Control. Those were the words that most closely matched my disturbance. The feeling faded as Deaver took the lunchbox from my grasp.
“Thank you,” he said and left.
I rubbed a hand over my breastbone, staring at the empty doorway.
“Funny sort of a fellow, isn’t he?” Perry said.
“That, he is.” I lifted the glass and freed the bee, which made a direct bid for freedom via the window. “I’d better be going too. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for everything.”
“Come and visit anytime, Garnet.”
Outside his office, I pressed my fingers against my eyes, trying to push back images of buttons on tongues and heads on mantlepieces and mismatched human eyes staring out of dead ferrets, and then I left, walking away from the psych department and the part of my life that went with it.
– 8 –
Back in my tiny Boston apartment, I saved Professor Deaver’s details as a contact in my phone in case I needed to chat with him again and made myself lunch — a bacon-and-peanut-butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. The neighbor’s baby trumpeted the start of his late-afternoon colic with loud wails and, from outside, the discordant city symphony of rush-hour traffic rose up to my window.
The four walls of my apartment — and of my life — were closing in. It was time to make a decision. The lease was up for renewal, and my father, who’d been paying the rent while I studied, had told me in the nicest possible way that if I wanted to keep it, I’d need to get a job to pay for it myself.
Did I want to keep it, though? I wasn’t sure.
I grabbed a pencil and made a pros-and-cons list of staying in Boston on the blank scratchpad beside the crossword puzzle in the day’s newspaper. On the upside, I loved privacy, and here in my apartment, I had it. At least, I had privacy from my parents and people I knew, even if not from the neighbors behind the paper-thin walls and the pot-bellied guy in the building opposite who regularly stood stark naked at his window, showing the world how he could hang a Red Sox cap on his erection. Look, ma. No hands! His baseball team was the only thing I knew about him, and he knew nothing about me. That was the pleasure of big-city anonymity.
In Pitchford, everybody knew everybody. And they knew everybody’s business.
Bostonians were a cool breed, with their dry sarcasm and hardy, stoic approach to life. I noted this as a point in the pros column, even though I knew that the New England mentality stretched through Massachusetts and New Hampshire, all the way to Vermont. Another pro: Boston had a great pace and vibe. I enjoyed being a nobody watching from the edge of the crowd at the St Patrick’s day parade and at the Boston Pops concert on the Fourth of July. There were amazing coffee shops and pubs filled with students and man-bunned hipsters sounding off on politics and global warming, and the night life buzzed with burlesque, ballet, stand-up comedy, and live theatre. Admittedly, I never attended any of those, but the point was, surely, that I could if I ever wanted to. Life happened in the city, and I could feel part of things without having to be a part of them, which suited me just fine. People were hard work, and I was about as good at socializing as I was at darts.