by Harker Moore
Her killer’s conviction had brought some satisfaction. But inside, the numbness persisted. Emotion was a distant reflex, a relic he could examine, even mimic, but not anything he could feel. That had changed for a while with Margot.
He returned his attention to Sakura’s victims, focusing on the symbol, dark against the hairless chests. The ash-drawn pattern was tantalizing, somehow familiar. He stared at it, reaching for the memory that would make sense of the ragged design. He closed his eyes, shutting out distraction, but the drifting fragments that played inside his head refused to coalesce.
Why was he doing this? He stood. And picking up the plate of food and the photographs, he returned to the kitchen. But it was only the uneaten sandwich that made it into the trash.
The night sky was flat and opaque, the river air misty with reflected neon. Cold light and a colder wind. It shuffled off the water, blowing away the traffic noise from the nearby tangle of approaches that fed the Brooklyn Bridge. It crawled against his skin, chilling him despite the leather jacket. Michael Darius threw his cigarette down, crushing red sparks with his foot. The butt was the third he had left in the alley.
The wind blew harder, pushing him farther into the darkness, the river smell mixing with fading smoke and the layered odors of garbage. Always a little rot left behind. Seeds of deterioration planted in brick and concrete, breathed back day after day.
It was long after eight when Sakura finally appeared, materializing through the fog that rose from the grillwork near the curb.
He crossed the street, falling in step behind. “Jimmy …”
Sakura turned on his heel, his face a pale triangle floating in the fallout from the streetlamp.
“Damn it, Michael, where the hell did you come from?”
“Over there.” He threw a shoulder toward the black gap of the alley. “I took a chance on catching you.”
“You been waiting long?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you’d stopped smoking.”
Darius snapped the lighter shut, thrust it back into the jacket, and exhaled. “I did,” he said.
Sakura made no comment. The logical question was why Michael was here. “Have you eaten?” he asked instead.
Darius shook his head.
Two in the genkan. Hanae listened. Two removing their shoes. Tonight was good. Like old times. She rose to her feet as they came into the room.
“I brought someone.” Jimmy’s happiness was in his voice.
“Welcome, Kenjin.” She smiled, fixed on his breathing, on the sound of Taiko’s wagging tail beating out its greeting.
“Where’s Willie?” Jimmy asked.
“Right here,” Willie answered for her, her rough-pleasant voice moving toward them out of the kitchen. “This is my third beer, Sakura. You plan to starve me? Or just get me drunk?” She had stopped at Jimmy’s side. “Hi,” she said. The word directed at Kenjin.
“Dr. Wilhelmina French”—Jimmy made the introduction— “Michael Darius…. Michael was my partner.”
Hanae listened. Kenjin was standing very still, the protectiveness he always wore pulled tightly about him. A cloak against this stranger. “Dr. French,” he said.
“Willie was one of my instructors at Quantico,” Jimmy continued the introduction. “She led my group the last nine months when we profiled actual cases.”
“Jimmy helped us track down a serial.”
“Please sit.” Hanae indicated the table. “The pot is hot and waiting. We don’t want Willie to starve.”
Shabu shabu was a one-pot meal. Peasant fare. A meal to be shared among friends. Together she and Willie brought the small warm bottles of sake from the kitchen, the platter of meat and vegetables to be cooked in the charcoal-heated pot that was placed at the center of the table.
“Everything is wonderful, Hanae.” Willie spoke to her from across the table. “Especially the pickles.”
Jimmy laughed.
“What did I say?” Willie asked.
“You explain it to her, Michael,” Jimmy said to him. “I remember you said the same thing the first time you tasted Hanae’s tsukemono.”
She wondered for a moment if Kenjin would not answer. But he did. “In Japan a housewife who makes good pickles,” he said, “is also supposed to be skilled in the art of making love.”
Willie made a noise. “So how can you tell that a man is a good lover?”
“All Japanese men are good lovers,” Jimmy said.
Even Kenjin laughed at that.
They had rejected the sofa and chairs in favor of cushions on the tatami. In a circle, cross-legged, Sakura, Darius, and Willie French now sat. An interloper might have assumed that meditation was in order, but the posture was an illusion. They’d been discussing murder for almost an hour.
Sakura watched as Willie drew in her legs, resting her chin on her knees while she shifted the photographs of the four victims into chronological order. The cumulative effect of the layout was so powerful it almost blunted the intellect.
“Killing by injection is rare,” she said, staring at the eight-by-tens. “Especially outside a hospital setting.”
“But the medical component is strong,” Sakura said.
“Possibly. He certainly knows what he’s doing with the potassium. And how to handle a scalpel.” She stood now and began pacing. “Two weeks roughly between Westlake and Pinot,” she said. “Still Pinot feels more opportunistic than the other kills. Maybe it’s the kid himself. A street hustler is different from an art gallery owner or a dancer in the Metropolitan Ballet. Makes me wonder if he couldn’t hold back any longer. Exploded, grabbing at whatever he could get.” She stopped, looking down. “Yet he’s still as organized as hell.”
“But don’t organized serials hide the bodies of their victims?” Darius asked.
“Usually,” she answered him.
“So maybe he wants you to see what he’s doing.” Darius intercepted her stare. “The murders seem staged.”
“Not staged, staging would be for us,” she said. “He’s posing the bodies. And the posing is for him. Whatever he’s doing, he needs to do. It’s intrinsic to his fantasy.”
“And what fantasy is that, Dr. French?” Darius was still looking at her.
“His focus on homosexuals is primary, I think, and placing the victims’ hands over their genitalia is a strong message. Of course, the wings are indicative, and the fact that he’s writing the names of angels on the walls …” She stopped and sat back down on the cushion, aware perhaps that she hadn’t really answered his question.
Sakura reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the black-and-whites that showed wider shots of the murder scenes. He pointed to the ash-drawn letters scrawled over Carrera’s bed. “The names of fallen angels,” he added.
“The battle between good and evil.” Willie seemed grateful for his intercession. “The cosmic imagery fits with LSD use,” she said. She glanced down at the photo he’d singled out. “Maybe he perceives homosexuals as fallen men.”
“And killing them is punishment?” Darius asked.
“I don’t think I’d call it punishment,” she said. “I’m still impressed by the lack of violence. I think fallen doesn’t translate as evil in the killer’s mind, but rather as disadvantaged in some way.”
“Something he’s got to fix,” Darius said.
“Yes.” Willie seemed pleased how Michael had finished off her hypothesis.
Darius nodded and rose.
Sakura collected the photographs, replacing them into the envelope, then stood too.
“Understanding the fantasy is paramount,” he said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Isaacs on Friday. He’s the Hebrew professor who discovered that those words were the names of fallen angels. I want to see what else he has to say and get his copy of this book Enoch.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Willie rose now to stand next to him. “Nice to have met you,” she said, extending her arm toward Darius.
They shook hands
like adversaries, and Sakura was remembering uncomfortably all that he’d told Willie about his ex-partner back at Quantico. He felt guilty again, as he had earlier tonight when making the introductions. Perhaps he’d given Willie some kind of unfair advantage. But then, he had never expected the two of them to meet.
What Zoe liked best about having sex with him was that she didn’t have to fake an orgasm. Of course, she never had to fake an orgasm. She could come at will. But sometimes she just didn’t want to. Depending on her partner. But with him, she always came. In multiples.
Why this was so, she never really analyzed. He wasn’t the best-looking man she’d ever slept with, or the best lover. She’d had better in both departments. But if she’d had to pin it down, it was that he just damn loved screwing her. She still giggled remembering the story he’d told her of how his uncle Vito would treat him to an ice-cream sundae every Saturday when he was growing up. He’d dreamed of putting that first spoonful in his mouth all week. He said she was like that ice-cream sundae.
She rode him now. Her fingers cupping her breasts. Her long legs astride him, bearing in. A smile opening her mouth so that her white teeth showed bright and perfect. She bent over, her hair falling like a veil, to lick his closed lids.
He twisted his head to the side and moaned, “Oh, baby …”
“You’re sweating like a pig, honey.”
“Shhh …”
She lifted up, angling her hips, grinding him in deeper.
“Yessss …” He exploded and she laughed in pure joy. Better than her own orgasm was watching his.
She lay with her head on his chest, circling his nipple with the tip of her tongue. He tasted salty, and his heart lumbered against her ear.
“Did you come?” he asked, rubbing his fingers in her hair.
“Why do men always ask that?”
He grunted.
She lifted up, her hazel eyes half lidded. “What’s up?”
“What?” He rolled over onto his stomach.
“What’s up with Pinot?”
“Same shit.”
“After waiting so long, you’d have figured he’d be more particular,” she said. “Pinot was a street punk.”
He turned over. “Obviously, social background ain’t part of our killer’s agenda.”
“So what did he look like?”
“Who?”
“Pinot.”
“The little whore looked just like the pretty dancer, the sweet gallery owner, and the darling model.”
“You’re nasty. So politically incorrect.”
“Crap.”
“I like you in spite of your flaws.” She stretched up to kiss him. “Did he do the same thing to the body?”
“Same damn thing.” He sat up, rolled his legs over the side of the bed. “Every time I go to one of these scenes, I feel like I’ve been to Catholic benediction with Mama Rosa.”
“Catholic benediction?”
“The asshole burns incense. Uses it to write mumbo jumbo on the walls. Doodle on the victims’ chests.”
“Interesting …”
“You got anything to drink in that refrigerator, Zoe, besides fancy water?”
“Johnny Rozelli, I pegged you for a Perrier man.”
CHAPTER
7
Willie French had been up before six A.M., swilling coffee, searching for something unrumpled from her partially unpacked wardrobe. She had taken a taxi to Police Plaza, arriving early for introductions to the members of Sakura’s regular unit.
She sat with his team now, in the first row of chairs set up in the eleventh-floor operations room, where blowups of the victims and crime scene photos decorated the walls. This morning’s meeting had gathered a majority of the task force members, most of whom had never worked a serial case. Despite the popularization of profiling in the media, it was not a process that was well understood. Hardened homicide cops assumed they knew everything about murder. It was always a tough crowd.
She flipped through her largely unnecessary index cards, jettisoning the niceties of her opening remarks. As Jimmy completed her introduction, she rose to take his place at the front of the room.
“He’s male and he’s white,” she plunged right in, not particularly loudly. She saw the faces come up, focusing to catch her words. “Statistically speaking, women don’t commit serial murder, and serial murderers rarely kill outside their race. He’s at least in his thirties. These are complex crimes, indicating a level of confidence impossible for a beginner. We should expect a criminal record. And whether he’s been charged with it or not, it’s almost certain that he’s killed before.”
The direct approach, as usual, seemed to have worked. She had their full attention.
“His intelligence is obviously high,” she went on, “but the formal education level is more tricky. College or self-taught would be my guess. He fancies himself an intellectual.
“He appears confident, even arrogant. He may dress casually, but he’s not sloppy or scruffy. He’s a control freak.
“His victims are gay men, which suggests that the killer may be repressing his own homosexuality. He may be in a relationship with a woman, or even currently married. But expect a history of failed relationships. He may be impotent, since he’s leaving no semen.
“He’s nocturnal, killing at night,” she continued, “so it’s possible he’s holding down a regular job. Maybe something in the arts from the look of these crime scenes. Or he could be working some dead-end job, because he can’t break into the arts. Either way, he’s probably not very successful, and angry with that lack of success. He’s developed a paranoid scenario to explain his failure.
“On the other hand, he knows how to use a syringe and a scalpel, so he might be in a medical field. A paramedic or a nurse’s aide who believes he knows better than the doctors.
“The religious content of these murders makes me believe that we’re dealing with an individual who’s had strong religious influences, at least in his early life. Who still feels the pull of his spiritual background.
“I know it’s New York”—she smiled—“but he’s probably using a car. He’s packing a lot in his murder kit. The wings, incense, syringes, the tape, his cleanup paraphernalia. Possibly a camera. The vehicle might be a van, probably black or dark blue….” She came to a dead stop. “You seem skeptical, Detective Rozelli.”
All eyes turned to the detective, who rose to the bait. He stood, looking amused, the very symbol of unspoken doubt.
“Well, yeah … you know”—the words tumbled out—“I mean, I understand this profiling can be pretty specific … but the color of the car?”
“Profiling is both an art and a science. Some say it’s all art.” She waited for the undertow of comment. “There is always a creative element to evidence assessment,” she continued. “But a thing like the color of the car is based on statistics. It’s simply a fact that compulsives favor darker cars.”
“And this guy’s a compulsive?” Rozelli obliged her, continuing to play the foil.
“The cleaning and ritual posing of the bodies are compulsive behaviors,” she said. “And it appears now that he’s injecting the victims with LSD, which I believe is an extreme extension of his need for domination and control.
“But it never hurts to be skeptical, Detective Rozelli.” She watched as he took his seat, then looked out to include them all. “The profile I just gave you is based on years of experience with serial-murder cases. So give it due weight. But don’t let it limit your thinking. If a piece of data doesn’t fit, that’s the piece I want to hear about. The important information is what you’re not expecting—the clue that puts everything in a new light. Profiling is just the best we can do”—she paused—“while we pray for an eyewitness.”
A round of laughter broke the ice. The questions went on for an hour.
The park today had a hemmed-in feeling for Willie. A bleached-out thickness of air. Against the bleak wintery grayness, Hanae’s favorite red coat stood o
ut like a pool of blood.
“How did things go this morning?” Hanae turned to her as they walked along the pathway lined in bare-armed trees that seemed to pray for snow.
“They went well. I like the people in Jimmy’s unit. And he seems to have assembled a very impressive task force.”
“I am glad you are here.”
Hanae’s words sounded heartfelt, and Willie wondered, as she had last night, how much the pressure of a serial case was affecting Jimmy’s life at home. She opened her mouth to ask but didn’t.
“It’s lucky for me that I could get away,” she said instead. “I don’t know how much Jimmy’s told you, but the killer is injecting his victims with LSD. I had to be part of this case.”
“And you don’t mind missing Christmas with your family?”
She laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew my family.”
Hanae shook her head but smiled. “You said you had a good place to stay in the city.”
“A friend’s apartment. In the Village. Dr. Jamili and his wife spend winters away.” She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Hanae’s sensitivity was amazing.
“Yes, I am a little. But it feels good. I don’t get outdoors enough.”
“Taiko and I come here often.”
“I like watching you together. He’s a wonderful dog.”
“Kenjin said I needed a dog.”
“Darius?”
“He said I was too much like my birds. Jimmy had mentioned a dog many times. Kenjin insisted, then helped me through the training.”
“Michael is … unusual.”
“Attractive.”
“No. I mean … that’s not what I was saying, Hanae.”
Hanae had stopped on the trail, letting Taiko sniff something on the ground. Her depthless eyes seemed to search Willie’s. “You know … what happened?”