Damn them all. I can handle it. I can handle it. It’ll wear off in an hour or so, and I am not going to make a habit of it. It was just this one last time…
I slid behind my desk, bound and determined to avoid the obvious stereotype. Sure, I know the cliché. The FBI comes to town and the local cops get bent out of joint. They’re coarse and resentful. The Feebs are all cool, steely-eyed authority. There’s a lot of chatter about jurisdiction-wait, no-“turf.” That’s the way it’s supposed to happen, in TV shows and movies. And, unfortunately, in real life.
But I wasn’t getting sucked into that trap. I didn’t need any more problems and I certainly didn’t need anyone filing negative reports on me. I had to keep my job and to stay on my best behavior, at least until that custody hearing. So I was prepared to suck it in and be deferential. Why not? We were both trained professionals. Psychology was a fluid science. Two professionals could hold differing opinions and neither necessarily be wrong. There was nothing threatening about it, no harm in having a partner.
Just so I was the one who caught the killer.
Maybe half an hour later, Granger strode superciliously to my desk, avoiding eye contact, white shirt in tow. I braced myself for the inevitable fatuous remark.
“And this is the former Lieutenant Pulaski whom you’ve heard so much about,” he said. “She has been working on a temporary basis as a consulting profiler. Up until now, anyway.”
Subtle, Granger. Very subtle. I stood and held out my hand.
Then my eyebrows rose, of their own accord. I was prepared for the Fed to be cool and authoritative. I was not prepared for him to be hunky.
“Patrick Chaffee, Behavioral Science Unit. Good to meet you, Lieutenant.” His grip was firm but not oppressive. He was a couple of inches taller than me, which is saying something. He had a kind face, a friendly one. He seemed relaxed, at ease. Not like he was planning some macho squeeze play.
“Call me Susan. And just for the record, I’ve been working as a behaviorist for-”
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, still shaking my hand. “I’m familiar with your work on the Wyndham case. I read your report in the American Academy Journal.”
“You did?” I said, totally nonplussed.
“Absolutely. It made the rounds at Quantico. First-rate work. Thorough and innovative.”
Did I say he looked like a nice guy? Obviously, he was the spawn of Satan. “We got lucky on that one.”
He blew air through his lips. “There’s no such thing.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got all the files you’ll want to see. I’ll clear out and let you dig in.”
“I’d rather you walked me through it.”
Yet another surprise. “You would?”
“Absolutely.”
My eyes narrowed. “So… when you say you’re from the FBI, would that be the one in D.C.? In the J. Edgar Hoover Building? Or is this perhaps some kinder, gentler FBI?”
He laughed. “Let me clarify, okay? This is still a Vegas PD case. Two killings, weird as they are, aren’t enough to put it on our threshold. I was just asked to help. Although with you on retainer, I’m not sure why they bothered.” He flashed his smile, the sort of smile that turned George Clooney into a twenty-million-a-flick property. “Think we can work together?”
My chin rose slightly. “Possible.”
Granger looked disgusted. “I’ll leave you two psychos alone,” he said, chuckling quietly at his own nonjoke. Nebbish.
Patrick clapped his hands together. Did I mention that his eyes were blue? Oh, man, his eyes were blue. Vivid, liquid blue. “Shall we get started?”
As it turned out, he wasn’t reading anything until he had a shot of java in him. A man after my own heart. Literally, I hoped. I took him down to the kitchen. Despite his initial generosity to me and my favorable first impression, I thought it was important to set a few ground rules.
“Let’s just get this straight up front,” I said, passing him a Styrofoam cup filled with the brackish stuff that passed for coffee around here. “You may be the big-shot FBI behavioral specialist. That’s okay, I can respect that.”
He took it straight-no cream, no sugar. Brilliant. “I sense a but coming.”
“But I know my stuff, too, even if I didn’t train at Quantico. I’ve been working this beat for nine years and I’ve earned my propers.”
“Understood.”
“So let’s skip the usual business of lording it over me because you’re fed and I’m not. I’ve studied John Douglas’s work on sexual killers, all the interviews, all the compare-and-contrast. Hell, I’ve read every word the man wrote.”
“I was trained by John Douglas.”
“And I’m not inexperienced. My work has led to the capture of twenty-seven sexual or habitual offenders.”
“Excellent. I’ve caught forty-two, myself.”
“And I am up-to-date on the new research in my field. I read the Behavioral Science Unit’s annual report from cover to cover. I read last year’s twice.”
He smiled. “I wrote it.”
I leaned back in my chair. “You’re doing this to me on purpose, aren’t you?”
“And loving every minute of it.” The twinkle in his eye was irresistible, even though every instinct in my body told me I should resist.
“They gave you the scoop on me, didn’t they?”
“I’ve seen your resumé, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I watched his eyes carefully.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
“That your father was a cop-till he was murdered? And the case remains unsolved.”
“That was a long time ago. What I’m concerned about…”
“The drinking?”
I nodded.
“I’m okay with that.”
“Not a problem?”
“Long as you’re sober when we’re working, I don’t figure it’s any of my business.”
“You aren’t afraid I’ll relapse and destroy the case or something? Everyone else is treating me like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
He shrugged. “I might have a little more perspective on this than they do. I used to be hooked on heroin.”
“Heroin? You?”
He spread his hands. “See? Least booze is legal.”
“Heroin?”
He nodded. “But I kicked it. You will, too.” He crumpled his empty cup in his fist. “Tell you what. Let’s hold off on the files. Show me the crime scenes. Take me to the house where the first victim lived. We can read papers later. Make it a late night. Maybe an all-nighter.”
“Sounds great.” I headed toward the door.
“So,” he said, stopping me. “You think we can work together?”
What could I say? I gave him my best squinty-eyed, tell-me-no-lies look. “Did you really have a heroin habit?”
He grinned a little as he led the way out. “You’ll never know.”
After two burials, a hanging was almost exhilarating. He had allowed himself to have fun with this one-why not? If the eyes of the world were going to be focused on his work, as it now seemed evident they were, he should make the most of it. He should see that the word was given to those with the perspicacity to understand it. And for the rest-well, at the very least, he could entertain them.
He’d almost fallen asleep waiting for the owners to shut off the power. It had been a sea of lights, a blazing neon panorama, garish and lovely all at once. And so much to choose from! What sort of message should he seek? The profound? The prophetic? The risible? Most of the older casinos had deposited signs here, as well as restaurants, hotels. Even theme parks. There were so many possibilities…
In the end, the choice was obvious. Puns might be the bailiwick of the insipid humorist, but this was irresistible. A huge, towering, crane-held sign. The front proclaimed FIRE SALE. While the back read HALF OFF.
That was where he left Lenore, the biggest part of her, anyway. Hanging b
eneath the HALF OFF.
Such a beau geste! How would dear Susan react? he wondered. It was amazing how completely the woman had come to dominate his thoughts in so short a time. It was impossible to resist thinking about her. Somehow, knowing that there was someone out there with the potential to appreciate his work made what he did so much more thrilling. The thought of carrying on without her was intolerable. But what if she was replaced? He had read in the paper that the FBI was sending the LVPD a federal expert in the same field. What if O’Bannon decided Susan’s services were no longer needed?
He couldn’t let that happen. He would have to do something to prevent it.
13
Oddly enough, Granger had not arranged high-speed Internet access for me, possibly because he hadn’t arranged a computer terminal for me, so I had to sneak into O’Bannon’s office while he convoked his top detectives in the conference room. Once I was in, I checked out Helen Collier’s Web site. She had obviously done it all herself. The signs of amateur webmastering were everywhere. The layout was functional but unadorned. A lot of hyperlinks led to nothing. But what was there was interesting.
Helen had scanned some of her own artwork, the same kind of drawings and collages I’d found stuffed in the bottom drawers of her desk. I wasn’t surprised. One look at the meticulous living room was sufficient to tell me that Mrs. Collier was never going to put her daughter’s art on display in the house. Not even on the refrigerator. So Helen had found another way to exhibit it. She’d kept a blog, too-a Web diary. It hadn’t been updated for two months, but what she had written was fascinating. Darcy was right-she’d been creeping out at night through the bedroom window for at least a year and a half.
All the photos of Helen were distorted, maybe for security reasons, maybe just because she thought it was cool. But using my imagination, I could get a pretty good idea what she had looked like when she hit the street in that outfit. False eyelashes, black fingernails, big hoop earrings. She would definitely attract attention. Even more clearly, she had a taste for the dark side. I could see this dodgy girl talking to a stranger, particularly if he gave her some reason to trust him. I could even see her getting into his car. Making the biggest mistake of her too short life.
I should’ve stopped reading the blog right then and there, but of course I didn’t. I kept moving backward in time until I got to an entry describing a family trip to Carlsbad Caverns. As soon as she was down in the cave, she’d freaked. Totally lost her head. Turns out that prissy mother of hers used to exact punishment by locking her in a small, dark closet and she’d been claustrophobic ever since.
So just imagine what happened when Helen found herself locked up in that coffin. No light, no air. Barely able to move. No one to hear her screams.
Small wonder her fingers were shredded, the lid of the coffin was so scarred.
I had to catch this killer. Soon.
“Seen this?”
Patrick tossed the morning paper on my desk. The double-sized headline was easy to read: KILLER INSPIRED BY POE!
I scanned the story by Jonathan Wooley, the reporter who had been covering the case. He knew about the quotes and he knew the murder methods re-created scenes from Poe’s fiction. “I thought we were keeping this to ourselves.”
“So did O’Bannon,” Patrick informed me. “He’s furious. Who do you think leaked it?”
“I have no idea. For his sake, I hope O’Bannon doesn’t find out.”
Patrick propped his feet up on the edge of my desk, leaning his chair back against the men’s room door. It was generous of him to stay out here with me. I knew perfectly well Granger had given him a nice private office.
“I read your preliminary profile. Good, solid work.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your-”
“So you won’t mind, I hope, if I say we should tear it into pieces and start from scratch.”
Slow burn. “You think I’m on the wrong track.”
“Not at all. I just prefer to build from the ground up. I’ve had previous cases where I came in late and tried to operate within the parameters of preexisting profiles. It doesn’t work. Even when I have full and free license to edit.”
“Okay.” I was not going to throw a fit. I was not going to act defensive. There would be no turf war, damn it. “Why don’t you work up your own profile, then we’ll compare-”
“No, no,” he said, looking at me with those baby-blue eyes that could probably persuade a chimney to give up smoking. “I want us to do it together.”
“Look, you don’t have to humor me-”
“Not at all. You’ve got the experience with this case, not me. And you’ve got a solid background in behavioral sciences. I might be able to contribute some of the latest thoughts and theories. We’ll work together.”
Like I said before, almost too perfect. “Okay, where do we start? What do we know?”
“Statistically speaking,” Patrick began, “our killer is most likely a white male between the ages of twenty and forty-five. Over ninety percent of all American serial killers are.”
“The cops already know that. What else can we give them?”
“Let’s start with preliminary classifications.”
“Organized and disorganized?”
“Essentially. But that terminology has fallen out of favor. Roy Hazelwood has modified Douglas’s work somewhat in this regard. He prefers to start by distinguishing between the impulsive offender and the ritualistic offender.”
“I’d say our guy is ritualistic.”
“Definitely. A thinking killer. Someone who has spent an enormous amount of time working out his fantasy and bringing it to life. He’s not taking the easy way, or the approach that would be most likely to avoid detection. He’s planning everything in accordance with some loony scheme.”
“The Poe fetish.”
“So it seems. Bringing those weird stories to life has become an idée fixe for our man. But what does he hope to accomplish?”
“Good question. Wish I had an equally good answer.”
He sat up to let one of the sergeants pass into the bathroom. “Hazelwood has delineated the five components of the ritualistic killer: relational, paraphilic, situational, victim demographics, and selfperceptional.”
“You’re going to have to explain.”
“Relational has to do with the relationship between the victim and the offender-or more accurately, what he fantasizes the relationship to be. Girlfriend? Wife? Slave?”
“And the answer is?”
“We don’t know. We need more information. Your coroner says the victims haven’t been sexually molested, at least not in the sense of penetration. Our man may be a kidnapper, but he’s no lothario.”
“Probably impotent.”
“A distinct possibility, but we both know there are still ways for a crazed man to inflict sexual damage and humiliation on a helpless woman. If we knew more about what he does with them before he kills them, that might yield some answers. Or if we knew how he selects them. How he lures them in.”
“Next component?”
“Paraphilia is the currently vogue term for sexual deviation. Voyeurism, pedophilia, necrophilia, transvestitism-you name it.”
“You think this guy can’t get it off the normal way, so he’s grabbing little girls off the street.”
“I’m not saying that. This could be a twisted form of sexual sadism. A way of asserting his power over them. He renders them powerless with the drug, then subjects them to some Poe-inspired horror. A form of slavery, I suppose.”
“But there’s no indication that he’s trying to break their will. Play with their minds. Turn them into true slaves.”
“Not yet, maybe. But this guy is just getting started.” A grim expression crossed his face. “Let’s hope we catch him before it gets to that.”
“Situational?”
“That’s key to understanding what our boy is up to. What’s the situation he’s trying to create? What setting is he trying to
realize?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“For instance, when I’m giving lectures back at Quantico, the setting I’m trying to create is a classroom. The relationship is teacher-student.”
“I got you.”
“Or here, for instance, with us, the setting is master-servant.” His eyes sparkled. “The young protégé learns at the feet of the seasoned master.”
“Is that what this is? I thought it was more like the hopeful acolyte worships at the temple of the earth goddess.” Okay, maybe that was a little obvious, but he’d started it.
He cast his eyes about. “Not much of a temple.”
“I’m a rose-colored-glasses girl.”
He dragged the conversation back on track, darn it. “So I’m thinking the setting this guy wants to create must be a sort of torture chamber.”
“Like Robert Leroy Anderson?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Very good. You are up on the literature.”
“I do my best.”
“So he’s using Poe for inspiration but is basically serving his own sadomasochistic need to inflict pain on helpless victims.”
My face scrunched. “I don’t know.”
“You have a different theory?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I just sense there’s something more going on here. He’s had so many opportunities for cruelty, but actually there’s been little evidence of it. Kidnapping and murder, yes, but-I don’t know. Sadomasochistic lust just doesn’t explain everything.”
“Which leads us to our fourth component. Victim demographics.”
“Well, they were both young girls. Teens.”
“Both girls look young for their age.”
“That’s true. A baby-doll fetish?” I shrugged. “They came from very different backgrounds. One was solidly lower-middle-class. The other came from a super-wealthy background, daughter of a celebrity. Both appear to have been raised by their mothers.”
“But did the killer know that?”
“Seems unlikely.”
“So he was just going by appearance?”
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