The Devil's Menagerie

by Louis Charbonneau

  “It’s a hangout away from the Job,” Braden said. “We won’t be bothered back here.”

  Karen wondered aloud if smoking was still allowed in bars in California.

  “Yeah, you can smoke,” Braden answered the question. “It’s only restaurants and offices where you can’t.”

  “I don’t smoke, I just wondered.”

  “You mind if I do?”

  They both ordered coffee and Braden lit a cigarette. Karen wished he hadn’t but decided to say nothing. He hadn’t smoked before in her presence. She wondered if the need reflected the new intensity she sensed in him.

  “What he did to this girl tonight … there’s a lot of rage there, Agent Younger.”

  “Call me Karen, for God’s sake. And yes, there’s a great deal of anger being expressed.”

  “Toward who? His mother? Isn’t that the usual excuse?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. Not an excuse but a common factor.”

  “So what else does this profile of yours suggest … if you’ve got far enough along to say?”

  She took a moment to organize her thoughts, feeling suddenly pressured. She heard Buddy Cochrane’s voice. Don’t be afraid of guessing wrong. Trust your instincts.

  “We know he’s a white male,” she said, “who has a reason, real or fancied, to hate women.”

  “How do we know he’s white?”

  “His victims—all three of them—were young white women, and he was not threatening to them. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to get so close without alarming them to the point where they would normally have tried to run or to defend themselves. So he’s a white male, in his thirties, presentable-looking—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute, slow down.”

  “A few of these people start in their teens,” Karen said, riding over his protest, “but not many, and they’re never this organized that young. Our killer is mature. He’s very much in control. He’s stronger than average, and he moves well. He’s in good shape. He can function just like Mr. Average Citizen. He can do all the things that ordinary people do every day. He may even be married, have a family. He isn’t crazy, and what’s more important, he doesn’t look crazy. He’s been around this past week, Braden, watching us, but no one has noticed him. Some women might think he’s handsome, to others he looks ordinary. He could be their accountant or insurance salesman. That’s why he’s invisible. If he looked like a monster, one of these women would have been screaming and fighting back. The only way he’s different from the people you see on the street or in the office, or even in church, is that he is killing women, brutally expressing a deep-seated rage against them, and he doesn’t feel any guilt or remorse or fear of going to hell for what he’s doing. He feels only the pleasure he gets from doing it, and that, God help us, is getting better and better.”

  Karen paused, taking a deep breath to slow the rush of words. Without thinking, she waved at the smoke clouding the booth. Noticing the gesture, Braden stubbed out his cigarette. Her jacket would smell of smoke, Karen thought. She recognized that, in focusing on such everyday concerns as the smell of secondhand smoke on her clothes, she was clinging to a cozy familiarity. The exercise helped her to continue talking about an act of savagery that mocked humanity’s triumphant crawl out of primeval slime.

  “He’s not Superman,” Braden growled,

  “No, he’s not Superman, but he’s probably beginning to think he is. He’s getting better at this, Detective. He likes it. He’s getting off on the power trip, the sexual dominance to start with, but also the fact that he’s got the police jumping through hoops. He’s becoming an expert at killing in the most brutal, basic way. He’s beginning to think he’s invincible … that no one can stop him.”

  “And he’s not crazy.”

  “He’s a sociopath, but he’s not crazy. He hasn’t lost his sense of reality. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Braden sipped his coffee, stared toward the men talking in low voices at the bar, started to reach in his pocket for another cigarette and changed his mind. His gaze returned to Karen. His eyes felt hot on her skin.

  “You said he’s organized. I know that dichotomy—”

  “Don’t try to trick me with big words, Braden,” she said with a wry smile. “I know you think most of this is voodoo.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. Anyway, give me some time on the organized-versus-disorganized part of the profile. I’d like more time to think about it after seeing Natalie Rothleder. I’d rather talk about some other things that puzzle me.”

  “Such as?”

  “This guy is different. He’s not acting like most serial killers, and I can’t even put my finger on why I say that. Also … how does he choose his victims? Does he know them? Or does he just know this is the one he’s been waiting for when he spots them?”

  “They were both coeds. Both young, one blonde and one brunette—”

  “Two blondes,” Karen said firmly.

  “You’re still sticking to the German connection?”

  “There’s no question about it.”

  “Mm. One thing about that really bothers me … that he could wait eight years or more.”

  “Jeffrey Dahmer waited nine years between his first and second killings,” she said, clearly surprising him. The story of the serial killer who had murdered and mutilated at least seventeen victims in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the late 1980s and early ‘90s, practicing cannibalism and necrophilia upon their bodies, had shocked even the most hardened law enforcement officer, but little attention had been paid to the time lag. “He killed his first victim in 1978, and he didn’t kill again until 1987. After that the killings escalated—one a year, then two, on up to at least eight known victims in 1991. It’s unusual, Detective, but it happens.”

  Braden was frowning. “You’re good at this, Younger.”

  “Karen,” she reminded him.

  “Yeah, Karen. So humor me. Give me your scenarios for how he worked it. I mean the two killings here in San Carlos. Start with Edie Foster.”

  She tried to put herself inside the killer’s head, feeling uncomfortable but determined. She thought of Foster, picturing the beautiful girl not as she lay facedown in the creek bed in the photos Karen had viewed, but as she was when still alive, dressed in her saucy T-shirt and miniskirt, strolling along the downtown promenade and joining the noisy Friday night celebration at The Pelican.

  “We think she was with someone at the coffeehouse that night—they probably drove there together—but he’s not the killer. The killer spotted her when she came out of The Pelican around eleven, eleven-thirty. Her friend joined her outside and they went to the car they were using. They drove back to the Alpha Beta, where they’d left the other car. They talked but the friend didn’t stay—maybe they had an argument. He drove off and she went into the market. The killer saw she was alone now, so he pulled his car over close to hers. When she came out she had a good look at him but he didn’t frighten her. While she was unlocking her door he grabbed her.”

  “No groceries on the ground or in her car.”

  “He was careful. He overpowered her, threw her into his own car, taped her up and drove her to his pad. I don’t think he kept her in his car for four or five hours. He had someplace to take her, an apartment or a motel room. When he was finished with her it was almost morning. He drove out along the coastal road, made a couple of passes until there were no other cars in sight, then he stopped and dumped her.”

  “Before which he bathed her to remove any trace evidence, wrapped her in a painter’s plastic dropcloth and left us nothing to go on. We’re canvassing the motels,” he added.

  Karen felt uneasily close to the man she was describing. She thought of him sitting in another booth nearby, listening, smiling to himself.

  “What about Natalie? What’s your second scenario?”

  She took another deep breath. She stared at the stub of Braden’s cigarette in the ashtray. She could s
till smell it. She had never smoked, but she wondered if a cigarette would have helped her now.

  “He was looking for number two. It had been a week, he had to have that feeling again. He was patient following Edie Foster, working it all out so he wouldn’t make any mistakes, and he took his time with her after he had her. But tonight he was more aggressive. I think he was in the library when she was there, or he was outside watching. He didn’t go there to read a book. He saw Natalie leaving alone, followed her and saw where she was heading. He took a shortcut across campus to get ahead of her. He jumped her somewhere along the way. He had a car close by, or else he hid her in the bushes while he went to get his car. He probably wanted to have her all night, like the other one, but he couldn’t wait.” She paused, briefly reviewing her scenarios and accepting them for what they were—educated guesses. She might be way off the mark. “He took risks both times, Braden, but they were acceptable risks. It was dark, no one else was around, the women didn’t have a chance.”

  “Yeah,” Braden said sourly.

  “Both times the victims were strangers. He chose them because something about them triggered his anger. He saw something in them, even though they didn’t really look alike, weren’t friends or otherwise connected.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “But they were random choices. They happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Maybe. I have a couple other scenarios.”

  Karen Younger waited.

  “He knew both of them,” said Braden, “and they knew him. That’s why they weren’t scared when he approached one of them late at night in a parking lot, or the other one after she left the library. He also knew his way around the campus. That’s how he got ahead of Natalie Rothleder. He’s not a stranger here.”

  “It’s possible,” Karen admitted grudgingly. “I don’t know, Braden, it doesn’t fit …”

  “It doesn’t fit because you don’t want it to. It leaves your German girl out of the picture.”

  “All right, tell me something else. Why the initials? Is he telling us something?” She leaned closer to Braden, her face flushed. “Is he picking them by name?“

  “That’s too goofy,” Braden said, taken aback. “You say he’s not crazy. That’s crazy.”

  “Unless he’s telling us something.”

  “If he is, I don’t know what the hell it is.” He scowled. “He worked it so he could have Edie for hours, but you say he had to have Natalie right here and now. If he’s still in control, how come he changed his approach?”

  “I think he lost it a little bit this time, but he’s capable of improvising. He’s learning by doing.”

  “On-the-job training.”

  “Sort of. He’s smart, and he’s been thinking about this for a long time, fantasizing about it. Maybe in the beginning it was only a what-if kind of thing, but he’s been thinking about it ever since that night he killed Lisl Moeller, remembering what it was like, fantasizing about doing it again. He’s had a lot of time to plan how to do it without getting caught. He knows about blood and semen, trace evidence and fingerprints. He knew enough to wash Edie thoroughly. He wasn’t able to do that with Natalie, but I’ll bet the ME WON’t find much.”

  “You think he could be some kind of cop? Maybe an MP, if he was in the service?”

  “It’s possible but not necessary. Hell, Braden, the whole country watched the O. J. hearings and trial. Everyone’s a forensic expert now.”

  Braden brooded in silence for a time, examining the FBI woman’s comments and taking what he wanted from them. Then he said, “You mentioned problems with the mother being a common denominator with serial killers. What about the father?”

  “The lack of a positive father figure is almost universal among these people. Either there’s no father, an abusive one, or he was missing very early on. That left the mother alone to give him love, nurturing, compassion, a sense of morality. And if, instead, she gave him abuse, neglect, hatred, betrayal …”

  “How could a mother betray him?”

  “If she was a prostitute, for example, or acted like one, at least in the child’s eyes that could mean betrayal. Or if she was simply someone who couldn’t—and didn’t—love him. What greater betrayal than that can there be?” Karen sighed. “For some women a child isn’t a gift but a burden … a form of punishment … a constant reminder of her failures.”

  Suddenly Karen felt the dark presence of the man she was hunting. The smells and the smoke of the bar closed in on her. She slid out of the booth. Her movements were jerky and distracted. “Sorry, Detective, I’ve got to get out of here. I need to do some more thinking. We need more than we’ve learned so far. Maybe forensics will turn up something useful.”

  Braden fumbled for a couple of bills, tossing them on the table with the check. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” she said, an audible tension threading her voice. “I need to be by myself.” Seeing Braden’s surprise, she added, “I’ve been fantasizing about this bastard for eight years myself, Braden. I never really thought I’d meet him again, but the fantasy was always there. And I always caught him. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s not a fantasy anymore. That’s what scares me. I’m afraid I won’t catch him.”

  She turned and walked away quickly, leaving Braden staring after her.

  Twenty-One

  BECAUSE OF ITS location on the highway en route to the beach, the Bright Spot diner always did a pretty good Sunday breakfast business. Since a murdered coed was found under the bridge just up the road, and the cafe was identified on television as the site of a 911 call about the girl, business had been up fifty percent. On Sunday, with local newspaper headlines screaming about a second killing, the trend continued.

  There weren’t as many just plain gawkers, Iris Whatley decided. She had been working as a waitress at the diner for the past four years, and she thought she knew her customers. The sensation-seekers had been largely replaced by another group dedicated to remembering Edith Foster. They had made the site under the bridge where the girl was found a sort of shrine, placing bouquets of flowers, crosses and notes that read “We loved you, Edie” and “God bless you.” These pilgrims also had to have Sunday breakfast out, like many other Southern Californians, and the Bright Spot was on the way.

  The crush eased off around one o’clock, and Iris had a chance to take a deep breath for the first time in four or five hours. She had hardly sat down at the counter to take a break for coffee when her brother-in-law, Jerry Boyarchek, came in with one of his golfing buddies and slid onto a stool next to her.

  Jerry’s buddy, Floyd something-or-other, headed for the john in back, giving Iris a lecherous appraisal over his shoulder. Iris probably had more to do with the Bright Spot’s regular breakfast and luncheon business than the food or the diner’s nostalgic atmosphere.

  She had a great figure and legs for the T-shirts and short skirts the waitresses all had to wear, plus that lush tangle of blond hair and the complexion of an English milkmaid. Besides, she was friendly and good-natured with the customers.

  “He likes you,” Jerry said with a grin, cocking the visor of his golf cap in the direction Floyd had taken.

  “Please, don’t get me all excited.”

  “Hey, look who’s bein’ choosy. Floyd’s a good guy, you could do a lot worse.”

  “Have you been telling stories about me, Jer? Maybe embellishing things a little to get old Floyd interested?”

  “So what’s wrong with that? It’s not like you’re gettin’ any younger, hon. Susie and me, we worry about you.”

  Stung, Iris glared at him. She knew a lot better than Jerry Boyarchek that she wasn’t getting any younger. In her own mind thirty-five and unmarried was approaching some sort of deadline, like a warning flag in a race that had only a limited number of laps to go. But she was also aware that her looks, even including the weariness about her eyes suggesting she had be
en around the block but was still on her feet, attracted more men than were put off.

  “Let me do the worrying, Jer, okay? I’m good at it. I don’t need any help.”

  Jerry put his hand on her arm and kept it there. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, Iris, I’m not knockin’ the merchandise.”

  Iris stared at him. Jerry was so transparent it was laughable. “Give me two weeks and I could have your friend Floyd doing dog tricks on command,” she said coolly.

  “Come on, I didn’t mean anythin’—”

  “You too, Jer, only I wouldn’t need two weeks.” She leaned toward him deliberately, just enough to let him feel the slight pressure of a firm breast against his arm. “What do you say? If I made you the right offer right now … would you sit up and beg for it?”

  She saw the light change in his eyes. He licked his lips, his gaze suddenly evasive. Any second he would start hyperventilating, she thought.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” she said dryly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Floyd returning from the restroom, passing another man who had taken a seat at the counter. “Guess I oughta have a little talk with sister Susie.”

  “For God’s sake, Iris, don’t even joke about that. You know how Susie is.”

  “I know how Susie is. And you too, Jer. Just keep it in mind.”

  She rose from her stool, nodding indifferently at Floyd as she passed him on her way behind the counter. She picked up a fresh pot of coffee and carried it down to the end where the stranger was patiently sitting by himself. It did not occur to her immediately that he was the reason she had shortened her break, rather than irritation with her brother-in-law.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks, black.” He had a quiet, self-assured voice and a tan that hadn’t come from a lamp. She put a lot of stock in her ability to read men’s eyes, but his were obscured by tinted blue lenses set in gold-framed aviator glasses.

  “Would you like to see a menu?”