“March 31, 2009.”
“Okay, now look something up for me. When did John Jessup’s first victim die? The first prostitute he raped and killed?”
Barnes wheeled back to the desk and scooped up the files Alcott had given me. He flipped quickly through some loose-leaf pages.
“The first vic was a woman in Ohio. According to the initial police report, the date of the crime was…” His voice quieted. “The date was June 13, 2009.”
He looked up at me.
“Are you saying?..”
I nodded. “Shortly after Squires died, another serial took up the task of killing prostitutes. Our letter writer had a new champion.”
“Jesus…” Barnes pulled at his lower lip.
“Don’t you see? It’s not the killers that obsess the letter writer, it’s their victims. Prostitutes.”
“I get it. Squires croaks, then the guy who’s been writing to him learns of another hooker’s murder. Maybe even a second one, not long afterwards. And realizes that someone else is now out there, continuing the mission.”
I stepped back, sat on the sofa. Suddenly deflated.
“But how does he know about the murders? The seemingly random killing of a prostitute rarely makes the news.”
“Yeah, but law enforcement types would know. Every cop in every police department in the country. So would every agent in the Bureau. If they were interested. You want me to find out whether any hookers were murdered last week in Stockton, California? Who the vics were, when they got killed, who’s been arrested? Give me five minutes and I can tell you. There are multiple and overlapping data bases. Hell, VICAP alone gives you a perfect window into homicide here in the good ol’ USA. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a reality TV show built around it yet.”
I let this all sink in.
“We’re just guessing here, granted,” I said, “but it looks like our letter writer shifted his hero worship from Gary Squires to John Jessup. He didn’t know who Jessup was, of course, until his arrest and trial. But he’d learned somebody was out there killing prostitutes, and he was following his exploits. Like you might follow and root for your favorite athlete.”
Barnes shook his head. “He’s not just following the serial’s exploits, Doc, he’s living them. Vicariously. He’s killing prostitutes by proxy.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
“By proxy?”
I fell silent, slowly accepting the logic of Barnes’ theory. “Then Neal Alcott was wrong when he said the shooter was just a garden-variety murderer with a hitlist. In a way, our guy is a serial killer. In his fantasies, anyway. He’s just been having somebody else do it for him all these years.”
“Exactly. My guess is, the same psychological dynamic is at work with our guy as it probably was for the serial killers he idolized.” Barnes looked off, voice sober. “There’s an internal pressure, insistent, all consuming. Like his head’s gonna explode. The emotional need for catharsis, for release, builds and builds, until a predator like Gary Squires—and then John Jessup—rapes and kills a prostitute. Our guy reads about it, experiences the vicarious thrill, then his bottled-up tension is released. Drains away.”
“A return to homeostasis,” I suggested. “Until, over time, the cycle begins again…”
“That’s right.”
I paused, noting the reflective cast that veiled his pale eyes. Whether from extreme fatigue or the excitement of the chase, he seemed less guarded. Less armored against any incursions into his interior world. At ease discussing the particulars of his unique, difficult profession. I realized it might be the opportunity I’d been waiting for.
“Is that cycle typical of serial killers you’ve profiled?” I asked casually.
Barnes leaned back in the desk chair.
“For most, yeah, in some variation. But not all. I remember the Chris Wilder case. When we finally ID’d him, he led us on a cross-country chase for weeks, killing a new victim every other day. Swiftly, brutally.”
“What happened to him?”
“Some cops spotted him at a gas station and Wilder shot himself. Just a killing machine, that prick. All in a day’s work. No cycles involved. Like I say, some serials feel no more compulsive urges than it takes to order a cheeseburger. I interviewed one guy on death row who kidnapped and tortured adolescent girls because, in his opinion, they dressed immorally nowadays. You see, from his perspective, he had a reason to do what he did. Unconscious cycles are one thing, motive is something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cold fact is, whether psychotic or sociopathic, a serial usually has his or her reasons. David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, believed his neighbor was a demon ordering him to kill. Communicating instructions via his pet dog. Mary Martin Speck, a nurse who killed twenty-three patients, claimed to be doing the Lord’s work. Dennis Rader, the BTK Killer, felt a profound need to prove his superiority over us lesser beings who were trying to catch him. Hell, I ought to know. After his arrest, we spent hours talking about it. Interesting guy.”
He regarded me wearily. “As I say, the reasons may be irrational—based on delusional beliefs or unfounded grandiosity—but they’re reasons nonetheless. At least in the killer’s mind.”
“Now you’re talking about rationality. That it’s no guarantee of sane behavior.”
“Shit, no. In my experience, a perfect rationality is not incompatible with psychosis. If carried to the extreme. Hell, you could argue that it leads to it.”
“What about men like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dalhmer?”
He stoked his chin. “Jesus, monsters like that…Reminds me of something Holderin wrote. ‘It is now the night of the world.’ Afraid he got that right.”
“Another poet I never heard of?”
“Only a fucking genius. Son, your education is sorely lacking, ya know that?”
“If you say so.”
“By the way, I interviewed Bundy. Twice. Charming son-of-a-bitch, I’ll give him that. Not that it ever worked on me. His smile had too many teeth, if ya know what I mean. As for Dalhmer, you’re better off asking a theologian, not me. There you’re in the realm of the unimaginable. Real evil. With young boys. Necrophile, cannibal…Besides, he was killed by his fellow inmates before we had a chance to chew the fat.” A wicked grin. “Sorry. Bad joke.”
“Christ, Lyle! Anyway, don’t some studies suggest an organic cause in these serials? Something neurological?”
“It’s possible. Like maybe some kind of lesion in the limbic lobe. The site of unmediated aggression. Pure id, if you guys still use that quaint term.”
Then, briefly, he yawned. I’d been carefully watching his body language. Gauging the depth and regularity of his breathing. Noting how his body had slumped in the chair, the tension leaving his arms and legs. As I’d hoped, he was lapsing into a presleep stage of relaxation.
I knew I had to continue the rhythmnic balance of our conversation. Maintain the cadence that was lulling him.
“So getting back to our guy,” I said, “if we’re right, he had his reasons too. For years now he’s been using two successive serial killers to enact his fantasies of killing prostitutes. First Gary Squires, then John Jessup.”
Barnes blinked lazily. “And then, after Jessup is sent to prison, the letter writer—older, more sophisticated now—starts sending his new idol fan mail. Signing it ‘Your Biggest Fan.’ Until Jessup is killed in a prison riot.”
“Not only that, but the man responsible, the guard Earl Cranshaw, isn’t punished for it. Not sufficiently, anyway. Not in the fan’s mind. So he sends a final, posthumous letter to Jessup, assuring him that his death will be avenged. Two weeks later, Cranshaw is shot and killed. The first name on the avenger’s list.”
Neither one of us spoke for a full minute. During which, I watched as his eyes slowly closed…
Abruptly, to my chagrin,
Barnes roused himself and awkwardly rose to his full height.
“Lyle, wait…”
“Sorry, I was starting to drift off…”
“That’s the goddam idea.”
Ignoring me, he went padding in stockinged feet into the kitchen. I followed, and found him opening the plastic lid to the coffee canister.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough caffeine, Lyle? Your hand tremors are getting worse.”
“Bullshit. I’m fine.”
“I watched while you typed on the keyboard. I saw the effort it took to keep hitting the right keys. How often you had to backspace, retype.”
He turned from the counter, coffee scooper in hand.
“And your point is…?”
“My point is, you need to give it up. You need to let yourself sleep. Regardless of our theory about the shooter, for now it’s just a theory. And it doesn’t get us one inch closer to knowing who this guy is. Even if we’re right, and it is a cop. Or an agent.”
“Or ATF, or Homeland Security. They use VICAP and all the other data bases, too. They have as much interest in violent criminals as the cops and the bureau. Anybody in one of those agencies could also be our guy. Which means we got a helluva lot of work to do.”
“Though we can’t do much if our mental resources are strained to the max.” I smiled. “By the way, I’m just saying ‘we’ to be polite. I really mean you. You’ve got to let yourself sleep. And I think I can help you do that.”
“I’m not taking any fucking meds.”
“No problem, I can’t prescribe them. But what I can do is use hypnosis to relax you. Put you in a tranquil frame of mind. With any luck, you might get some real sleep for a change. Even if only for a couple hours. I watched you in there, Lyle. Your body is desperate for sleep.”
“Great. And when I wake up screaming—”
“I’ll be here.”
A beat. “Let me give it some thought. Over coffee.”
“No way.” I snapped the lid back on the coffee canister. “My house, my rules.”
He stared, anger reddening his cheeks.
“Are you shittin’ me?”
For a moment, I thought he was going to take a swing at me. If so, he never had the chance.
Because suddenly there was a loud, insistent pounding at my front door. Then an equally loud, insistent voice calling into the house.
“FBI, Dr. Rinaldi! Open up!”
Barnes froze where he stood. Then, abruptly, he ran out of the kitchen and down the hall. Toward the bedroom.
As the pounding at my front door grew louder. Afraid they might break it down, I hurried across the house and looked out the door’s peephole.
The fish-eye lens distorted her features, but I could still make out Agent Gloria Reese’s stern, dark-eyed face. Which threw me for a moment. It couldn’t have been her voice I’d heard shouting. It had definitely been male.
Regardless, I turned the knob. I’d just opened the door a crack when it was violently pushed in, knocking me back. Surprised, I had to struggle to keep my balance.
As I’d guessed, Agent Reese wasn’t alone. She was flanked on either side by Agents Green and Zarnicki, looking as adrenaline-pumped and formidable as linebackers. All three had their handguns drawn, at the ready.
“What the hell—?”
I’d barely gotten the words out when Agent Green grasped my elbow with his free hand. His fingers dug meaningfully into my flesh. A statement.
“Where’s Lyle Barnes, Dr. Rinaldi?” His angry gaze lasered back at my own. “We know he’s here.”
Reese stepped up beside us, lowering her gun.
“He’s been here all along, hasn’t he?” Deliberately keeping her voice calm, quiet. “You’ve been hiding him.”
Ignoring her, I kept my eyes riveted on my captor.
“You better remove that federally-funded hand, Agent Green, before I do it for you.”
He smirked, as only the young and testosterone-fueled can, and merely squeezed harder.
“You’re not callin’ the shots, Rinaldi. We are.”
“Hey!” Reese nudged him with her elbow. “Doc here’s not the target. Don’t go all caveman now, okay?”
She looked beseechingly at me, silently asking me to chill out and cooperate. I acquiesced, turning my attention from Green to her.
“What’s going on, Agent Reese? Why do you people think Barnes is here?”
“A credible source gave us the address, okay? So now you need to be smart about this. You’re in enough trouble already, you don’t want to add aiding and abetting. Or worse, accessory after the fact.”
I probably stared.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Behind her, Agent Zarnicki gave a short laugh.
“She’s talkin’ about Lyle Barnes, Doc. We’re here to arrest the son-of-a-bitch.”
“What? Why?”
“You don’t get it, do ya? Lyle Barnes is the shooter!”
Chapter Forty
Agent Green finally let go of my elbow, but only so that he could pull my arms behind my back and put me in handcuffs. I felt their sharp pinch on my wrists.
“Is that really necessary?” Reese asked him.
“Judgment call.”
“Don’t you think Alcott will question your judgment? I mean, the doc here’s cooperating.”
I felt rather than saw Green’s body shift slightly behind me. Then I heard him slide a key into the cuffs’ release and remove them.
I smiled at the female agent.
“Thanks, Agent Reese. I owe you one.”
She knew better than to reply. Instead, she focused on Green as he swept the house with a gesture.
“Okay, let’s find this prick. Reese, check out the basement. Zarnicki, the back rooms.”
I shrugged. “Knowing Barnes, he’s probably halfway down Grandview by now, thumbing a ride.”
“Don’t think so, buddy. We got another team out front, watching the house. And the street. He’s still in here somewhere, bet on it.”
“C’mon, you can’t really think he’s the shooter. That makes no sense and you know it. I mean, why would he—?”
“This ain’t a debate, Rinaldi. So shut the hell up.”
Meanwhile, Reese and Zarnicki had hurried off, two-handing their guns. From where I stood with Green, I could hear Reese moving carefully down the stairs to the basement, while Zarnicki padded along the carpeted hall. In my mind’s eye, I saw him poking into closets, swinging his gun in a chest-high arc as he checked the bedroom and bath.
At a nudge from Green, I headed back into the kitchen, the agent right on my heels. Once there, he glanced about the sunlight-bathed room. Noting the two coffee mugs, he gave me a significant look. After which he pulled open the tall pantry door. Canned goods. Cereal boxes. Plastic bags.
“No retired profilers in there, Agent Green. Promise.”
He frowned, then drew back the glass door that led out to the deck. This time, I followed him.
Green didn’t acknowledge me as I came to stand beside him at the deck’s wooden railng. Though the air was still frigid, the sun was noon high, and brighter than it had been in a week. You could see its wintry light skittering across the surface of the river below. Beyond, the cityscape shone, stormswept, glistening.
I leaned carefully over the rail. Looked down at the white-shouldered trees that dotted the steep slope falling away behind my house.
Green noted this and chuckled nervously.
“You’re right up against the edge, eh, Doc? Aren’t you worried the house is gonna go slidin’ off some day?”
“Nope. ‘Course, I’m not the one afraid of heights.”
He flushed, embarrassed. Then stared down at his hands, as though seeing their white-knuckled grip on the railing for the firs
t time. Grunting, he made a big show of releasing their grasp, though he took an imperceptible step back from the deck’s edge.
Just then, coming out from the kitchen, Reese and Zarnicki joined us at the rail.
“He’s been here, all right,” Reese reported. “But he’s gone now.”
Zarnicki nodded. “Yeah, Barnes ain’t in the house. Upstairs or down. But the bedroom window’s open.”
Jaw working, Green turned to me. “How big a drop from the window to the ground below us? The lip of the hill.”
“About the same as from here. Ten, twelve feet.”
“Shit,” Reese said sharply. “He must’ve jumped.”
At almost the same moment, Zarnicki shoved past her, pointing down at a sharp angle. Down at the gnarled, snow-draped trees hugging the slope.
“There he is!”
Following his line of sight, we all peered over the rail. Squinting in the sun, I could just make out the figure of a man flitting between the trees below. Slipping and sliding on the steep, ice-coated face of the hillside.
“Motherfucker!” Green yelled. “Get him!”
“How?” Zarnicki clapped my shoulder. “Is there some way to get down there?”
“You mean, other than jumping out the bedroom window?”
Reese tugged Zarnicki’s sleeve.
“C’mon, let’s go out the front and around the house to the back. He’s not moving too fast. He can’t.”
Green nodded vigorously. “Yes, go! Go, goddammit! If he resists, shoot the son-of-a-bitch!”
Weapons drawn again, Reese and Zarnicki sped off the deck, through the kitchen, and toward the front room. Green watched them go, then turned and, shading his eyes against the sun, peered down again at the slanting tangle of trees.
I knew I’d never have a better chance.
Whirling, I stiff armed Agent Green, sending him sprawling to the deck floor. Before he even realized what was happening, I clamped both hands on the railing, took a deep breath, and vaulted over the side.
I might’ve been wrong about the length of the drop, because it sure felt farther than ten or twelve feet. I hit the icy ground hard, rolled completely over the rounded crest of the hill, and went tumbling down into the trees.
Night Terrors Page 24