Opening Moves pbf-6

by Steven James

  The two approaches work in conjunction with each other to provide a vigorous and robust new paradigm for analyzing linked serial offenses and tracking those who commit them.

  Unlike profilers, who deal with the psychological reasons that might have motivated a crime, environmental criminologists look for the significance of the location of the crime to both the offender and the victim. Instead of asking what the offender might have been thinking while he committed the crime, we ask why he was there at that specific place at that specific time:

  (1) What do the choice of the crime’s location and the timing of the crime tell us about the offender and the victim?

  (2) What purpose do these locations serve for him? Expediency? Opportunity? Isolation?

  (3) What do the locations of the crimes tell us about how he’s choosing his victims?

  (4) What led him to this specific victim and location? How and when did his life intersect with the victim’s to create the encounter that precipitated this crime?

  These were four lines of inquiry worth thinking about, in depth, in regard to this case.

  The article went on to discuss victimology, that is, the study of the victim and inferences that could be drawn from his or her cognitive maps. Fascinated, I read the rest of it carefully with a highlighter in hand.

  When I was done, I shuffled through the rest of the notes and realized that I wasn’t going to be able to decode them all tonight, not when I was so tired, but that I might be able to make my way through them better in the morning when I was fresh.

  Today had become one of those days when it seemed like the morning couldn’t possibly have occurred within the same twenty-four-hour span of time. Too much had happened, too much had filled in the spaces between the moments.

  Tomorrow never looked so good.

  At last, I crawled into bed with thoughts of the case and of Taci and of the nightmares I’d had last evening all vying for my attention, all wrestling to be the thing that followed me into my dreams.

  And when I closed my eyes, I had no idea which of them would win.

  DAY 3

  Tuesday, November 18

  The Landfill

  49

  6:02 a.m.

  The nightmares left me alone.

  I dreamt of Taci instead, and woke up thinking about our weekend getaway to Tennessee the first weekend of October. We’d been close as a couple when we headed down there and when we returned, we were even closer, with shared memories of day hikes in the Smoky Mountains and evenings in front of the fireplace at a bed-and-breakfast nestled up in the hills.

  It was a nice note to start the day on and when I got out of bed I felt much more rested than I had yesterday morning, which was a relief because I had the feeling this might shape up to be another long day.

  I wasn’t scheduled to meet Taci until seven thirty, nearly an hour and a half from now. Anthony’s Cafe was downtown, which gave me an idea.

  When you’re working cases like this, the odd hours, the long hours, it’s easy to eat poorly-admittedly one of my weaknesses. And, for me at least, it’s easy to miss workouts. Getting motivated to exercise wasn’t usually the issue for me because I loved to trail run, climb, hike, anything outdoors. But finding the time to get out and play when you’re in the middle of a case can be tricky.

  My climbing buddy, Reinhold Draeger, operated the South Wall Climbing Gym, which wasn’t too far from Anthony’s Cafe. The morning’s agenda seemed to lay itself out neatly for me: slip in a workout at the gym, grab breakfast with Taci, review Werjonic’s notes and the case files, meet with the task force at HQ, then call Dr. Werjonic at eleven.

  Even though I climb with ropes when I’m at the crags, working out close to the ground without them is a great way to develop finger strength, leg work, and breathing. It’s called bouldering and an hour of that would be more than enough of a workout for this morning.

  Before leaving my apartment, I taped up my hands to protect the sores from being torn open by the holds, some of which were pretty sketchy. Then I took off.

  Because of my unusual work hours, Reinhold had given me a key to the gym and now I parked, went in the back entrance, and had the place to myself. Climbers have their own jargon and, while most people might talk about pulling themselves up a climb when they’re making moves, we talk about pulling them down. So, after warming up and working past the pain in my hands, that’s what I did on some of the stoutest climbs in the bouldering cave.

  Counterintuitively, it often seems that stepping away from a case and letting that curious, secret part of my brain work on it is the best way to get a fresh perspective.

  Often it’s in the moments of quiet that the tiny threads of a case imperceptibly intertwine. I guess it’s human nature, though. We gather facts, try to process them, but don’t often tie them together until we’re in the shower or on the golf course or waking up in the middle of the night. Just ask any novelist, any artist, any scientist.

  And sometimes we think of them when we’re upside down in a bouldering cave.

  Sometimes.

  Like today.

  Halfway through one of the hardest climbs in the cave, a V9 problem that I’d never been able to send, it struck me.

  Indiana.

  He passed through Indiana.

  All sixteen missing persons, as well as the homicide victims we knew about, came from Ohio, Illinois, and Wisconsin. Why did the offender-or offenders-skip over the state of Indiana?

  The questions from the article that I’d read last night from Dr. Werjonic flashed through my mind:

  (1) What does the choice of the crime’s location tell us about the offender and the victim?

  (2) What purpose do these locations serve for him? Expediency? Opportunity? Isolation?

  (3) What do the locations of the crimes tell us about how he’s choosing his victims?

  (4) What led him to this specific victim, and location? How and when did his life intersect with the victim’s to create the encounter that precipitated this crime?

  The conclusion about why he skipped over Indiana: he wasn’t familiar with the state.

  His awareness space didn’t include it.

  We needed to find people who’d lived, worked, or attended college in the three states in question-but not in Indiana. Specifically, the metro areas of Milwaukee, Champaign, and Cincinnati. Looking more closely at the tip list and suspect list would be the place to start.

  I dropped from the climb and landed on my feet on the bouldering pads beneath the route. I wanted to get right at it, start looking into that, but Taci and I had apparently hit some sort of snag in our relationship, and I needed to iron that out first.

  Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long.

  In truth, I was somewhat anxious about what we might be discussing, but I assured myself that whatever was on her mind was something we’d be able to settle without too much hassle.

  As soon as I’d showered and changed, I gathered my things and walked down the street to Anthony’s Cafe.

  50

  The cafe was cheery and busy this morning, with people chatting, sipping lattes, or in some cases, working their way through a muffin or croissant while perusing today’s edition of the Milwaukee Journal-which, I noticed, had a front-page article about the crimes last night. Photos of Gein and Dahmer appeared in the right-hand column.

  Great.

  Well, you’re the one who suggested going to the media.

  Obviously, this was not the kind of private setting Taci had been intimating she wanted to meet in. However, there was a corner by the fireplace with a few empty tables. I stowed my things at one of them and when I went back to the counter, I saw Taci striding through the front door.

  She smiled. “Hey.”

  “Morning.”

  Her eyes went immediately to my hands, which I’d retaped since my shower, then to the rips in my leather jacket. “Pat, what happened?”

  “Fencing.”

  “Fencing? You were fencing?
”

  “In a sense.” Somewhat awkwardly, I slipped my hands into my pocket. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Always, when?”

  “You get hurt.”

  “I don’t get hurt. That much.”

  A half smile, hands on her hips, but it wasn’t a real reprimand. “How many times have you gotten injured while doing something on the city’s payroll?”

  “That’s not even a fair-”

  “How many times?”

  “A couple. Maybe. Over the years.”

  “Mm-hm.” She took my arm. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  So. Good signs so far. She was in a pleasant mood. I was in a pleasant mood. I began to relax.

  She ordered a feta cheese and spinach bagel sandwich; I grabbed two chocolate muffins and two bananas so the health factor would even itself out.

  She had coffee. I had tea.

  Honestly, neither of us was good at chitchat, but we made our way through the obligatory small talk you’re supposed to have when you’re a couple catching up-she told me about her rounds at the hospital, I told her about driving to Fort Atkinson and back yesterday afternoon.

  “So you were the one who found her in the boxcar? You and the FBI agent?”

  I guessed where she’d heard it. “The news?”

  She nodded toward someone nearby who was reading the paper. “I glanced at the headlines on the rack outside.”

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  “The public relations officers said you guys arrived just in time to save her. They’re praising you.”

  “You learned that from glancing at the headlines?”

  “Okay, maybe it was a little more than a glance.”

  “At a little more than the headlines?”

  I saw the flicker of a smile. “Possibly.”

  “I’m just glad we got there when we did.” But as I said the words, I couldn’t help but think of the conversation I’d had with Ralph last night in which I’d said almost the same thing, and of course the second part of that conversation too: “But angry we didn’t get there soon enough to save Hendrich.”

  Taci sighed softly, then gave a small head-shake of exasperation. “Do you ever wonder, Pat, how these people, how they come to do these things?”

  “Sometimes, yes, I do.”

  “What he was going to do is just unthinkable,” she said. “How could you get someone to even consider maiming someone like that?”

  Actually, the answer wasn’t all that mysterious or elusive. “Make it seem natural, reasonable. Unavoidable. The only conceivable choice at that particular time.”

  She had a curious look in her eyes. It might have been concern.

  “Radar once told me,” I explained, “that no one does the unthinkable, because to them, in that moment, it seems like the most natural and logical thing to do-the inevitable thing. I think he’s right.”

  “But how could you make something like that inevitable?”

  “When people kill, when rapists rape, when people torture each other, they’re doing what seems perfectly reasonable to them in that moment. Nobody ever does something that, in his own mind, as he’s doing it, is unthinkable.”

  “So, they rationalize it?”

  That seemed like too mild a way to put it.

  I thought for a moment. “I’d just say that behind every unspeakable act is a person who is, in his own mind, completely justified in carrying it out.”

  She sipped at her coffee and let my words settle in.

  “So, how are you doing through all this, Pat?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “They said he was going to cut off her hands, her feet.”

  “Taci, I can’t really talk about the case. You know that.”

  “Pat, it was on CNN.”

  “I get that, but-”

  “No one’s saying much at the medical center. Is she going to be okay? You can tell me that much.”

  I didn’t even know she’d been in to work already this morning. “It looks like it. Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Silence, then: “Are you any closer to catching the guy who’s doing this?”

  “Really, I can’t…” I caught myself. Even after being together for a year and going through this type of thing before, I knew it was natural for her to ask these sorts of questions. I had the sense that I should avoid addressing them entirely, but I decided I could answer this one without necessarily divulging too much.

  “Honestly, I don’t know how close we are. There was some evidence there at the train yard that I think is going to help us; some things to follow up on, so that’s good. But right now we don’t have a name, a face, anything specific. Now, really-”

  “You can’t talk about it.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  For a few minutes we both ate our breakfast in a sort of strange, quiet limbo. The light mood that’d been present when we first met seemed to have been smothered by our discussion about doing the unthinkable.

  Finally, I decided to just go ahead and get to the point. “So, you mentioned…There was something else, something you wanted to talk about?”

  “Yes.” But instead of telling me what it was, she was quiet once again.

  She looked toward the counter and scoffed lightly, but it wasn’t derision I heard. When she went on, I sensed it was her way of, perhaps subconsciously, avoiding addressing what she’d come here to say. “See her? Over there? The tag sticking out of the back of her shirt? I’ll never understand that. A woman will spend an hour putting on makeup and getting her hair right and won’t bother to take three seconds to make sure that the tag isn’t sticking out the back of her shirt. It’s…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What is it, Taci, really? What’s wrong?”

  She set down her coffee, looked at me with a thread of sadness in her eyes, and said eight words, “I do love you, Pat. You know that.”

  Oh, that was not good.

  “Why did you put it that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Why did you say ‘I do love you’ and not just ‘I love you’?”

  She took a deep breath and it seemed as if she was about to say something, but then she must have changed her mind, because she closed her mouth and just sat there, quietly staring past me at a spot on the wall that didn’t exist.

  The longer the moment stretched out without her replying, the less I wanted her to. Instead, I wanted to take back my question. I had the strange sense that finding out the truth was going to be far more painful than just pretending everything was okay.

  But in the end I had to ask. I had to find out. “What’s going on, Taci?”

  “I do.”

  “Love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stop putting it that way.”

  She brushed her hand across the table, slowly sweeping a few bagel crumbs to the floor.

  “What is it you’re trying to say?” I watched her. Didn’t lean any closer to her; didn’t edge any farther away.

  She strung the next words together, as if they were something she needed to say in one breath or she wouldn’t be able to say at all: “I love you, but being with you is only going to hurt you.”

  I felt the bottom drop out of the moment.

  “How is it going to hurt me? Your being with me?”

  Silence.

  “Taci, I have no idea where all this is coming from. We love each other. We’ve been in a relationship for nearly a year. We’ve talked about getting-”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “About getting-”

  “Patrick-”

  “About getting married, Taci. C’mon, don’t pretend we haven’t. Don’t try to rewrite our past. Things are good, they’ve been-”

  “I’m not pretending anything. And I’m not talking about how things have been or how they are. I’m saying…it’s abou
t who we are.”

  Despite myself, I could sense my words becoming sharper each time I spoke. “What does that mean-‘who we are’?”

  “Who I am.”

  I’d seen so many of my friends in the department struggle in their relationships, in their marriages, so many who’ve ended up apart, separated, divorced, alone. It’s the tired cliche of crime novels-the cop who struggles in a relationship because of-wait, here comes the big shocker-the pressures and obligations of his job!

  Wow. What an unexpected plot twist that was.

  Taci and I had talked about all that early on and I’d told her that if we ever came to the place where we were thinking about taking things to the next level, if it looked like I’d have to choose between her and the force, I would either leave her before we got serious, or I’d leave the force so I could be with her. And we had gotten serious. And she’d never asked me to choose.

  And it didn’t even sound like she was asking me to do that now.

  “Taci, if you’re saying my job is doing this, hurting us, I’ll quit.”

  She shook her head.

  “No. I mean it.”

  “I know. But that’s not the thing.”

  “Listen to me. I will. I love you more than-”

  “It’s not you, Pat. It’s me. That’s what I’m trying to…It’s…me.”

  Her words seemed like solid objects that were wedging their way between us, pushing us apart.

  “How is it you?”

  She touched away a stray tear and I wasn’t sure at all how to respond to that.

  I asked the question I had to ask. “Is there someone else?”

  She shook her head firmly. “No. It’s not that. There isn’t anyone. There’s never been. Not since we got together.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  Then, like the proverbial floodgates opening, she finally told me what she’d come here for: “I was in the hospital yesterday, on rounds with my attending physician. I hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before and I was on my fourth or fifth cup of coffee, I don’t know. Well, the doctor, he asked how everything was going and I said good, that things were good, and they were…They are. But he could tell how both tired and wired I was. ‘Get used to it,’ he told me. ‘It doesn’t get any easier.’”