by Gary Starta
“We can’t rule out any possibility when it comes to saving lives, Lieutenant. I think we first need to determine if our killers do indeed meet the definition of serial. Serial generally implies we’re dealing with a spree killer who has no prior association with his victims. Yet, I find that Chambers had some small amount of prior contact with each of his vics. The line is blurred here. It’s truly not quite a serial nor entirely interpersonal. Therefore, we cannot label the new killer as a serial or interpersonal killer until a pattern emerges.”
“Excuse me Mr. Winters, but I do not intend to let our new killer establish a pattern.”
“That’s quite understandable. Let’s pray we won’t have to categorize him or her. But if Chambers influences the new killer, I would have to assume that his killings would also be interlaced with personal associations. And if that’s the case, he views himself as a victim of society. The victims he stalks all represent the ills of society to him. He in turn believes that he is the true victim. Behavioral science leads us to believe that the killer is acting out of reflex. He or she has had a hard time adjusting to the various stimuli of society.”
“So you’re saying people are not born to be killers. They are products of conditioning. If that is true, I can see how this applies to Chambers. Here we have a fairly wealthy man who has a serious problem with self-esteem. His parents essentially erase his first crime from the record books thanks to their wealth. Maybe he sees them as part of the problem. They only assisted him to keep their names in good standing. They didn’t help him out of love.”
“I’d say you’ve got a pretty good handle on things, Mr. Carter. I also believe Chambers feels he is a victim of a detached society. I once read a story about a man who was renting a house to his sister. He only inquired about her welfare when he realized she was no longer sending him rent checks. The reason she wasn’t sending them was because she had dropped dead on her kitchen floor. Even when the brother found out his sister had passed on, the man could only remark to the press about the rent checks. There was no hint of grief in his statements. He also was not afraid to admit that conversations between him and his sister were often quite limited to topics like the weather. Our killers may be feeding off this kind of indifference. They simply may feel they have been neglected.”
“But is neglect a valid reason to take life? When my cousin was murdered it became a life-defining event for me. I chose to take a righteous path when I came to my fork in the road. Despair was calling my name; but I fought the temptation to exact revenge. I decided to let justice take care of that. I chose the higher path. What makes these bastards choose the wrong path?”
“If I knew that we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation. Let’s just hypothesize a moment and assume that the killer has decided to use fear to his advantage. He quite possibly sees fear as a more effective type of justice to punish his victims and society. Fear keeps us from saying hello to our next-door neighbors; hence, fear allows the killer to maneuver among us unnoticed. No one is paying attention. The killer then commits a savage act, which forces us to take notice. In the 1980’s, I worked with the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime within Quantico’s Behavioral Science Unit. We worked to establish if killers were organized or disorganized. I can’t tell you that every profile we did helped us to catch the perp; but I’ve had my fair share of convictions. I guess that’s why the feds are keeping me on the payroll.”
“I just wish the evidence at the crime scenes would give us the upper hand. But in this case, it isn’t. So if we are to rely heavily on profiling Mr. Winters, what else can you tell me about the signature marks the killer is leaving behind?”
“Obviously Chambers is telling us, love is bad. Stay away from it, or you’ll end up like the vics. In this latest case, the new killer is also attacking the sanctity of marriage. He may have been married at one time. The amputation of the ring finger tells me loud and clear, that giving your heart to someone will end very badly. The Egyptians erroneously believed the vein in the ring finger was directly connected to the heart. This new killer may be highly educated―or at least good at research―to know this fact. The tarot card, which depicts the Three of Swords, again only reinforces his belief that love or sexual lust will only lead to great misery. I don’t believe the picture of the swords piercing the heart is to be taken literally. When he stabs a victim through the heart, he is identifying with the pain he felt in a past relationship. The methodology of his kill is very symbolic―at least in his twisted mind.”
“Speaking of the tarot card, I found it odd that the new killer also left this symbol at the last crime scene. I’ve kept this fact closely guarded from the press, so I don’t believe a copycat could have picked up on it. My instinct tells me this isn’t just a coincidence. I can only fathom that Chambers was working with a partner. Yet, he swears this isn’t so. From what you’re telling me, we’re looking for someone who’s possibly been married and a college grad?”
Winters nodded.
“I appreciate your time Mr. Winters, but can you answer one more question for me? If the new killer really isn’t an associate of Chambers, then how did he access that internal information?”
“Since you don’t believe there’s a copy cat; and you’re doubtful that Chambers had a partner. That does leave a third option.”
“And what is that, Mr. Winters?”
“You’re not going to like this. The third option is that the killer is on the inside. He’s a member of law enforcement―he’s one of us.”
Carter abruptly thanked Winters for his consultation, as his mind plunged into a state of shock. Stanford felt like an icy wind had just permeated the confines of the interrogation room. As Carter bowed his head to jot down Winters’ hotel address, he did not notice the suspicious look the ex FBI agent was giving him. Carter also didn’t realize that someone had been listening in on their conversation from behind the tinted mirrored glass of the interrogation room.
* * *
Jill was just about to call it a day. She had spent the last five hours processing the roadside crime scene and had nothing to show for it. The killer had left behind no skin cells, hair follicles or blood. Questions danced in Jill’s head. How could he have left the scene so clean and neat? There must be a trail regarding his exit.
Seacrest had parked in Barris’ driveway. She started to walk back to her car. The vic’s house and driveway were located adjacent to the cornfield. She surmised that the killer most likely would have accessed Carolyn’s driveway if he traveled via car. The shoulder of the road provided little room for anyone to park. She remembered Gelder had grumbled about this very fact, when he was trying to park his Jeep. Just then she noticed a swatch of red paint adorning the bumper of Barris’ gold-colored BMW. A few feet in front of the beamer was a set of tire tracks that looked like they belonged to an SUV. Jill began to scrape off the chips of crimson paint from the bumper with a knife. After she bagged them in paper bindles, Jill phoned lab tech Corey Parker. “Corey, get ready to play with your fancy new spectrophotometer. I need you to identify the vehicle which tagged our vic’s car.”
* * *
Carter went home to take a lunch break after meeting with Winters. However, it really wasn’t much of a break. Stanford’s first phone call was to homicide. He requested that they cross-reference all names of Massachusetts’s law enforcement employees against the client list of Carolyn Barris. Stanford wanted to know who had retained the services of the deceased lawyer. The Lieutenant Detective surmised that maybe someone held a grudge against the middle-aged woman. It didn’t seem plausible that this was a crime of passion. The woman was in her mid-fifties and she was not aging well. The vic was not exactly a ‘babe’ to coin the phrase often quoted by Tony Gelder.
Stanford was in the middle of spreading a wad of mayo on a piece of rye bread when his home phone rang. Stanford dropped the greasy utensil into the sink and grabbed h
is cordless phone. The caller ID read: Medford Police Department.
On the other end of the line was a very familiar and comforting voice. Captain Sean Lyons’ voice still boomed like a foghorn after all these years. “Congratulations, Mr. Carter! I see you’ve nabbed The Plunger.”
“You might want to delay the kudos, Cap–I mean, Sean. There’s another killer at large.”
Lyons mumbled something unintelligible, yet Carter didn’t fail to pick up his former captain’s consoling tone. “You know something, Stanford,” Lyons snorted, “You haven’t addressed me as Captain in quite some time. So how are you holding up, old friend?”
Carter was familiar with his former Captain’s terminology. Lyons was employing a roundabout method to inquire about Carter’s current mental state regarding his inquiry. No one on the force would ever use the words mental health or psychological state when referring to a fellow officer. This was a secret code among the brethren. Too many cops had ended up on disability due to mental stress. All those serving on the force knew they weren’t immune to this disease. So the uttering of any phrase containing the words nervous breakdown or depression was taboo. In the past 24 hours, Carter had felt like one of the priests in the Exorcist films. His psyche was battling the evil within. Carter was always wary that the devils lurking in people like John Chambers would one day find a way to jump out and take control of his soul. He could only share these concerns with someone like Sean Lyons. Lyons had been a father and mentor to Carter. In a way, Lyons was almost like a priest as well. Sean had introduced Carter to Zen meditation during his rookie year on the Medford police force. The Captain sized up Carter as the only open-minded individual on the force he could trust to share his relaxation techniques with.
Lyons, whose wife was heavily into transcendental meditation, believed the majority of his officers would only snicker behind his back if they knew this fact. He feared he would be labeled as a ‘hippie freak’―or worse. Sean’s wife, Maria, was also an environmentalist which some translated into the term―’tree hugger.’ Carter marveled at how the two seemingly opposite personalities came to join forces. He wondered if one day he would find the perfect partner who would complement him and make his life whole. But it seemed some perp was always interrupting the evolution of Stanford Carter’s personal life.
Carter quietly answered Lyons question with a polite, “I’m okay.” Sean Lyons instinctively knew that the new killer had rattled his former officer. Lyons respected Carter for not indulging himself in alcohol or sex to counter balance the stress. The veteran officer had seen too many of his men and women get so lost in these diversions that they never could fully return to their duties as a whole person. At the same time, Lyons wished Carter would make some time in his personal life to find a supportive partner like he was blessed to have.
“So why aren’t you married to some soccer mom by now?” Lyons barked. Before Carter could respond, Lyons counter-balanced his question by assuring Stanford he didn’t mean to pry into his personal affairs.
“I know you want the best for me.” Carter could not conceal the emotion in his voice.
The two men had shared a bond and now Carter missed their camaraderie.
“All I’m saying is don’t keep your head wrapped around the case 24/7 Stanford; it’s not worth it. You’ve got to give your CSI’s a chance to pick up some of the slack once in a while. I had to learn that the hard way.”
Carter did not respond to his former boss. His eyes fell upon the TV screen in his living room. Playing on it was a first season episode of The Sopranos. The gruff New Jersey mob boss Tony Soprano was bonding with some ducks that had chosen to make a home out of his backyard.
“Tell me something, Sean. Does evil possess a soul? Contrarily, do all souls, possess evil?
“You’re getting a little too deep for me. Maybe I should call my wife to the phone. But seriously, I would suggest you try some meditation. If only our perps would learn these Zen techniques, then maybe we’d both have a lot more time to spend with our families.”
“I can’t argue with you there, Cap-Captain.” Stanford was not going to correct himself. In the Lieutenant’s eyes, Sean Lyons would always be his captain.
* * *
Gerard Winters was staying at the Boston Sheraton. The buzzer sounded at his door. A voice announced, “room service.” The veteran FBI investigator knew he had made a mistake as soon as he opened the door. Standing before him was the man he had almost bumped into exiting the interrogation room. Cold, blue eyes pierced through Winters’ essence. Gerard realized all too quickly that the intruder standing outside his door meant to pierce him with something a lot more painful. Dressed in a surgical gown, the intruder proceeded to cover his face with a surgical mask. He used his free hand to brandish a scalpel. Winters calculated in his mind if he had enough time to traverse the distance to his bed where his .38 caliber revolver lay.
Winters went for it, but his calculations were slightly off. The masked intruder slammed the hotel door shut and leaped into the air to grab onto Winters’ feet. Both men were of equal height; but the man wearing the surgical gown was stockier. He used his weight to knock Winters onto the floor and keep him there. The Oregon FBI consultant would never get to redeem his frequent flyer miles. In forty-five minutes, the twisted ritual of the killer had once again been completed.
* * *
Mayor Schroeder tossed the Boston Herald onto a nearby desk. Consumed by rage, he failed to see the desk was occupied by one his aides.
“I can’t believe another SOB has picked up the baton.” The Mayor ranted to no one in particular. “He’s going to ruin what’s left of the city’s summer celebration, and then we’ll all be looking for jobs come fall.” Maintaining his silence, the aide waited for the Mayor to leave the room.
While Schroeder began to field a call in the confines of his office, the aide rustled up the paper, certain a story about the new ‘Plunger’ would grace the front page. As sure as sunshine, it did. A full story ran next to a photo of the deceased FBI consultant.
Appearing to be satisfied with the headline, ‘Copycat Killer Takes Second Victim’–the aide shuffled inside the paper to locate the business page. Using the Herald as a shield, the aide stifled a small chuckle. The editorial predicted Mayor Schroeder would not see a second term because of lost tourist revenue. But the aide’s jubilation turned sour when she discovered black ink smudges all over her hands. She pressed a tissue over her fingertips several times, yet her hands weren’t completely clean. Annoyed, the aide tossed the tissue in the direction of a wastepaper basket. The ball of Kleenex bounced off the container’s rim and rolled onto the floor. Unaware she had missed the basket, the aide tucked the newspaper underneath her arm and headed for the bathroom.
* * *
Psychiatrist Wayne Holt suggested actress Eva Davies consider hiring bodyguards.
Davies had been a patient of Holt’s for the last five years. She desired a real relationship but she simply couldn’t view men as more than just sex objects. She believed Holt would instill the confidence she needed to trust in a man, namely one Art Schroeder. But as Holt assessed Davies’ physical state from his comfy Barcalounger, he surmised something more than love was troubling her this afternoon. Everyone in Bean Town had learned a new killer was at work. He noticed how unusually fidgety Eva had been the past fifteen minutes. All her twitching and gyrating caused Holt to emulate her behavior. His left hand began to wrap around the bottom of his silk tie.
“There’s another killer out there, Eva. You shouldn’t, I mean, any woman shouldn’t be walking around alone right now.”
Holt’s hand climbed up his tie, he now squeezed it around the knot, nearly cutting off his air supply. He silently applauded his feigned concern. Yet, in a way, Holt was concerned, but not in a brotherly fashion. He was simply concerned about losing a steady paying customer.
Eva sat very still while Ho
lt continued to fiddle with his tie, in uncomfortable silence.
“Eva?”
“I heard you.” She said it as if she were coming out of a dream. Her hands were cupped together, fingers interlaced. Her eyes seemed damp, squinting as if she might be able to see something on the other side of the office wall. She remained silent, tapping her fingers together in rhythm. Holt wondered if she were hearing a tune in her head. He also wondered if he would really have to earn his fee now. Eva no longer seemed like the confident actress she was a week earlier. He would have to make an immediate assessment if he wanted to keep her business. If he didn’t begin invasive treatment right away she might lapse into depression. And then Holt might have to recommend a more experienced doctor. He would hate to see Eva go, especially those long, silky legs.
Finally she spoke.
“Wayne, why do they do it? What kind of thrill do these frickin’ nuts get from these kills, anyway? It’s like they’re all conspiring to ruin the anniversary celebration. Is it some kind of addiction, some kind of a rush?”
Holt launched into a very clinical answer. Full of detachment, it read like a speech Mayor Schroeder might deliver.
As Eva listened, she continued to tap her thumbs together in an incessant silent mantra of pain. She didn’t really need to hear Holt’s answer. In fact, she couldn’t, because a part of Eva no longer sat on a psychiatrist’s couch. The part of her mind she used to play characters in movies suddenly ignited. Eva fantasized about what killing must feel like. She immersed herself in another world for the next ten minutes until Wayne Holt called an end to the session.
Chapter Eleven
Eva tossed her long mane of black hair back in face of contradiction. Flowing all along the perimeter of the paisley couch she rested upon, her lovely hair ran free as a stream in stark contrast to the vast well of thoughts muddying up her mind. If only she could unleash some of her burden, share her thoughts with the man she was paying to listen to, her problems she might feel better. She might even come to a resolution. Yet the thoughts that troubled actress Eva Davies weren’t necessarily her problems. Would disclosure put the Mayor in even more danger? Was she only considering her needs as she so often had in the past?