Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (12 page)

     
Albert leaned instinctively toward the Polaroid, and Sylvia said, "Don't touch it."

     
He knelt next to the desk. "Damn. . ."

     
Sylvia hunched beside him.

     
In stark black-and-white, the Polaroid pictured an adult male, nude and trussed. His bound wrists were caught overhead on a large steel hook. His body was suspended, knees buckled, lower legs sagging against the floor. The upper half of his face was concealed by a dark hood.

     
Sylvia took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and touched Albert's knee gently. "Hand me something—a postcard, anything—so I can get it up off the carpet."

     
She took the large postcard he offered and slipped it carefully under the Polaroid. She set postcard and photograph on the desk. Then, with two fingers she tweezed the lip of the envelope and set it out of the way. She watched while Kove used the tip of the letter opener to lift a corner of the photo.

     
He said, "There's a message on the back."

     
It had been printed in tiny, precise, and upright script:

When you slide the knife between the ribs of the betrayers, when you cut out the tongues of liars, when you burn the seed of the destroyers, you are following your own star.

Two for the Killer's Doctor

     
Forty minutes later, Matt slid the envelope into an evidence bag.

     
Kove nodded toward the Polaroid on the desk. "That should be a woman."

     
"Say what?" Matt frowned.

     
Sylvia had moved midpoint between the two men.

     
Kove said, "We're used to seeing women victimized by sadists; it's routine." He tucked a pencil behind his left ear. "We don't expect a male unless it's a terrorist act."

     
Matt shook his head. "If the victim were a boy, I'd say we were dealing with a pedophile."

     
"Or a gay lust crime," Sylvia murmured. "That's what your average cop would say."

     
Kove nodded. "This jogs the imagination: male bondage and ritual behavior—body paint, birds of prey, a sophisticated message—and it all lands on Sylvia's doorstep."

     
"He's using a dissociative voice," Sylvia said. "
You
slide the knife,
you
cut out the tongues,
you
burn the seed. . ."

     
"So what's your theory?" Matt asked.

     
Kove straightened his shoulders and adjusted his spectacles. "The killer is a thirty-one-year-old Libra who loved to fingerpaint in kindergarten; his teacher punished him when he touched his genitals. Sylvia reminds him of his mother. He's a latent homosexual, insecure as hell about his sexuality. He's a law enforcement shadow because he believes guns can restore his masculinity. And he's a show-off."

     
Matt kept a straight face and said, "I hate show-offs."

     
Sylvia said, "Albert's kidding, Matt."

     
"Yeah, but it sounds pretty damn good."

     
"He
is
a show-off." With a crooked smile, Kove opened the receptionist's desk drawer and rummaged around until he produced a rectangular magnifying glass. "And he
may
be a law enforcement shadow—a wanna-be."

     
Matt said, "He's very kindly interjected himself into the investigation. He's officially notifying us of kill Number Two."

     
Sylvia asked, "What about his sexuality?"

     
Kove scratched his cheek slowly. "A gender bender. I think we could be talking about latent homosexuality."

     
"Vigilantes," Matt said. "Last week, in Texas, a man hanged his daughter's rapist."

     
Kove coughed. "That's a fairly fancy message for vigilantes. From what Sylvia's told me, the kidnap and torture of men is Dupont White's style." He held the magnifying glass inches above the Polaroid and studied the photographic image.

     
Frustrated, Matt moved around the desk and stretched across it to get a look at the photo. "You're telling me the motive here isn't revenge?"

     
Albert Kove said, "It might be if the killer—or killers—had stopped at one murder. But now we're into a whole different ball game. It's become much more complex, and more interesting."

     
Sylvia hunkered closer to Kove and the Polaroid—effectively excluding Matt. "If it's Dupont White, we're talking about displaced rage. The source object is not available, so he transfers his hostilities to available victims. He's reliving his fantasy murder over and over."

     
Kove nodded. "We're dealing with someone who's
driven
to kill, and he does it in a specific, ritualistic manner. The ritual gives him as much reward as the kill. Whoever it is has acquired a taste for a particular type of kill," Kove said flatly.

     
Sylvia studied the Polaroid. "He's acquired a motive."

     
"Quite a nasty one." With his eye to the magnifying glass, Kove leaned over the photograph, unintentionally blocking Matt's view. After a moment he said, "This victim is probably Anglo or Hispanic—he's olive-skinned, but I can see tan lines."

     
Sylvia nudged Kove gently and peered through the glass. Her hair fell around her face and she pushed it back behind one ear. "His ankles are bound with duct tape. Ditto his wrists. But there's no unnecessary bondage, no noticeable symmetry, so it's probably not the work of a sexual sadist." She swallowed and closed her eyes. "Thank God he's not a child."

     
Kove said, "I don't see any mutilation marks, no wounds. Take a look at his head—"

     
"Give me the damn glass," Matt snapped. "You've got to start at the margins and work in toward the victim." He groaned when Sylvia took the magnifier from Kove's fingers.

     
"In a minute." Sylvia's words were muffled. "I've seen morgue photos where I never would've known the subject was dead. Even when the eyes are open, some trick of the lights . . . with a hood it's impossible to judge." She sighed.

     
Matt wagged an index finger at the Polaroid. "The background is black. Garbage bags or plastic from a roll? It's a small space. A torture chamber?"

     
Sylvia leaned in closer. "There's a toolbox . . . and a bucket. . . some rope."

     
Matt shrugged a shoulder to loosen a muscle. "He's got a torture kit."

     
Sylvia said, "Our guy is definitely obsessive-compulsive."

     
"A neat freak," Kove said dryly.

     
Matt said, "It might be the back of a van or a truck. The ceiling is low." Once again he moved around to the other side of the desk. "So that's how the kidnappers got Randall from the bar to the Jemez. In a portable torture chamber."

     
Sylvia said, "The victim's genitals are intact and clearly visible."

     
Kove asked, "Is there any indication of sexual excitement? Can you see if the penis is erect?"

     
Sylvia stepped back and handed Kove the glass. She said, "It's flaccid."

     
Matt raised a brow. "The Polaroid's overexposed; can you really make out that much detail?"

     
Sylvia said, "I know an erect penis when I see one."

     
Kove adjusted the focal length of the magnifying glass until the tip of his nose was six inches from the Polaroid. "This is interesting. . . ." He moved back and gestured with one finger. Matt stepped close to the other man and took the glass.

     
Kove asked, "What's this look like to you?"

     
Sylvia was hot and thirsty, and her mind was filled with unpleasant images: the mask . . . the victim's bound wrists and ankles . . . and then she pictured Anthony Randall's corpse.

     
It took Matt fifteen seconds to find what could've been a slight stain on the victim's penis. "A birthmark?''

Kove shook his head. "I'll bet you a dime it's a tattoo."

T
HE
N
EW
M
EXICO
Department of Public Safety crime lab was part of the south Santa Fe complex that included the law enforcement academy and state police head-quarters. If Matt pitched a brick out his office window it would land in the reception area of the crime lab. He preferred to walk.

     
Just before five on Tuesday, as he passed through the long carpeted halls, he thought about the computer printouts that he'd left on his desk. They were case reports of vigilante assaults and homicides that had occurred in Texas, California, New Jersey, Colorado, and Idaho. The list was long—courtesy of his fellow investigator, Terry Osuna. She was still convinced that local vigilantes had a vendetta against sex offenders. Matt wasn't rock-sure anymore.

     
But one thing was clear to anyone in law enforcement—know the victim or victims if you want to know the perpetrator.

     
He'd delivered the second Polaroid to Hansi Gausser just over twenty-four hours ago. He was hoping that Gausser had worked a miracle.

     
He found the serologist hunched over a comparison microscope.

     
Without looking up, Gausser gave Matt a small salute. Gausser said, "Your tax dollars at work—and a rush job to boot. After I promised to hand over my firstborn, Los Alamos lab supplied us with a beautiful enlargement of your hostage."

     
He straightened and gestured to a packet on a table. "They also returned the original Polaroid by courier. I'll check it out and let you know if I find anything interesting, but I wouldn't hold my breath, pardner." Occasionally, Gausser tried to affect a cowboy drawl, Swiss style.

     
"The photo will be clean just like the first one," Matt said. Both Polaroids would be sent to the F.B.I. lab at Quantico. There, analysts would enlarge, enhance, and assess behavioral markers and search for identifying factors. By the time they came up with anything on the second victim that could be sent out to law enforcement agencies for a possible I.D., there would already be a corpse. Matt and Gausser shared the conviction that the second victim was dead or would die soon.

     
"Can I speak to you for a minute, Matt?" Both Gausser and Matt looked up. Captain Elizer Rocha stood in the doorway of the lab. Rocha nodded to the serologist and turned away.

     
Matt joined his commanding officer in the hall. Rocha said, "What's the latest on Anthony Randall?"

     
"Terry Osuna's running a Crimestoppers bulletin and pushing the anyone-who-has-information angle. So far, none of the calls have led to much. We're working on an I.D. on the second victim—"

     
"Fine. Keep it at that." Rocha nodded curtly. "And I want those Polaroids sent off to Bureau analysts ASAP. This afternoon." He opened his mouth, as if to add something to his orders, then turned and walked away.

     
The brief exchange left Matt feeling uneasy. Rocha tolerated the F.B.I., but he wasn't partial to their attitude. State cops never were. So why was the captain so eager to hand over jurisdiction?

     
Matt joined Hansi Gausser at his desk with another question. "Can you do something with the handwriting on the photographs?"

     
Gausser lowered his voice. "If I get a known sample, then I can compare. If not, you'll have to wait for the guys at behavioral science." He held up an eleven-by-fourteen-inch photo enlargement. "Your Polaroid. Subject: male groin and penis. . . complete with tattoo. Isn't technology fabulous?"

     
Matt took the enlargement and examined it for a few seconds. "Damn. . . Albert Kove was right. It is a tattoo. A snake?"

     
"Snake or sword." Gausser tapped at the enlargement. "See, this could be the hilt. How many men do you know who tattoo their cocks?"

     
"I know one." Matt whistled. "Jesse Montoya."

     
"That's right." Hansi scowled. A felon with a trademark tattoo on his penis became instantly notorious within law enforcement circles. "Jesse Montoya, a.k.a. Zorro."

T
HERE ARE TWO
types of blacktops in New Mexico; those that twist like a snake on the end of a stick, and those that drive themselves straight across the plains. For the first fifteen miles out of Santa Fe, State Route 14 fell into the second category. In darkness, illuminated by headlamps and a three-quarter moon, the white stripe seemed drawn toward a distant, straight-ahead point. Matt kept one hand on the steering wheel.

     
Sylvia watched a shadow land of trees, trailers, and homes blur together in the passenger window. They passed the Corrections Academy and the Penitentiary of New Mexico. The Main Facility was lit up by the flat white glare of perimeter lights.

     
Jesse Montoya—Zorro—had done time at the pen. But not very much time. Most recently, Montoya had been convicted of criminal sexual penetration of a minor and sent to South Facility. With "good time," his original commitment had been reduced to less than three years, and his release two months ago had garnered heavy publicity.

     
Neither Sylvia nor Matt had spoken a dozen words since they left her home. They were on their way to the village of Cerrillos, eighteen miles south of Santa Fe. In the 1880s, it had been a thriving mining community funded by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. Cerrillos, "Little Hills," was named for its surrounds, the mineral-rich Ortiz Mountains. There was some historical evidence that seventeenth-century Spaniards had forced Indians to mine turquoise in the Ortiz. A few hardy individuals still sought wealth in the hills, but for the most part, Cerrillos was a marginal community whose residents included surviving hippies, a few artists, Spanish families, and a scattering of rich folks.