Ashes to Ashes (31 page)

Quinn didn’t move for a moment, watching Bondurant, trying to measure, trying to read. They had been so close to drawing him out… . “You brought me here for a reason,” he said softly, one-on-one, man-to-man. He pulled a business card from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Call me when you’re ready.”

Bondurant hit a direct dial button on the phone and waited.

“One last question,” Quinn said. “Jillian liked to write music. Did you ever hear her perform? Ever see any of her stuff?”

“No. She didn’t share that with me.”

He looked away as someone answered on the other end of the line.

“This is Peter Bondurant. Put me through to Edwyn Noble.”

HE STOOD IN the hall and waited for a long time after the rude rumble of Kovac’s car had died away. Just stood there in the silence, in the gloom. Time passed. He didn’t know how much. And then he was walking down the hall to his office, his body and mind seemingly working independent of each other.

One floor lamp burned low in a corner of the room. He didn’t turn on more. Night had crept up into the late afternoon and stolen the clear light that had fallen in through the French doors earlier in the day. The room had a gloomy cast to it that suited his mood.

He unlocked his desk, took a sheet of music from it, and went to stand by the window to read, as if the farther the words were away from the light, the less harsh their reality.

Love Child
I’m your love child
Little girl
Want you more than all the world
Take me to that place I know
Take me where you want to go
Got to make you love me
Only one way how
Daddy, won’t you love me
Love me now
Daddy, I’m your love child
Take me now
—JB

THE MEETING IS in his honor, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the crowd, watching, listening, fascinated and amused. The people around him—he estimates 150, many of them with the media—have come here because they fear him or are fascinated by him. They have no idea the monster is sitting beside them, behind them, shaking his head as they comment on the frighten-ing state of the world and the vicious mentality of the Cremator.

He believes some of them actually envy the Cremator his boldness, though they will never admit it. None of them have the nerve, the clarity of vision, to act on their fantasies and release the dark power within.

The meeting comes to order, the spokesman of the task force stating the alleged purpose of the meeting, which is a lie. The meeting is not to inform, or even to offer the community a show of action. The purpose of the meeting is Quinn’s.

“More important in this ongoing cycle of murders, I told them, was to begin going proactive, using police efforts and the media to try to lure the guy into a trap. For example, I suggested the police might set up a series of community meetings to ‘discuss’ the crimes. I was reasonably certain the killer would show up at one or more of these.” —John Douglas,
Mindhunter.

The purpose of the meeting is to trap him, and yet he sits here, cool and calm. Just another concerned citizen. Quinn is watching the crowd, looking for him, looking for something most people won’t recognize: the face of evil.

“People expect evil to have an ugly face, a set of horns. Evil can be handsome. Evil can be ordinary. The ugliness is internal, a black, cancerous rot that consumes conscience and moral fiber and the controls that define civilized behavior, and leave an animal hiding behind the normal facade.” —John Quinn, in an interview with
People
magazine, January 1997.

In his sharp tailored gray suit, Quinn is obviously a cut above the local stiffs. He has the bored, superior expression of a
GQ
model. This stirs anger—that Quinn has finally deigned to acknowledge him in public, and he looks as if he couldn’t be less interested.

Because you think you know me, Quinn. You think I’m just another case. Nothing special. But you don’t know the Cremator. Evil’s Angel. And I know you so well.

He knows Quinn’s record, his reputation, his theories, his methods. In the end, he will have Quinn’s respect, which will mean more to Quinn than it does to him. His dark, true self is above the need for approval. Seeking approval is weak, reactive, induces vulnerability, invites ridicule and disappointment. Not acceptable. Not allowed on the dark side.

He recites his credo in his mind:
Domination. Manipulation. Control.

Lights flash and camera motors whir as Quinn takes the podium. The woman sitting next to him begins to cough. He offers her a Life Saver and thinks about cutting her throat for disrupting his concentration.

He thinks about doing it here, now—grabbing a fistful of blond hair, pulling her head back, and in one quick motion slicing through her larynx and her jugular and her carotid—all the way back to her spine. The blood will flood out of her in a gushing wave, and he will melt back through the hysterical crowd and slip away. He smiles at the thought and thumbs off a piece of candy for himself. Cherry—his favorite.

Quinn assures the people the full services of the Bureau are at the disposal of the task force. He talks about the VICAP computers, NCIC and the NCAVC, ISU and CASKU. Reassurance through confusion. The average person can’t decipher the alphabet soup of modern law enforcement agencies and services. Most people don’t know the difference between the police department and the sheriff’s office. They know only that acronyms sound important and official. The people gathered here listen with rapt attention and sneak glances at the person sitting beside them.

Quinn gives away only the barest details of the profile he’s building, experience allowing him to make a little information seem like the mother lode. He speaks of the common killer of prostitutes: an inadequate loser who hates women and chooses what he deems the worst of the lot to exact revenge for the sins of his mother. Quinn speculates this is not an entirely accurate profile of the Cremator, that this killer is special—highly intelligent, highly organized, clever—and it is going to take the diligence of not only the law enforcement community, but of the community itself to catch him.

Quinn is right about one thing—there is nothing common about the Cremator. He is superior rather than inadequate. He cares so little about the woman who spawned him, he could never be inspired to revenge against her memory.

And yet, in the back of his mind he hears her voice berating him, criticizing him, taunting him. And the anger, ever banked, begins to heat. Goddamn Quinn and his Freudian bullshit. He doesn’t know anything about the power and euphoria in taking a life. He has never considered the exquisite music of pain and fear, or how that music elevates the musician. The killing has nothing to do with any feelings of inadequacy of his common self, and everything to do with power.

On one far side of the room, the contingent from the Phoenix House take up their chant: “Our lives matter too!”

Toni Urskine introduces herself and starts in. “Lila White and Fawn Pierce were forced by circumstance into prostitution. Are you saying they deserved what happened to them?”

“I would never suggest that,” Quinn says. “It’s simply a fact that prostitution is a high-risk profession compared to being an attorney or an elementary-school teacher.”

“And so they’re considered expendable? Lila White’s murder didn’t rate a task force. Lila White had been a resident of the Phoenix House at one time. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has come to reinvestigate her death. The FBI didn’t send anyone to Minneapolis for Fawn Pierce. One of our current residents was a close friend of Ms. Pierce. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has
ever
interviewed her. But Peter Bondurant’s daughter goes missing and suddenly we have network news coverage and community action meetings.

“Chief Greer, in view of these facts, can you honestly say the city of Minneapolis gives a damn about women in difficult circumstances?”

Greer steps up to the podium, looking stern and strong. “Mrs. Urskine, I assure you every
possible
measure was taken to solve the murders of the first two victims. We are
redoubling
our efforts to seek out and find this
monster
. And we
will not rest
until the monster is
caught
!”

“I want to point out that Chief Greer isn’t using the term
monster
literally,” Quinn says. “We’re not looking for a raving lunatic, foaming at the mouth. For all appearances, he’s an ordinary man. The monster is in his mind.”

Monster
. A word ordinary people misapply to creatures they don’t understand. The shark is labeled a monster when in fact it is simply efficient and purposeful, pure in its thought and in its power. So, too, the Cremator. He is efficient and purposeful, pure in thought and in power. He doesn’t waver in action. He doesn’t question the compulsion. He gives himself over wholly to the needs of his Dark Self, and in that complete surrender rises above his common self.

“At this instant, when the victims were dying at their hands, many serial killers report an insight so intense that it is like an emotional quasar, blinding in its revelation of truth.” —Joel Norris,
Serial Killers.

SPECIAL AGENT QUINN, what are your theories regarding the burning of the bodies?”

The question came from a reporter. The danger with these open community meetings was having them turn into press conferences, and a press conference was the last thing Quinn wanted. He needed a controlled situation—for the purpose of the case, and for himself. He needed to give out just enough information, not too much. A little speculation, but nothing that could be construed by the killer as arrogance. He needed to condemn the killer, but be certain to weave into that condemnation a certain kind of respect.

A direct challenge could result in more bodies. Play it too soft and Smokey Joe might feel he needed to make a statement. More bodies. A wrong word, a careless inflection—another death. The weight of that responsibility pressed against his chest like a huge stone.

“Agent Quinn?”

The voice hit him like a prod, jarring him back to the moment. “The burning is this killer’s signature,” he answered, rubbing a hand against his forehead. He was hot. There wasn’t enough air in the room. His head was pounding like a hammer against an anvil. The hole in his stomach lining was burning bigger. “Something he feels compelled to perform to satisfy some inner need. What that need might be, only he knows.”

Pick a face, any face
, he thought as he looked out at the crowd. After all the years and all the cases and all the killers, he sometimes thought he should have been able to recognize the compulsion to kill, to see it like an unholy aura, but it didn’t work that way. People made much of the eyes of serial killers—the stark, flat emptiness that was like looking down a long, black tunnel where a soul should have been. But a killer like this one was smart and adaptable, and no one except his victims would see that look in his eyes until he stood for his mug shot.

Any face in the crowd could be the mask of a killer. One person in this group might listen to the descriptions of the crimes, smell the fear in this room, and feel elated, aroused. He had actually seen killers get erections as their monstrous exploits were related to a stunned and sickened jury.

The killer would be here with his own agenda. To gauge, to judge, to plan his next move. To enjoy the fuss being made over him. Maybe he would come forward as a concerned citizen. Maybe he would want the thrill of knowing he could stand within their grasp, then walk away. Or maybe he would choose his next victim from the women in this room.

Quinn’s gaze went automatically to Kate as she slipped in the door at the back of the room. He scanned her face, careful not to linger, even though he wanted to. He wanted it too much, and she wanted nothing to do with him. He’d taken that hint once. He sure as hell should have been smart enough to take it now. He had a case to focus on.

“What about the religious overtones?”

“There may not be any as far as he’s concerned. We can only speculate. He could be saying ‘sinners burn in hell.’ Or it could be a cleansing ceremony to save their souls. Or it could be that he deems burning the bodies the ultimate disrespect and degradation.”

“Isn’t it your job to narrow down the possibilities?” another reporter called out. Quinn almost looked for Tippen in the crowd.

“The profile isn’t complete,” he said.
Don’t tell me my job. I know my job, asshole
.

“Is it true you were pulled off the Bennet child abduction in Virginia to work this case?”

“What about the South Beach gay murders?”

“I have a number of ongoing cases at any given time.”

“But you’re here because of Peter Bondurant,” another stated. “Doesn’t that reek of elitism?”

“I go where I’m sent,” he said flatly. “My focus is on the case, not where the orders came from or why.”

“Why hasn’t Peter Bondurant been formally questioned?”

Chief Greer stepped up to the podium to put the official shut-down on that line of inquiry, to expound on Peter Bondurant’s virtues in front of Edwyn Noble and the Paragon PR person who had attended on Bondurant’s behalf.

Quinn stepped back beside Kovac and tried to breathe again. Kovac had his cop face on, the eyes hooded and flat, taking in far more than anyone in the audience would have imagined.

“You see Liska’s mutt sitting next to her?” he said under his breath. “He came in uniform, for chrissake.”

“That would be handy for getting his victims to go with him,” Quinn said. “He’s got a petty record that might be something more.”

“He’s connected to Jillian Bondurant,” Kovac said.

“Have Liska ask him in for a sit-down.” Quinn wished for that rush of gut instinct that this might be the guy, but that sense had abandoned him, and he felt nothing. “Let it sound like a consultation. We’re asking for his assistance, we want his take on things, his opinion as a trained observer. Like that.”