At the Stroke of Madness (34 page)

“I
guess I get so used to being around this all day, I forget. Sorry about that,” Bonzado apologized for the third time. “Let me make it up to you. How ’bout I take you out to dinner?”

“You don’t have to do that. Really. It’s not a problem. It just surprised me, is all.”

“No, really, I insist. There’s a place called Giovani’s close to the Ramada.”

“Okay, if you insist.”

“Now, let me show you some stuff.” He finished peeling off the mask and shoved the goggles up atop his head, messing his hair and not caring. Finally he returned to his enthusiastic self. “On to our body-snatcher case.”

“Body snatcher?”

“That’s what the kids are calling him. Actually, I think that’s what they’re calling him in the news media, too. You have to admit, it has a ring to it. Don’t you FBI types nickname your killers?”

“I think everyone watches too much TV.” But it was true. They often did give killers nicknames. She remembered some of her most recent ones: the collector and the soul catcher. But it wasn’t a matter of policy or even morbid name-calling. Perhaps it came out of a need to define, maybe a need to understand and control the killer. Body snatcher seemed appropriate. Appropriate but too easy.

Bonzado waved her over to a table where freshly cleaned bones lay on a white drop cloth.

“This is the young man from barrel number three.” The numbering was one of those things that unfortunately had come from necessity. She had watched Watermeier request the number be painted onto the barrel and its lid. And now she saw that all the paper tags with strings attached to each of the skeletal remains were also given the number three.

“Young man? How can you tell?” This was one of the barrels that she hadn’t seen inside. The one Stolz had said was a bunch of bones. She wondered if there could have been enough tissue to indicate sex, let alone age.

Bonzado picked up what Maggie recognized as a thigh bone, or the femur. She did, after all, have a medical background, not that bones had been a favorite subject.

“At birth there are several places where there is an epiphysis, or a separate element, separate pieces of bone that throughout childhood and into young adulthood end up getting larger and slowly ossify…or rather, it eventually joins or unites. The end of the femur is one of those places. Right here—” he pointed “—at the knee. Can you see the slight separation? It’s just a groove now, sorta looks like a scar on the bone where the growth has occurred. In adulthood it disappears.”

He bent over the bone so that his forehead almost touched hers, his elbow brushing her side. For a brief moment his closeness distracted her. She seemed suddenly and acutely aware of his scent, a fresh deodorant soap perhaps with a subtle hint of aftershave lotion, despite being surrounded by the ghastly odors of the lab.

“Do you see it?” he asked again.

She quickly nodded and shifted her weight to put some distance between them.

“Now, because the groove hasn’t totally disappeared, I’d say he was a young adult, between eighteen and twenty-two, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four at the oldest. Sometimes with adolescents and young adults it’s difficult to determine sex, but this was definitely a young man. You’ll notice his bones are thick, the joints are knobby, the skull has a square jaw and a low, heavy brow.”

“Which means this killer has chosen a fortysomething-year-old woman, an elderly man who had already been dead and embalmed, and a young man. What about the fourth barrel? The one with the waffle pattern imprinted on the back? Do we know anything more about that victim?”

“Not much. Stolz faxed me the head wound, only because I asked. It’s a woman. He’s having a tough time determining age.”

“Most serial killers choose a particular type of victim. Ted Bundy even went as far as choosing young women with long, dark hair, parted in the middle. This guy is all over the place. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern to the victims he chooses.”

“Oh, I think there is a pattern. But not the kind we’re used to seeing. That’s why I think you’ll find this interesting.” Bonzado put down the femur and reached for its pair or a part of what was once its pair. This one looked like it had been sawed above the kneecap. “Take a look at the end of his right femur.” He handed it to Maggie and she examined the bulbous growth of bone or cartilage that stuck out at the end. Part of it had been sawed away as well.

“What is it?”

“It’s probably been there from birth. I’m guessing it was some form of bone spur. Maybe it’s a progressive disorder that they may have been waiting to remove or correct after he finished growing. This part on the femur would have been a small part of the problem so it’s difficult to tell. He probably would have had a limp. I’m not sure how pronounced a limp. Depending on what shape the tibia and fibula is in I could probably tell you more.”

“But let me guess,” Maggie said. “You can’t tell me because that part of his leg is missing, right?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s your pattern. The first woman’s body was missing her breast implants, right? And the old guy had a brain tumor and the killer took the brain. This kid’s bum leg must have been what the killer wanted. The barrel was sealed when we found it. As far as I can tell, everything else is here.” He indicated the tabletop with the man’s skeletal remains stretched out and in place.

“Even the woman with the waffle pattern on her back from livor mortis,” he continued. “Stolz hasn’t been able to figure it out yet because the maggots made a mess of her, but I bet he finds something, some imperfection or deformity missing. That’s got to be our connection. He wants to remove the deformity. Maybe he’s a perfectionist? Maybe he feels like he’s cleansing the earth of imperfections.”

He stopped and waited. She could feel him watching her, gauging her response. “So there’s your victimology. That’s what they all had in common. It can’t be coincidence, right?”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I don’t believe in coincidence. But there’s something else they all had in common.”

“What’s that?”

“They all knew the killer.”

“I
guess I get so used to being around this all day, I forget. Sorry about that,” Bonzado apologized for the third time. “Let me make it up to you. How ’bout I take you out to dinner?”

“You don’t have to do that. Really. It’s not a problem. It just surprised me, is all.”

“No, really, I insist. There’s a place called Giovani’s close to the Ramada.”

“Okay, if you insist.”

“Now, let me show you some stuff.” He finished peeling off the mask and shoved the goggles up atop his head, messing his hair and not caring. Finally he returned to his enthusiastic self. “On to our body-snatcher case.”

“Body snatcher?”

“That’s what the kids are calling him. Actually, I think that’s what they’re calling him in the news media, too. You have to admit, it has a ring to it. Don’t you FBI types nickname your killers?”

“I think everyone watches too much TV.” But it was true. They often did give killers nicknames. She remembered some of her most recent ones: the collector and the soul catcher. But it wasn’t a matter of policy or even morbid name-calling. Perhaps it came out of a need to define, maybe a need to understand and control the killer. Body snatcher seemed appropriate. Appropriate but too easy.

Bonzado waved her over to a table where freshly cleaned bones lay on a white drop cloth.

“This is the young man from barrel number three.” The numbering was one of those things that unfortunately had come from necessity. She had watched Watermeier request the number be painted onto the barrel and its lid. And now she saw that all the paper tags with strings attached to each of the skeletal remains were also given the number three.

“Young man? How can you tell?” This was one of the barrels that she hadn’t seen inside. The one Stolz had said was a bunch of bones. She wondered if there could have been enough tissue to indicate sex, let alone age.

Bonzado picked up what Maggie recognized as a thigh bone, or the femur. She did, after all, have a medical background, not that bones had been a favorite subject.

“At birth there are several places where there is an epiphysis, or a separate element, separate pieces of bone that throughout childhood and into young adulthood end up getting larger and slowly ossify…or rather, it eventually joins or unites. The end of the femur is one of those places. Right here—” he pointed “—at the knee. Can you see the slight separation? It’s just a groove now, sorta looks like a scar on the bone where the growth has occurred. In adulthood it disappears.”

He bent over the bone so that his forehead almost touched hers, his elbow brushing her side. For a brief moment his closeness distracted her. She seemed suddenly and acutely aware of his scent, a fresh deodorant soap perhaps with a subtle hint of aftershave lotion, despite being surrounded by the ghastly odors of the lab.

“Do you see it?” he asked again.

She quickly nodded and shifted her weight to put some distance between them.

“Now, because the groove hasn’t totally disappeared, I’d say he was a young adult, between eighteen and twenty-two, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four at the oldest. Sometimes with adolescents and young adults it’s difficult to determine sex, but this was definitely a young man. You’ll notice his bones are thick, the joints are knobby, the skull has a square jaw and a low, heavy brow.”

“Which means this killer has chosen a fortysomething-year-old woman, an elderly man who had already been dead and embalmed, and a young man. What about the fourth barrel? The one with the waffle pattern imprinted on the back? Do we know anything more about that victim?”

“Not much. Stolz faxed me the head wound, only because I asked. It’s a woman. He’s having a tough time determining age.”

“Most serial killers choose a particular type of victim. Ted Bundy even went as far as choosing young women with long, dark hair, parted in the middle. This guy is all over the place. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern to the victims he chooses.”

“Oh, I think there is a pattern. But not the kind we’re used to seeing. That’s why I think you’ll find this interesting.” Bonzado put down the femur and reached for its pair or a part of what was once its pair. This one looked like it had been sawed above the kneecap. “Take a look at the end of his right femur.” He handed it to Maggie and she examined the bulbous growth of bone or cartilage that stuck out at the end. Part of it had been sawed away as well.

“What is it?”

“It’s probably been there from birth. I’m guessing it was some form of bone spur. Maybe it’s a progressive disorder that they may have been waiting to remove or correct after he finished growing. This part on the femur would have been a small part of the problem so it’s difficult to tell. He probably would have had a limp. I’m not sure how pronounced a limp. Depending on what shape the tibia and fibula is in I could probably tell you more.”

“But let me guess,” Maggie said. “You can’t tell me because that part of his leg is missing, right?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s your pattern. The first woman’s body was missing her breast implants, right? And the old guy had a brain tumor and the killer took the brain. This kid’s bum leg must have been what the killer wanted. The barrel was sealed when we found it. As far as I can tell, everything else is here.” He indicated the tabletop with the man’s skeletal remains stretched out and in place.

“Even the woman with the waffle pattern on her back from livor mortis,” he continued. “Stolz hasn’t been able to figure it out yet because the maggots made a mess of her, but I bet he finds something, some imperfection or deformity missing. That’s got to be our connection. He wants to remove the deformity. Maybe he’s a perfectionist? Maybe he feels like he’s cleansing the earth of imperfections.”

He stopped and waited. She could feel him watching her, gauging her response. “So there’s your victimology. That’s what they all had in common. It can’t be coincidence, right?”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I don’t believe in coincidence. But there’s something else they all had in common.”

“What’s that?”

“They all knew the killer.”

R. J.
Tully cleared away the dirty dishes, putting them in the sink, and wiped up the crumbs. He pulled out the laptop computer and set it on the kitchen table, connecting the power cord to the outlet and the cables for Internet access. The lid showed a trace of dusting powder, otherwise the lab guys had been tidy, quick and efficient.

Bernard was still trying to track down the e-mail address, though it looked like Tully had been right. SonnyBoy used only public computers. They had tracked him back to the Meriden Public Library and the University of New Haven. At this rate they might never be able to identify him or narrow down a user profile. It looked like he used this address strictly for chat. There were no accounts, no member profiles, no credit cards or online purchases. Nothing except dead ends.

Tully accessed Joan Begley’s AOL account, using the password and going through her file cabinet. He read the e-mails that hadn’t been opened yet, but saved each, clicking on “Keep as new” just in case someone else was checking them, too.

Harvey jumped up from under the table, startling Tully. He had forgotten the dog was there. Within seconds he heard the front door unlock. This dog was good.

“Hi, Dad,” Emma said, coming in the front door, her friend, Aleesha, her constant companion, following.

“You’re home early,” he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he was feeling. These days he barely saw her and that was only in passing.

“We thought we’d study here tonight. Is that okay with you?”

She had already thrown her armful of books on the sofa and squatted down to hug Harvey’s thick neck. She laughed at her friend, who had to move or risk getting swatted by the dog’s tail.

“You can pet him,” she told Aleesha, who seemed to be waiting for permission. “Could we order a pizza later for dinner?”

She let Harvey lick her hand while she looked up at Tully. He thought he saw something in his daughter’s eyes—a sparkle, a glint—something that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. And that was pure and unadulterated happiness.

“Sure, sweet pea. But only if I get to have some.”

“Well, duh, of course you get some. Especially since you’re paying for it.” She rolled her eyes but was still smiling.

If only he had known that all it took to make his daughter’s eyes sparkle was the simple lick and wag of a dog. Who’d ever have guessed? Teenaged girls—he’d never be able to figure them out.

Sometimes it didn’t surprise him so much that Emma was almost sixteen as much as it surprised him that he was supposed to be the father of a sixteen-year-old. What did he know about teenaged girls? He had no experience in this category. The father of a little girl, now, that he could handle. He was good at protecting, providing and admiring, but those all seemed qualities his teenaged daughter considered lame.

“Come on, Harvey.” Emma called the dog from the hallway. “Watch him, Aleesha,” he heard Emma tell her friend as they went back to her bedroom. “This is so cool. He lies at the foot of my bed like he’s watching out for me. And those big, sad brown eyes. Aren’t they the best?”

Tully smiled. Evidently protecting and admiring were annoying characteristics in a father, but prime qualities for a dog. Was he being replaced in his daughter’s life? Better by a dog than by a boy.

He went back to Joan Begley’s e-mail. O’Dell had said that the rock quarry killer may be paranoid and delusional. She suggested that he hid the bodies because he didn’t want anyone to see his handiwork, unlike some serial killers who put the bodies on display to show their control, their power. So this killer, according to O’Dell, got what he wanted from something other than torturing and killing his victims. There may be no gratification in the actual kills for him. If she was correct, the killing was only a means to the end result, what O’Dell called his trophies. But if this was the same man who had taken Joan Begley, what did he want from her?

Tully scanned the contents of one of SonnyBoy’s e-mails to Joan Begley. He sounded genuinely interested and concerned about her. Yes, it might be necessary to lure the victim, get her to trust. But this seemed more than that.

The e-mail read, “You need to let yourself mourn. Let yourself be sad. It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to be embarrassed. No one will think of you as being weak.”

Did SonnyBoy connect with his victims in some way, actually feel for them? Or perhaps feel sorry for them because of their imperfections? Was it part of his game? Or was Joan Begley different?

Tully wondered if O’Dell was right. If on some level, the killer hid the bodies because he was embarrassed by what he was doing. Could that be? A killer embarrassed by his need to possess these deformities that others had? Perhaps even embarrassed that he must kill? Was that possible? It would make sense that he started out with people who were already dead. According to O’Dell, there was an old guy with a brain tumor who had been embalmed and buried. Maybe SonnyBoy started with the dead and worked up his courage. Or maybe his need to possess what they had finally overrode any qualms he may have had about murder.

Tully sat back and stared at the computer screen, the last e-mail that SonnyBoy had sent Joan Begley still open on the screen. Just how paranoid and delusional was good ole SonnyBoy? Tully was tempted to find out.

He probably should check out his theory with O’Dell. Probably shouldn’t do anything silly or reckless. And yet, what did he really have to lose? Maybe O’Dell was rubbing off on him. Maybe she was a bad influence on him, tempting him to stray from his by-the-book approach.

He scooted the chair closer to the table. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What the hell. He hit the reply icon, which brought up Joan Begley’s response screen. Before he could change his mind he typed in the message and hit the send icon. What if SonnyBoy did have Joan Begley, bound and gagged? Or what if he had already killed her? Then wouldn’t he be surprised to receive an e-mail from her, even if it was just one word:

“Why?”