Creatures of Appetite (16 page)

“So you’re certain that he will pop his head up?” Kane asked.

“Remember rule number one. I am always right.”

“I don’t like that story. I like seals.”

“Too bad, you want to be a profiler, you’re going to have to learn to like polar bears.”

“Why does the Iceman do what he does?”

“You tell me,” Thorne made a move on his board.

“Sex thing?”

“What is he, Kane? WHAT does he do?”

“He’s a hunter.”

“And why do hunters hunt?”

“Well, for sport.”

“Why else?”

“For …” It suddenly dawned on her and Kane gawked at Thorne, open-mouthed.

“That’s right,” Thorne said. “They do. And sometimes they do it for both of those reasons, like our boy here.”

“But how do you know …”

“Why else do we only find just pieces of victims, here and there? He’s careful, he doesn’t want us know, at least not yet, but that’s exactly what he’s doing. Look at the pictures, look at how the bodies have been cut, do you think that’s accidental? Think about it. It’s the only explanation.”

“Why haven’t you said anything to anyone else about this?”

“I haven’t even really said it to you. You came up with this on your own. But to answer your question: Timing, Kane. All in the timing.”

“Oh my God. So that’s why?”

“That’s part of why. Not the whole part of why, but a big part. When we can break down the rest of the why, then we’ll know where and who and we’ll be there before he cracks open the A-1 sauce.”

Kane was silent for a moment. “I’ve seen a lot of things, bad things, working DC Homicide isn’t Disneyland, but … I don’t know how some people can do the things they can do.”

“You’re on that HOW thing again. Come on, Kane, there are three or four billion people on this planet. They all do weird shit and there’s no real explanation for it. I don’t understand the attraction rollerblading holds for people, or how anyone can listen to gangsta rap, but it happens. It’s there, it happens. People do it.

“No rhyme or reason other than that the shit that people do is the shit that people do. Learn it, live it and know it. One of the few constants in life, Kane,” Thorne selected a rook on his chessboard and moved it, “is that shit happens.”

Kane had to think about that for a couple of minutes. “Thorne, do you believe in life after death?”

“I’m still not sure about life before death.”

“There’s got to be a reason for things like this. I have to believe that.”

“That’s all those bullshit TV shows speaking for you. All right, Kane,” Thorne lowered his feet and rubbed his hands together.

“Let’s do a little exercise. Picture in your mind a young boy, one with no real friends, no brothers or sisters, one whose parents alternately ignore and abuse. Got the picture? Okay, now you know what this little boy’s doing? He’s killing bugs. In his spare time he’s killing all the bugs he can, mashing caterpillars, pulling legs off of grasshoppers, digging up anthills and going to war with them.

“He kills bugs all the time. He’s real creative about it too, douses them with glue and lighter fluid and anything else he can get his hands on. He gets real good at it. Now. Tell me. Why does he do that?”

“Killing bugs gives him a sense of power in his life,” Kane replied, her eyes lighting up. “He lives a life which is subject to the whims of others, one where he’s not in control, he doesn’t get a choice in what happens. Killing bugs gives him a chance to be in control, the ability to choose who lives, who doesn’t. Right?”

“Wrong. That’s the television answer. The real answer: He just likes killing bugs. That’s just what he is, a bug killer. He does it because he likes it and that’s what he is. Maybe he’ll grow up and become a bug exterminator, maybe he’ll move up the killing chain from bugs to animals to people.

“One we don’t concern ourselves with, the other we do. But it doesn’t change what he is and always will be, a killer,” Thorne leaned back and put his feet back up on his desk. “And our job is to be able to know a killer when we see him, bug, animal or otherwise.”

“But …”

“No buts. You want to know how I do what I do, there it is.”

Forsythe suddenly appeared in their line of vision, very red in the face. He stomped over to the federal officers and, with one swipe of a meaty paw, knocked Thorne’s feet off the table where they were resting comfortably.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing? Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t dictate policy HERE, you don’t delegate actions or tell ANYONE on this task force WHAT TO DO!” Forsythe was screaming now, spittle flying from his mouth.

Heads from nearby desks popped up to watch and listen to the fireworks. Thorne simply stared at Forsythe impassively.

“Now, you may have pulled a slick trick or two outa your ass, you MAY have done that, but I don’t care what you think you’ve accomplished,” Forsythe continued. “I’m in charge of this operation here. Either accept that or get the fuck OUT! If I have to go to the governor to make that clear to you, I will do that. I am THE BOSS! And do you know what that means? It means you DON’T DO ANYTHING WITHOUT CHECKING WITH ME FIRST!

“Are we clear on this? You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t go anywhere, you don’t crack a fart without asking me for permission first. This ‘media profile release’ SHIT, it’s not happening. You, interrogating another suspect, not happening. You, going to another crime scene, not happening. You, firing your weapon at anyone ELSE, not fucking happening. From now on, you don’t do ANYTHING except read and write reports and if you have ANY recommendations, you make them to ME and ONLY me. Now then. If either of you have a problem with that, then I suggest you get your ass back to Washington or wherever it is you came from! Any questions? Good!”

Forsythe wheeled and stalked off, still cursing under his breath. Thorne turned to Kane, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Case in point,” Thorne said. “I’ll be right back.”

Thorne casually got to his feet and walked after Forsythe.

F
orsythe sat on
the toilet in a stall in the men’s room, moved his bowels and read the newspaper. This was his ritual, three times a day he sat, whether he needed to or not, here on the throne where every man was king and hoped for delivery. In addition to regular sitting was an awful orange-flavored fiber drink his wife made him drink every morning and evening. Men his age had to pay attention to their bowels, among other things, was the wife’s constant refrain.

The door to the men’s room opened and closed. Forsythe paid no attention to it, engrossed in his paper and the loud trumpeting noises that emitted from his posterior, signaling fiber-coated success.

Footsteps echoed off the bathroom walls. They stopped directly in front of Forsythe’s stall. This got Forsythe’s attention. He lowered the paper and looked down at the bottom of his stall door. A pair of shoes faced his stall. The right shoe tapped calmly.

“Who’s fucking around out there?” Forsythe growled, feeling his blood pressure begin to rise yet again.

Thorne suddenly kicked the stall door open and leaped into the stall. He grabbed Forsythe by his hair and tie and dragged him out of the toilet stall. He propelled Forsythe, struggling to pull up his pants, right into the bathroom wall.

The big man hit his head hard on the wall. Thorne grabbed Forsythe again, turned him around and threw him right back into the toilet stall where he was previously sitting. Forsythe hit the toilet, slipped and fell to the floor next to it.

Thorne, chewing gum, calmly grabbed Forsythe by the hair, lifted his head up and very deliberately shoved his face into the just-used toilet bowl. Forsythe bellowed and thrashed but, despite his weight and size advantage, was helpless in Thorne’s grip.

Thorne casually dunked Forsythe’s head into the used toilet once, twice, three times and then flushed the toilet on his face. Thorne hauled Forsythe up to his feet and tossed him out of the stall yet again. Forsythe slipped and fell to the floor, his pants still only as high as his knees. Bracing his hands on the floor and panting, Forsythe tried to get up.

Thorne kicked Forsythe in the gut hard. All the wind went right out of Forsythe. Forsythe tried to raise himself once more, bracing his arms yet again. Thorne calmly kicked Forsythe’s hand out from under him before he could do so. Forsythe fell heavily onto the floor on his face. He lay there on his chest, breathing heavily.

Thorne leaned down, grabbed one of Forsythe’s shoulders and flipped him over onto his back. Forsythe looked up at Thorne from the floor like a whipped puppy.

“We’re having a serious disagreement here,” Thorne said, still calm. “For the record, I’ll state my case. YOU. Do NOT … get in my WAY … at any point in time. EVER. Other than that, I don’t care what you do. Have I made myself clear?”

Forsythe, still breathing heavily, closed his eyes and nodded.

“Good. I don’t want to have to have this conversation again,” Thorne checked his look in the mirror, adjusted his tie and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m hungry,” Thorne said. “You know any good restaurants? I’m hungry for Italian food. Can you even get decent Italian in Nebraska?”

Forsythe swallowed and coughed, still on his back. “Pepe’s. On Avenue B and Twelfth. It’s not too bad.”

“Thanks,” Thorne said, “I appreciate it.”

Thorne left the bathroom. Forsythe stayed exactly where he was on the floor.

As Thorne strolled out of the men’s room, a couple of uniformed men stood outside the door cautiously, hands on weapons, unsure what to do about the racket that had come from the bathroom. Hairston stared at Thorne for a moment before entering the john with a worried look on his face.

“Careful in there, floor’s wet and a little slippery,” Thorne said as Hairston hurried by him. “I think someone may have fallen.” Kane stood a few feet away, eyebrow raised.

“Kane! Wanna get some chow? I’m starving, come on,” Thorne turned to Johnson, sitting wide-eyed at his desk. “Johnson! I’m going for Italian, give me a car.”

“Well, uh,” Johnson stuttered, “I don’t know if …”

“Johnson,” Thorne glared at him, “don’t make me come over there.”

Johnson quickly tossed a set of car keys to Thorne, who caught them gracefully. “Blue four-door sedan, right out front,” Johnson said.

“Good man. Let’s roll, Kane, come on come on,” Thorne grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Forsythe came out of the men’s room carefully, supported by Hairston and another uniformed cop.

“I’m all right, I slipped,” Forsythe said. “It’s nothing, it happens. I’m all right.”

Kane grabbed her coat and hurried after Thorne.

“W
hat was that about
?” Kane asked after she caught up to Thorne outside on the steps of headquarters.

“What was what about?” Thorne struggled with his coat. It was completely dark out now and snow fell heavily, causing Thorne much frustration as he tramped toward the parked cars.

“You, Forsythe, bathroom, the noise, the shouting, what do you think?”

“Attitude adjustment,” Thorne said. “Does it ever stop snowing here?”

Thorne finally found the blue four-door sedan parked between two patrol cars and went to the driver’s side. Kane walked around to the passenger side, glanced across the street and went real still when something caught her eye.

“Thorne,” Kane said, quiet.

“What?” Thorne fumbled with the car keys, looked up and followed her gaze.

Across the street, a man stood under a streetlight. He wore a black ski mask over his face and in his arms held a small figure wrapped in a white sheet. He gently lowered the tiny figure to the ground, arranging it on the ground just so, and then straightened back up to his full height. He stared at Thorne and Kane as heavy snow fell between them.

“It’s him,” Thorne said, carefully reaching for his weapon.

The air around the two of them suddenly exploded as the Iceman opened fire on them before they could react. Bullets crashed into the parked cars and Thorne and Kane hit the deck behind the sedan, diving out of the way. The sedan’s windshield collapsed from the gunfire. The night went silent once again.