Death Row (20 page)

"Like what?"

"Various things. You said the place gave you the creeps. Others overheard you."

"So what?"

"So, it's not the behavior of a professional. It's more something you'd expect from a... a..."

"Weak sister?"

"Not a member of the police department, anyway. Not a member of the homicide squad."

Baxter turned away. "This is such bullshit."

"It isn't. We're public officials. We have to maintain professional deportment."

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit."

"Plus, if you can't stand to be around body parts, how the hell are you going to handle yourself around a corpse? What use is a homicide detective with a weak stomach?"

Baxter's teeth were clenched so hard Mike thought her jaw might burst. "I've been around plenty of corpses, Morelli. Almost as many as you."

"You don't act like it."

"Why, because I don't go in for the macho poker face? Because I don't act like I don't care?"

"There's professional behavior, and there's unprofessional behavior. And unprofessional behavior-"

"Would be that crack you made the other day about my panties. In front of witnesses."

Mike fell silent.

"Now, that was genuinely unprofessional. That could get you suspended for a month. But did I turn you in, even though I found your behavior grossly offensive and revolting? No, I didn't. And you know why?" She leaned into his face. "Because I would never do such a crappy thing to my partner, that's why.
Even if he's a total and utter asshole!"

"Excuse me. May I cut in?"

Mike ripped his eyes away from Baxter and saw, to his horror, Chief Blackwell standing not a foot away from them.

The other people in the canteen scattered. Show was over.

"Could I have the next dance?" Blackwell continued. "You two seem as if you may be ready for a break."

Baxter backed off. Mike tugged at the edges of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.

"Morning, Chief."

"And to you, Mr. Senior Homicide Investigator. Enjoying your early- morning caffeine?"

"Chief..."

"This isn't working," Baxter said bluntly, tossing her hair back. "Not at all."

"So I see." Blackwell looked at both of them. Mike could read the tension in his neck, his eyes. "I think it's time we had a private conference. A little heart-to-heart. One-on-one."

Mike nodded. "It's always hard to be the new kid, Chief. Don't be too tough on her."

Blackwell brought his head around slowly. "Her? I'm having a private conversation with you, Major. In my office. Now."

Ben could hardly restrain himself. "You know who killed the Faulkner family?"

"Of course," Dr. Bennett said. "I mean, I don't know his name. But I know who he was. And it was a him, by the way. I can guarantee it."

"How do you know this?"

"I'm a psychiatrist, remember? And I deal with a lot of sick miserable human beings. Frankly, Erin Faulkner was a pleasant change of pace from some of the cases I get, referred by prison or parole boards. Seriously deranged, dangerous individuals."

"So getting back to the Faulkner case," Christina said, "who was the killer?"

"The killer who almost wiped out the Faulkner family was what psychiatrists would classify as an organized nonsocial. I mean, when you think about it, the crime was really rather systematically executed. Even the eye removal was handled with consistency and efficiency. These people are usually relatively intelligent, decent looking, and well attuned to the feelings of others. Not just what they like, but what they don't like. What scares them."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Very. Combine that with an active fantasy life that allows them to dream about their crimes well in advance-which results in them being well planned by the time they are actually conducted."

"I see."

"Some experts think all children are organized nonsocials-their world revolves around themselves. But at some point in their development, most learn to care about others, about the world outside. But not organized nonsocials. They never outgrow the 'me' stage. All they care about is what they need. They are the center of their universe. They think they are never wrong, that they never make mistakes." She paused. "But of course they do, thank goodness. It's the only reason some of these monsters are ever caught."

"But-why?" Ben asked. "What would be this... organized nonsocial's motivation?"

"That could vary," Bennett explained. "Some of them simply like to inflict pain. They get a charge out of it-literally. Some delude themselves into believing they are scientists-conducting research into the levels of pain tolerance or some such horrid thing. For others, it's purely a power trip; they do it because they can. And for some, it's an intellectual challenge. What can I get away with? How long can I go without being caught?" Her eyes drifted to her butterfly wall. "And for some, it's purely sexual. They have a preoccupation that society doesn't condone-little girls, little boys, whatever."

"Any common denominators?"

"Just one. People who commit crimes like this can't help themselves. It's not that they lack self-control or they've consciously decided to indulge themselves. They just can't stop."

"How horrible," Christina said.

Bennett agreed. "Modern medicine has made some important strides. There are drugs now that can suppress some of the more malevolent urges. But it's always a tricky thing. Drugs can be unreliable. And if the patient forgets to take his pill one day-"

"Another family is obliterated."

"That's possible, yes."

"This may sound crazy," Christina said, "but I have a theory that there was more than one person involved in the crime. That there was a second person present. A second person with... well, for want of a better word, a conscience. More than the principal killer, anyway. Does that fit with your theory?"

Bennett considered for a moment. "Well, it would be extremely unusual for an organized nonsocial to take a partner. He would want to do all the planning and killing himself. But I suppose I can't totally eliminate the possibility of some kind of... procurer. Someone who didn't participate in the killings but was still essential in some way. Someone who suggested the crime or facilitated it."

"You expressed some doubts about Ray Goldman being the murderer," Ben said.

"Well, he doesn't really seem the organized nonsocial type, does he? I mean, I haven't met him personally, but from what I've read, he was a high-functioning, professional, highly educated man with no apparent psychological problems."

"Exactly," Ben said. "That's what I've been telling people for seven years. Would you be willing to take the stand and say that?"

"To be honest, I don't care much for the expert-witness scene. It's all a little tawdry, isn't it?"

She'd get no argument from Ben, but he could still use a medical witness at that hearing next week. "I'm fighting for a man's life here. I won't ask you to say anything you're not comfortable saying. Just tell it straight."

Bennett pondered. "Well... I'll think about it. But you must also remember-it's not unheard of for an organized nonsocial to be able to disguise his illness. To hide his aberration. Lots of people knew Ted Bundy-and liked him. No one thought he was a killer. Until he'd knocked off about forty people."

Ben nodded. A sobering thought.

"If there's nothing else, Ben..." She smiled. "I hear a rare lepidoptera calling me." She picked up her pins and stiletto.

"Of course." He and Christina headed for the door. On first arrival, he had thought the butterfly business a rather unusual hobby. Maybe even a little sick. Killing the pretties. But after hearing about what she did, what she knew, what she dealt with on a regular basis-he could see why she enjoyed her butterflies. He could see why she needed them.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Chief Blackwell bellowed.

Mike drew himself back into the armchair. He felt about two feet tall. Like he'd been called into the vice principal's office. "I can't work with her, Chief. I just can't."

"You can if I say you can."

"No, I'm sorry, but I can't."

"You mean you won't."

Mike gripped the arms of the chair. "It's impossible, sir. She's got a chip on her shoulder the size of Sand Springs. She's bullying and domineering. A real harpy."

"Don't start with the sexist remarks."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"No? I suppose you meant to say something about her panties?"

Mike closed his eyes. "I should've known she'd go running to you."

"For your information, Major, she did not report the incident, although pursuant to departmental regulations, she should have. Happily, I got reports from about twelve other eyewitnesses who heard the whole thing. You're the talk of the department."

"Chief, it was just me and Frank and some of the boys shooting the breeze."

"I don't care what it was. And I don't want to hear any excuses!" Blackwell pounded his fist against his desk. "I don't understand this, Mike. Hell, you're supposed to be the sensitive one on the force. The college man with the graduate degree. The English major, for God's sake. And you're behaving worse than the worst of the old-guard male chauvinists. The difference being-they don't know any better. You do."

Mike's mouth felt dry. "Chief, you know I don't have a problem with women working on the force-"

"I don't know that I do, Mike. I used to. Now I'm not so sure." He leaned across his desk. "What do you think would happen if word got around about this? What if the press got a hold of your 'panties' remark? What if it got back to the mayor? Huh? I can assure you she would not find it amusing."

"Sir, I have absolutely no objection to women police officers. Or even personally working with women. It's just...
this
woman. Baxter. I can't work with her."

"Why? Are you hot for her?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"It hasn't escaped my notice that Sergeant Baxter is quite attractive. And I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice, either. Is that the problem? Do you have feelings for her? Are you suppressing your sexual frustration with open hostility?"

"Sir, I can assure you that isn't the case."

"Yeah, I hear your mouth working. But I'm not sure your brain is along for the ride." He rapped a pencil on his desk. "That would explain a lot. I'm aware that your personal life has been totally screwed up ever since your divorce. Rarely a date, from what I hear. Hanging out with defense attorneys. Perverse stuff like that."

"Sir, I give you my personal guarantee. There is no sexual attraction. If the rest of the female population were covered with pustulant weeping boils, there would still be no sexual attraction."

"Says you." Blackwell stared across the desk at him. Mike didn't remember ever seeing the man look so angry. "May I remind you how this assignment started, Major? It started because you screwed up. Badly."

"Sir-"

"Just shut up and listen. A lot of the higher-ups thought I should've yanked your badge right then and there, after you butted into that hostage scene where you had no business and made a mess of it. But I said no. I said give him another chance."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Our record as an equal opportunity employer has not always been the best. The mayor wants to change that." He paused, looking squarely at Mike. "You can see where she might have an interest in that sort of thing. She wants Baxter to succeed. And therefore, so do I. That's why I assigned her to you. And that's why you are going to do everything possible to make the assignment a success. Do you understand me?"

Mike's face tightened. "I suppose."

"I will not accept excuses, Mike. You will make this work."

"I'll do my best-"

"Don't give me that schoolboy crap about doing your best.
You will make it work.
Are we clear on that?"

Mike stood at attention. "Yes, sir!"

"I'm tearing up this bogus report you wrote. I wouldn't allow that to sit in anyone's file, much less Sergeant Baxter's."

"Yes, sir."

Blackwell pointed a finger. "And make no mistake about it, Mike. I don't care how long we've worked together. If you screw this up, I'll have your badge."

"Chief-!"

"I mean it, Mike. You keep that in mind as you continue to work with your new partner. You want this to work." He lowered his voice. "Because it's not just her career that's on the line here. It's yours."

Ben was almost out his front door when Joni stopped him. "Got some news."

He pulled the door closed behind him and locked it. "Mr. Perry finally going to pay his bill?"

"Not that exciting."

"You got the Silvermans' air conditioner fixed?"

"Not that mundane, either." She shifted her weight, and as she did, Ben couldn't help but notice the tool belt slung low around her hips. Pretty darned appealing, as handymen go. "It's about that bundle of fur you room with."

"Giselle?"

"Yeah, that one. I took a look at her last night, before you got home."

"Did you take her to the vet?"

"Didn't need to. It's obvious."

"What's obvious? Feline schizophrenia?"

"I don't know why I didn't think of it before. All the signs were there. Moodiness. Strange behavior. Desperation to get outside. All those cats swarming outside the house. All of them male."

"Is this Final Jeopardy?" Ben asked. "Because if it is, I'm about to lose everything I wagered."

"That's because you, for all your brains, are so pitifully unaware of some of life's little fundamentals."

"Like what?"

"Like sex, Ben." She grinned. "Your cat is in heat."