Ripper (5 page)

"New York'll do a thorough job once this hits the air." DeClercq indicated the NBC crew working Heather Street. "Let's see what they come up with, then decide. Who caught the squeal?"

"Corporal named Craven. North Van GIS. Keen fellow, hungry for his Sergeant's hooks."

"Have him assigned to Special X for this case. Bad for morale to shut people out. Ask Craven to meet us here at eight."

The last section of the wall was thick with police reports. They filled in the surrounding details of the crime. The time of day or night an offense occurs may shed light on the killer's occupation or lifestyle. Was the victim approached, murdered, and dumped at different sites? If so, the killer probably owns or has use of a vehicle. What does each location say about victim and offender risk? A low-risk victim snatched under high-risk conditions, such as a woman grabbed at noon on a busy street, shows the killer needs excitement from his crimes. How much sophistication is revealed by the offense? The answer reflects the killer's emotional state. And—the most important question in profiling—how much
control
was exercised by the killer over his victim?

DeClercq returned to the photos of Marsh hanging from the bridge. "Reminds me of the Headhunter case," he said. "This hanging's staged. For whom? Us?"

"The entire crime scene's out of whack," said Chan. "The killing screams fantasy-driven ritual to me. Stabbing combined with strangulation. Skinning the face for a skull and painting crossbones beneath. Hanging the naked body from a bridge."

"What's the problem?"

"Problems," said Chan. "First, the computer failed to find a match. When I tried to link the murder to others here and in the States, every query drew a blank. A ritual like this doesn't hatch overnight. So why does Marsh compute as a single homicide?"

In profiling, homicides are classed by time and place. A single, double, or triple homicide is one, two, or three victims at one location. Four or more bodies at one site is mass murder. Mass murder subdivides into classic and family. Classic mass murder is often committed by an unbalanced person whose problems have reached the point where he lashes out at those unrelated to him or his stress. Whitman, the Texas tower sniper, and Huberty, the McDonald's killer, are examples. Two or more killings at different locations with no cooling-off period between them is spree murder. Though not committed at one site like mass murder, the deaths are still one event. Serial murder is three or more homicides with a cooling-off period between them. The interval may be days, weeks, months, or years. Cooling-off distinguishes serial murder from other multiple homicides.

Classifying a murder correctly is essential, for each class profiles a different type of killer. Single homicide suggests a
specific
victim. Mass and spree killers are controlled by events, often attacking anyone who crosses their path. A serial killer thrives on power and control, fantasizing about every aspect of a murder except the specific victim. When the time is right and he's cooled off from his last crime, he targets someone who
symbolically
fits the role of victim in his fantasy. He goes after a victim
type,
so who he chooses may reveal the fantasy. The Headhunter stalked black-haired women.

"Another problem," Chan said, "is the dichotomy's wrong. The crime's a mix of organized and disorganized features."

Profilers draw an important distinction from crime scene evidence. Is their quarry an organized or disorganized offender? The personality behind each category differs.

The organized offender plans meticulously. He snatches a victim, uses restraints, and exerts control through manipulation and fear. Because he needs to see his captive tremble and beg, his fantasy is one of sex and torture while the victim's alive. Murder is his act of ultimate control, after which he loses interest in the crime. Intelligent and skilled at work, he leaves few clues, and often follows the aftermath in the media. Organized offenders are usually psychopaths. Like Sutcliffe and Bundy, they lack all moral sense.

"Marsh was snatched, restrained, and terrorized." Chan swept his arm across the input collage. "This pair wanted their victim alive. The level of planning and vehicle use are organized traits. So why does the ritual fit disorganized behavior?"

The disorganized offender is compromised by distorted thinking, often resulting from hallucinations, drugs, or alcohol. Sexually inhibited and tormented by aversions, he kills quickly to exert control over the
dead
body. Postmortem atrocities rule his fantasy, such as face, breast, and genital mutilation, or disembowelment, amputation, and drinking blood, or inserting foreign objects into the vagina and anus. He may keep the body, or rape the corpse, or dump it positioned in a humiliating way. His drive is to depersonalize the victim, because that's how he demonstrates control. His haphazard behavior may leave clues, such as abandoning the weapon at the scene. Often he knows the victim and strikes near work or home, rarely using a vehicle. Disorganized offenders are usually psychotics. Like Dahmer and Gein, they suffer a break with reality.

"Two killers always muddies the profile," said Chan. "With Brady and Hindley, the Hillside Stranglers, and Lucas and Toole, one was dominant, the other a follower. The problem is each is driven by his or her
own
fantasy, which meld to profile someone who doesn't exist."

"Perhaps our dominant killer is organized," said DeClercq, "while our follower is disorganized?"

"Or maybe it's a case of "mixed" dichotomy. That's been known to happen."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not," said Chan. "My gut tells me the ritual is grafted on, as if it originates
outside,
not within the team."

"You lost me, Eric."

"In cases like this, murder isn't the primary intent. Usually the killer wants sexual gratification
through
violence.

Pelvic mutilation equates with sexual homicide. Here the
womb
was stabbed, not the genitals. That suggests one killer is stalking a substitute for mom, giving us a fix on half the team. An organized offender whose primary intent is sex."

"You think something
different
drives the other half?"

"That would explain why the ritual seems out of place."

Henri Landru, France's "Bluebeard," serial-killed for gain. So did the Edinburgh body snatchers. Contract killings advance criminal enterprise. They're part of doing business, often without personal malice toward the victims. Assassinations further political goals. Mercy killings result from compassion. Religion sparked the Inquisition and Jonestown Massacre. Racial purification drives the Ku Klux Klan. The Manson Family was . . .

"A cult?" said DeClercq.

"Or occult," added Chan. "Either would explain why the ritual's out of sync. It doesn't spring from the fantasy driving either killer, but is adopted from an external source. It
is
grafted on."

"There's another explanation," DeClercq said. "What if the scene was staged to make it look like a fantasy-driven ritual? The killers want to smokescreen the fact Marsh's their
specific
target. That's why the computer draws a blank and nothing fits. The ritual has no foundation in fantasy
or
reality."

They were sipping coffee dispensed from the machine down the hall. DeClercq sat on the edge of his desk while Chan leaned against the wall. Rain slapped the windows in waves like a tide pounding the shore.

"By the way, that mystery woman Franklen called. You promised to drop by on your return? She needs to know who you picked to be the "real sleuth." Message is the stakes have risen since you last spoke. Will Zinc do it?"

"Reluctantly. Hobnobbing with mystery writers is a long way to fall."

"How's he holding up?"

"He's frustrated and depressed. Returning to the Force keeps him going day to day."

"Everything's under control here. Go see Franklen. Reports'll be in by the time you return, and maybe the New York fax."

DeClercq gave him the evil eye. "Are you after my job?"

"Of course not." Eric grinned. "I'm aiming higher than that."

DeClercq donned his coat as Chan went back to trying to make sense out of the input model. Robert could almost hear the wheels turning in Eric's head. The mindhunter was stalking Marsh's stalking team, worming inside each killer's i brain until he thought their warped thoughts and wrestled with their nightmares, until he himself was hunched with hate and squinting through bloodshot eyes.
Poor devil,
Robert thought.
Conscience is a cutthroat.

Chan's great-great-grandfather had worked the Cariboo mines, emigrating to Canada in 1859. Not once in five generations had the family left B.C., until joining The Mounted took Eric to Hong Kong.

When China reopened to tourists in 1979, Chan convinced his daughter Peggy, then eighteen, to undertake a pilgrimage back to her roots. He thought the family too Western, and not Chinese enough. Peggy embarked on the journey to please her dad.

From Canton, she took the train west to Kunming, then through Hunan and Guangxi toward Guizhou, hunting a part of China tourists had yet to see. Find somewhere untainted by the West, Chan had said, then imagine what it was like s before the gunboats arrived. She sat in the swaying railcar, Walkman clamped to her ears, listening to Bruce Springsteen as the rural farms slipped by. After Guiyang she ate some fruit, which gave her diarrhea.

Most of that afternoon was spent in the railcar's toilet, a shit-spattered hole open to the tracks. One attack came on so fast she almost didn't make it, a desperate dash during which the stereo fell to the floor. With no time to stop, she left the Walkman behind, and when she returned it was gone.

Sign language and faltering Cantonese apprised the ticket-taker of her plight. He joined Peggy in a search of the train. Two cars forward they found the amazed thief, a senile old man in peasant's rags stroking his dangling mustache. Wide-eyed, he sat bolt upright for all to see, marveling at The Boss's
Born to Run.
The ticket-taker ripped the Walkman, from his ears.

The train pulled into the next station as Peggy returned to her seat. No doubt the old man had heard the Walkman playing on the floor, and unable to find its owner had toyed it with curiosity. Smiling, Peggy decided to find him and let him listen for a while. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the window.

The old man stood shaking on the platform outside, flanked by members of the
Gong An Ju.
The Public Security cops wore green with peaked army caps, yellow headbands distinguishing them from the Red Army. One cop stepped back as the other drew his gun. Peggy screamed "No!" as the old man was shot through the head. Blood spattered the window, then one cop waved, pleased to be of service to China's new friends. The train pulled out of the station as Peggy began to shake.

Chan met his daughter at the airport and drove her home. Not a word was spoken along the way. Then came the nightmares, insomnia, and depression, followed by attempted suicide. First Peggy was in therapy, then in Riverview. Each weekend, Eric and his wife visited her there.

Mindhunting killers took a psychic toll.

Penance for the mind Chan lost in China.

Outside, the storm was worse than when DeClercq arrived. Umbrellas flapped and turned inside out. Newshounds armed with mikes and feminist placard wavers flirted with each other, slaves to the hungry maw of network TV. The media maelstrom grew as women wearing yellow arm bands climbed from cars parading up and down Heather Street. Many of the placards had seen service before, their slogans generic so they could be recycled in other marches. Printed and chanted, the slogans were:

Yes means yes, NO means no,

However we dress, Wherever we go.

Being a woman means being afraid.

The bogeyMAN is a reality.

Patriarchal power is the root of the problem.

Men learn to hate women from pornography.

Remember the Montreal Massacre.

Take back the night.

Justified anger. Laudable aims. But in the end the marchers would accomplish nothing. For there were demons out there who would
never
give up the night.

Seance with a Killer

3:12
P.M.

He knocked on the door and waited.

The house was a tree-embowered bungalow in Kerrisdale, a quaint and affluent, fuddy-duddy part of the city. The rain had washed the last tenacious leaves from maples and chestnuts in the yard, spreading a soggy red and yellow carpet across the lawn. Eventually there was sound inside like a mouse in the pantry, then, hooked with a burglar chain, the door opened a crack.

"Miss Franklen?" the Mountie said. "Chief Superintendent DeClercq."

A twinkling eye and crinkled smile appeared beside the jamb, then the door swung wide and a dwarf-sized woman exclaimed excitedly, "Oh
do
come in, Chief Superintendent!
Do
come in!"

DeClercq stepped into the hall.

Elvira Franklen reminded him of that little swamp creature Yoda in the
Star
Wars films. She was an octogenarian, lively for four-score years, with bulgy blue eyes sparkling with mischief in a creased, rouged face. Her hair was combed down Caesarlike in a snow-white bowl and she wore a frumpy wool suit with a brooch at her throat. When she spoke, her voice was brittle and squeaky.

"Sorry to be inhospitable, but one must be careful," she said. "So many break-ins and home invasions, what's a body to do? It makes one pine for the days of the gallows and the lash."

"Does it?" DeClercq said.

"When I was a girl—that was during the Great War, you know—I'd play for hours in the woods and swamps around here. I doubt the thought
molester
ever crossed my mother's mind, and kids were still doing the same in the 1950s. Now every paper carries a story of someone snatched off the street or another child found murdered in the bushes."