Strip Search (14 page)

I RETURNED TO my desk, tried to block off the outside world, and mentally constructed a rough draft of what everyone in the department was clamoring for—a profile of the killer. It was hard going, and I couldn’t exactly put my finger on why. Top notch FBI behaviorists had been known to construct a profile based on the evidence found at the scene of a single murder. I had two to work with, but somehow, that made it harder, not easier. There was very little I knew for certain about this killer. Narcissistic personality? Probably. Antisocial personality disorder—the current jargon replacing
psychopath
—almost certainly. According to the standard outline for profiling developed first by Roy Hazelwood at the FBI, my approach should be to, first, identify what noteworthy actions had occurred, second, construct a theory about why they occurred, third, retrace and understand the events that led to and occurred during the crime, and finally, determine what kind of person would do such a thing. I had a problem even getting started. What was important about what this killer had done? Or even consistent? Despite the similarities between the manner in which the crimes were committed, on a psychological level, there were contradictory indications regarding this brutal maniac we were chasing.

For instance, in the old school profiling technique, the threshold question was supposed to be: Is the killer organized or disorganized, or to use the current terminology, is he impulsive or ritualistic? Usually the answer was simple—but in this case, there were indications of both, which is supposed to be impossible. Certainly there were signs of organization—the consistent modus operandi regarding the branding, the transportation of the body, the absence of trace evidence, the selection of the murder site, the mysterious formula left behind to tantalize his pursuers. On the other hand, there was significant evidence indicating a disorganized mind at work—having mud on his shoes, a rip in his jeans. You wouldn’t’ve caught Ted Bundy running around with a hole in his pants.

Any profiling analysis that stumbled on the threshold question was inherently flawed, but just for the sake of trying, I mentally assumed that despite indicators to the contrary, the killer was essentially ritualistic and attempted to soldier on to the next question. There are five distinct components common to all ritualistic murderers, or more specifically, to the fantasies that drive them to commit their crimes: relational, paraphilic, situational, victim demographics, and self-perceptional.

The relational component addressed the question of what the murderer imagines or fantasizes the relationship between his victim and himself to be. And in this case—I had no idea. I had to eliminate all the usual sexual fantasies, since we had victims of both genders and no signs of sexual assault. The paraphilic component assumes some sort of sexual deviancy. I couldn’t absolutely rule that out—a bisexual serial killer?—but it didn’t seem likely. The situational dimension explores what setting or environment the killer is trying to create. Bundy was trying to create a fantasy family domestic home life—a sharp contrast to his own real one. John Wayne Gacy was trying to create a torture chamber. And this killer…

Again, I just couldn’t answer the question. True, both victims had been killed in their place of work, but what did that tell me? Nothing—except that it was probably the simplest place to find them. Victim demographics were even more confusing. Here I could detect no pattern at all. The first victim had been male, the second, female. The first victim had been young and poor, the second, more mature and considerably more wealthy. They looked nothing alike; they were in totally different lines of work. What was the connection?

The last building block in the profile related to the killer’s self-perception—How does he see himself? What role or function does he fantasize that he is performing or fulfilling? Did he dominate them? There was no evidence that he saw himself as a sexual master, or that he was attempting sexual gratification, or domination, or bondage. I really had no business even addressing this question, given my inability to answer All of the Above. And yet, at the same time…

Both times I stepped onto the crime scenes and closed my eyes and tried to dead reckon myself into the killer’s head, I got a sense that he…he…

My mind groped for words. It wasn’t exactly that he was deluding himself about his actions. He knew he was a killer. Maybe even knew he was a brute, a monster. But at the same time…

I didn’t get the impression that the killer perceived himself as a bad person. Just the opposite, in fact. I think there was a reason that he did what he did, a reason so strong that in his mind it justified the maiming, the decapitating, the murder.

And how twisted was that?

NEVER WAS ANY WOMAN on earth more pleased to see another than I was when Amelia pulled up to the curb to pick me up.

“You caught me by surprise,” she said, as I hopped into her convertible. “Knocking off early? By your standards, anyway.”

I shrugged. “I wasn’t getting anywhere. I’ve hit a brick wall. It’s pathetic.”

“Sorry to hear that. But the good news is—I’ve been shopping. For you.”

“Really? What did I get?”

“Not telling till we’re back at your apartment.”

“Amelia!”

“It’s for the apartment, Suze. Besides, I want to build up a little suspense. You like that, right?”

Sure I do. She was good as her word, too. Didn’t give me so much as a hint all the way back to my place. She strategically took the crosstown expressway, theorizing that the usual congestion might be reduced this time of night. She wasn’t right, but she still managed to make good time.

She parked on the street, walked around back, then popped open the trunk. “Ta-da!”

I stared into the trunk. “You bought me a coffee table?”

“For the living room. I couldn’t help but notice that you’re still using that ratty old thing you’ve had since the dawn of creation.”

“I like that coffee table.”

“It’s got, like, teeth marks or something. All up and down the legs.”

“I like the teeth marks—”

She held up a finger. “Susan, I’ve been to the Venetian. You know, where Michael Jackson bought all his crap. This isn’t just a table. It’s a Brancusi knockoff.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It is. I’m moving you up in the world.”

“If you say so.”

I reached down to get it, but she stopped me. “You’ve been working all day, and this was my idea. I’ll get it. You just carry my stuff.”

So I did. While she struggled to maneuver the table up the stairway to my second-story apartment, I got her purse and her sunglasses and her iPod.

And when I was absolutely certain she wasn’t looking, I dipped into the purse and retrieved the Valium. The entire bottle. Shoved it in my coat pocket before she noticed.

The strange thing was, just having it in my pocket made me feel better. Help was on its way.

THE PILLS MUST’VE done their pharmacological duty; I was deep in the throes of the best sleep I’d had in weeks, certainly since I got assigned to this twisted face-melter case. I don’t even think I was dreaming, or if I was, it must’ve been something so pleasant that it left me feeling tranquil and content. Talk about a sea change to the system. I might have known it wouldn’t last. My blissful idyll was interrupted by the sound of seagulls, whistling winds, crashing water. The alarm clock was whooshing relentlessly, turning the increasingly loud white noise surf sounds into a thunderous tidal wave threatening to carry me and my sanity away with it.

“Can you get that? You’re closer.”

He didn’t answer, which only irritated me all the more. I pushed up from my pillow. “Look, sugar bear, I know you’re faking and—”

There was no one there. Of course there was no one there. I’d done it again. How long was it going to take before I got it through my head that I wasn’t married anymore? That I lived alone. That David…wasn’t here anymore.

All at once I felt the calm and tranquility falling away like a shedding skin. I reached across the end table, knocking over the alarm clock in the process, and clutched the good luck charm Rachel had so thoughtfully provided. I squeezed it tightly in my fist, then pressed it against my chest, as if somehow I could crush the solace out of it. Sure, I knew David wasn’t going to appear to me anymore—he told me he wasn’t—but if I could just access some tiny piece of him, some memory of what it was like when he was still there on the other side of the bed…

Yes. There it was. Bless Rachel for saving what I had so carelessly left behind. I could feel him. Even though I knew he wasn’t there. I could feel what it was like to have his arms around me, holding me, whispering in my ear, telling me everything would be all right.

It’s okay, he would whisper, his sweet breath warming the side of my face. Whatever it is. It’ll be okay. We have each other.

I will, Mr. Pulaski,
I promised, looking his father straight in the eye.
I’ll look after your boy. We’ll look after each other.

The four-leaf clover was good, but at the moment, not good enough. I raced into the bathroom, upended the pill bottle, and swallowed a little blue pill, not even waiting long enough to pour a glass of water. In fact, I reflected, I should probably have two. Hell of a way to start your morning, and I didn’t want it ruining my day. I had things I needed to get done. I stepped into the shower and immersed myself in near scalding water, but by the time it was over I still didn’t feel much better, so I swallowed a third.

Finally I felt a tiny amount of the—well, if not calm exactly, then stability—I’d experienced before returning to me. My hands were steady. I had a strong temptation to crawl back under the covers, but I managed to resist.

I brushed my teeth and got dressed and even experimented with a tiny amount of makeup, not my usual face, but it couldn’t hurt to shake up the boys at the office a little. Besides, today I was going visiting.

Okay, three pills was too many, I knew that. The label on the bottle said NO DOUBLE DOSING and I’d just violated that prohibition and then some. But it wouldn’t happen again. Last thing I needed was to become dependent on a new chemical. I trudged into the kitchenette and put on the coffee. I wasn’t sure which I liked better about coffee, the taste or the smell. Or the warm sensation as it trickled down my throat. Come to think of it, caffeine was a chemical, too, wasn’t it? What the hell.

It was only this once. After today, I’d give Amelia her pills back or flush them down the toilet. This wasn’t going to happen again. No way. I wouldn’t let it.

“HELLLLO?” a tentative voice on the other end of the line said.

“Howdy, heap big chief,” I said brightly. “How are things at the O’Bannon residence?”

“Gooood,” O’Bannon replied. “In a quiet sort of way. Umm…”

“Yes? Something wrong?” There was no immediate answer. “You seem perplexed.”

“Well…I’m torn. I am impressed to know that you’re up this early in the morning. But I don’t know why the hell you’re calling me!”

“You know what traffic is like during rush hour. I wanted to get an early start.”

“Okaaaaay…that explains the first part of the questionnn…”

“And I’m calling to see if I can take Darcy with me.”

“Susan, I already told you—”

“Hey, I don’t want to drag him to a crime scene. I’m just going out to talk to an expert who might be able to shed some light on that equation we found at the first crime scene.”

“I don’t care what you’re doing, the answer is—”

“Yes. Yesyesyesyesyesyes!” a slightly higher voice interjected.

“Darcy!” O’Bannon bellowed. “Are you on the extension?”

“Please say that I can go with her, Dad. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—”

“I thought you were reading.”

“I was, till I looked at the caller ID and I saw that it was Susan. Please let me go, Dad. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—”

“Would you stop that already!” He blew air into the receiver. “Pulaski, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. I already made it clear—”

“Chief, I’m driving out to UNLV. To talk to a mathematics professor.”

“I’m very happy for you. Is there a point?”

“I flunked high school trig. I’m not going to understand a word she says. Your son, on the other hand, has more math knowledge than every member of the LVPD combined.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Please, Dad, please!”

“Darcy, would you get off the phone!”

“Please, Dad. I promise that I will be good. I will stay out of trouble and not get in Susan’s way. And if there are any murders, I will not look.”

I didn’t have to see O’Bannon’s face to know that his frustration level was climbing fast. And he probably hadn’t even had his morning coffee. “Look, Darcy, it’s just not a good idea. We have detectives who are trained to handle this kind of work. You’re not going to be able to do anything that—”

“That is what you said when you were looking for the Bad Man,” Darcy said, cutting him off. “But I did help. I solved the puzzles no one else could solve.”

“That was totally different.”

“It is not different. It is exactly the same. Someone has left us a puzzle. I want to help solve it.”

I could imagine the range of expressions crossing O’Bannon’s face—none of them pleasant. The silence was probably less than twenty seconds, but it seemed interminable.

“All right, then, damn it. You can go.”

“Yippee! Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

“But this is the only time, understand me, Pulaski?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Nothing else. And especially no crime scenes!”

“Got it. Darcy, I have to stop by the office first, then I’ll come for you. I’ll be there around noon. And Chief—have a nice day.”

He slammed the receiver down without comment.

I SAW GRANGER standing near the top of the stairs at Central Headquarters reading a report, so I braced myself for the usual onslaught of threats and criticism, fortified by Valium and the knowledge that even if he was my superior in rank, I was his superior in, well, everything else.