The Girls Are Missing (13 page)

The man talked on, summarizing the crimes, and then introduced the mayor of Cedarville.

The mayor spoke even more emphatically about the horrors that gripped his village, and repeated the media phrase “reign of terror.”

The first man rose again and introduced the Chief of Police, Frank D’Amico.

D’Amico spoke more concretely.

“The police can’t be everywhere at one time, ladies and gentlemen. We’re only a sixteen-man force and we’re already working around the clock on this investigation.” He held up his hand at the growls of protest.

“Mind you, I’m not trying to excuse the fact that we haven’t found the perpetrator yet. All I’m saying is we can’t put a guard on every young girl and woman in the area.

It’s got to be up to the girls themselves and the parents to try to keep ‘em safe.

“It’s got to be emphasized to these girls,” he continued, “that it’s
never
safe to hitch a ride or go with somebody they don’t know, or don’t know well. It’s only an elementary precaution never to go with a stranger, no matter what excuses, reasons, or even force he might use.”

A woman shouted from the third row, “What if it isn’t a stranger?”

“We’ve thought of that, too,” D’Amico replied. “In a small community like this, it could very well be somebody they recognize. Only thing you can do is avoid going with anybody that’s not your family. Not at a time like this.”

The same woman shouted again, “What if he has a gun?”

“I was coming to that.” D’Amico looked around the auditorium. “You know, ladies and gentlemen, we all get this picture of a guy stepping out, pointing a gun, and forcing a young lady into his car or whatever at gunpoint. If somebody pointed a gun at you, you’d probably do what he said, right? Now take another look at it. There’s a lot of circumstances when that would be exactly the wrong thing to do.

“My advice to the girls, or anybody else in this situation, is, RUN. Sounds crazy, but that way you’ve at least got a chance.

“If you run, you’re a moving target. It’s not so easy to hit a moving target, especially with a small weapon like a handgun. There’s a pretty good chance he’s not an expert marksman. It’s a terror weapon, for the most part. Chances are, he won’t even fire. If he does, he probably can’t hit you, or at least not fatally. Think about it.”

D’Amico paused. Except for a few indignant murmurs, the auditorium was silent. He resumed his speech, concluding with instructions to remain in populated, well-lit areas, to be suspicious of any and everybody, and to report any untoward incidents to the police.

After pausing again to let it all sink in, he introduced the next speaker. “Dr. Ronald Ballard, who’s going to give us some tips on what kind of a guy in all probability we’re looking for. That’s not to say we limit our search to this person, it only gives us a few guidelines. Ron?”

Dr. Ballard was a tall man with graying hair and a handlebar mustache. He began by repeating what D’Amico had just said: that his psychiatric profile was not intended to exclude other possibilities.

“We’re dealing,” he told the audience, “with a very clever person. A man with real cunning. If not, he’d have been caught by now. He could be a man with a very big contempt for society. He could be a man who’s enjoying the publicity his crimes are getting, even if he has to remain anonymous.

“Or the whole thing could be a cry for help. With every crime he could be calling out, ‘Catch me, catch me. Help me.’ “

Joyce’s throat began to ache with tension. She forced herself to relax, muscle by muscle, as she listened to what the psychiatrist had to say. It was not a very specific profile. It covered just about every possibility there was.

“His cleverness,” Dr. Ballard continued, “suggests that our man is probably intelligent and educated. He’s probably quite a presentable person, the way he can lure these girls to go with him. The fact that he seems to be an area resident makes it fairly likely he’s a family man. He may even appear to have a good sexual adjustment, but underneath it all, there’s something very wrong.”

Very wrong … very wrong
… It was wrong that it had to be someone like that, and not Mr. Lattimer, who would be so easy to detect. Maybe the psychiatrist was very wrong.

She heard phrases about hostility toward women. “His mother may have abandoned him in some way,” Dr. Ballard said, “or may have seemed to abandon him.”

But why take it out on innocent people? He’d have to

be crazy to begin with, wouldn’t he, for it to affect him like that?

She was barely aware that she had raised her hand, until the doctor nodded in her direction. For a moment she stared at him, amazed at being recognized, and then stood up.

“But why,” she asked, “would he take it out by killing innocent people? It doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he have to be crazy to begin with, to react like that? In the newspaper you said his mother might have remarried. Lots of mothers remarry, and their children don’t end up killing people.”

The doctor smiled patiently. “I said she may have
seemed
to abandon him,” he explained. “It’s how the child perceives a thing that determines his response to it. We don’t know what led up to his individual perception of the problem. But to react so violently—yes, undoubtedly he’s someone with a weak ego. A poor ability to adjust. That, too, may have been acquired through childhood influences. Or, just as some people haven’t a normal amount of physical stamina, and succumb more easily to physical illness, some haven’t a normal amount of emotional stamina.”

“But why?” she asked.

“We don’t know. It could be that sometime in the future we’ll be able to detect and help these people in time to avert this kind of tragedy.”

“But why all of a sudden? Why would he blow up all of a sudden, right now?” She did not want to let him go. She wanted to ask so much, but was not quite sure just what it was she wanted to know.

“In a case like this,” the doctor replied, “there’s likely to be some event that triggers the explosion. It could be an event that seems very unimportant to anybody else, but it makes some kind of meaningful connection in the killer’s own mind.”

Gradually Joyce melted back into her seat, while the doctor went on talking.

“The actions of a psychotic murderer may seem random and senseless to the rest of us, but for him they make sense, in terms of how he perceives things. Later he may wonder why he did it. Or he may not actually see himself as the one who did it. He may even be begging for help, as I said before, but what he does is the only thing he
can
do at that time.”

Sheila was shaking her head. Joyce whispered, “I can’t understand it, either. I just can’t understand somebody being so out of control.”

A man rose and asked, “Could it be a person with some kind of fetish, like for dark hair or something?”

“No,” shouted another voice, “the first girl was blond.”

D’Amico, joining Dr. Ballard at the lectern, said, “I don’t think there’s any point in speculating on that sort of thing. I think there’s only one factor that governed his selection of victims, and I think that factor is opportunity. The guy had to kill, he had to go through his gruesome ritual, and he happened to pick whoever he could find.”

Gruesome ritual, Joyce repeated to herself as the questions and answers swirled about her. The only crazy person around was Mr. Lattimer. She could imagine him living a life of rituals, there in his shack with the summer fires and the junk-filled yard.

And Anita, that time she tried to drown Gail.

She turned her head so that she could just see Foster Farand on the other side of Sheila. His gray eyes looked out from behind steel-rimmed glasses, and his mouth was pursed attentively and rather engagingly as he listened. It couldn’t be gentle Foster.

But Dr. Ballard had said “a man who fits into the community.” Not Lattimer. It was a man you wouldn’t suspect.

So it could be anybody … anybody … anybody …

No, impossible. It couldn’t be just anybody. It couldn’t

be—anyone close to her. She would know. How could she not know?

But someone must know. She was back to that. Someone would be close enough—if it wasn’t Lattimer. Someone knew and was lying. Protecting the killer.

She glanced at Sheila. At the other people around her. She tried to imagine how it would feel—knowing.

She heard someone scream, “No more handguns!” and looked up. D’Amico was talking again. He nodded in response to the comment but his reply was drowned in more shouting. A woman in a middle row jumped to her feet.

“What are you police doing here, anyway? Why aren’t you out there catching that maniac?”

There were cries of agreement from the audience. Joyce felt stifled, pressed in by the heat and the rustling and stirring of the crowd.

Foster Farand stood up. “Let’s not forget, people…”

The noise continued. D’Amico thundered into the microphone, “Quiet, please.” In the startled lull that followed, Foster began again.

“Let’s not forget, people, that this meeting was called by the community. The police and Dr. Ballard came as our invited guests. Chief D’Amico has given us sound advice based on his expertise, and I think we ought to respect that. We ought to respect the fact that the police have been running themselves ragged trying to solve the crimes. Have we been helping? We’ve got to remember it’s a community problem, not just a police problem.”

The same woman shouted, “Call the F.B.I.”

Joyce whispered to Sheila, “I think I need some air. I’ll be right outside. Don’t worry about me, I’ll wait by the car.”

She felt as though everyone must be turning to stare as she slid out of her row and walked quickly up the aisle.

When she looked back, they were paying no attention to her. The clamor rose. Someone called, “Get Lattimer!”

She walked faster. They were turning ugly. That was the trouble with bringing them all together. Their own impotence made them frustrated.

For a moment, as she stepped outside, a warm breeze blew, and then it was still again. Still and hot. With all the humidity, it scarcely cooled off at night. She looked toward the auditorium windows. The noise seemed to have died down. She could hear a single voice speaking.

She paced slowly on the sidewalk in front of the door. A locust tree cast a soft powdery shadow across the harsh lights of the parking lot. How silly of her to be out here alone. Mightn’t the killer come around, just to watch the effect of the uproar he had caused?

But he couldn’t do anything here. He would have to get her away, and she would not go. Even if he pointed a gun—

She jumped as a small door near what she supposed was the stage suddenly opened. A figure loomed in the dim light, and as the door closed behind it, sorted itself into Chief D’Amico.

He nodded briefly and started to walk on.

She ran after him. “Mr. D’Amico!”

He turned around so quickly she almost expected him to reach for a gun.

“How are you, ma’am? What are you doing out here?”

“I—it got too hot inside.”

“Aren’t you nervous being out here alone? It seems to me people aren’t as afraid as they should be. Would you believe girls are still hitchhiking?”

“Yes. No, I mean, I wouldn’t believe it. But it did occur to me that he might be hanging around. I was careful.”

She felt reprimanded, like a small child, and hoped the light was too poor for him to see her discomfort.

“Mr. D’Amico, I wanted to tell you, I hope you didn’t mind the way they were talking. It’s just hysterical. I think people really know you can’t pull a murderer out of a hat. You’re doing a great job, and it isn’t easy, especially when you don’t even know where to begin.”

She had babbled too much, in her uncertainty as to whether she was saying it right. She wanted to say more, to keep him with her, and ask his help. But she did not know quite how, or for what.

Instead she held out her hand. He took it, gave it a squeeze, and did not immediately let go. The moment seemed to stretch. All the while she felt something almost ready to put itself into words, but finally it eluded her. It must have been the intensity of her in those moments that made him hold tightly to her hand.

“Are you here alone?” he asked as he released her.

“No, I came with friends. It was so stuffy in there, I felt faint.”

“I was going to warn you, always check your car before you get in alone, especially at night.”

“I don’t have my car here, but thanks.”

“In that case, maybe I’d better give you a lift home.”

“Oh, it’s way out of your way. And my friends will be looking for me.”

“Then I’d suggest you go back inside. They’re going to be in there a while. They’re talking about forming some civilian patrol groups.”

She saw a few other people leaving, but not the Farands. They would be in the thick of it. They must have helped to organize the meeting itself.

“I don’t particularly want to go back,” she said. “I just didn’t like the atmosphere. It got so ugly. And stuffy.”

He threw back his head, but the laugh that emerged was only a low chuckle.

“Don’t mind them,” he said. “People get that way. A lot of the shouting is pure egotism. I’m going for a bite to eat. Haven’t eaten all day, and the civilian patrol stuff is none of my business. Do you want a lift? I could take you home first, or you can come and have a hamburger with me on the way.”

She hesitated, wanting to get back to her children. But this might be the quickest way yet, and she did want to talk to him, if only to find out what he knew.

She left a note on the Farands’ windshield and drove with D’Amico to the lower part of the village near the railroad tracks. He found Ralph’s Pizzeria still open and ordered a whole large pie with sausages and mushrooms, and coffee for both of them.

“If you haven’t eaten all day,” she pointed out, “this isn’t really going to give you your basic nutrients.”

“No, but it keeps me going. On a job like this, when you gotta keep working twenty-four hours, you substitute food for sleep. And if you don’t get a chance to eat, either, you find yourself blacking out.”