The Perfect Husband (37 page)

Houlihan nodded. “Good question. We might as well cover it now. Special Agent Quincy…”

Houlihan stepped aside and Quincy walked up to the front of the room. He didn't look at J.T. or Tess. In his dark blue suit he appeared composed and distant. Tess had spoken to him numerous times; now, as before, their lives were intimately intertwined. But he still refused to call her by her first name, and he rarely spoke to her about anything outside of business.

His job had taught him dispassion well. The things that horrified her were commonplace to him. The questions she found intrusive were merely business. His job took him outside the world of civilized people, and she didn't think he could find his way back anymore. She respected him immensely and worried about him frequently.

He began as he always began, without preamble. “We don't believe we'll have to wait long for Beckett's attack. We believe he is beginning to decompensate.”

“English, please,” Lieutenant Houlihan muttered. “We're not the ones with the Ph.D.”

“Jim Beckett's beginning to fall apart,” Quincy said bluntly.

Disagreeing murmurs broke out. The man had killed three officers in twenty-four hours. That didn't fit their definition of someone falling apart.

Quincy held up a silencing hand. “Hear me out. A psychopath is a complex creature. In many ways, however, we can compare him to a particularly bad child.”

More grumbles. Quincy remained patient.

“You've heard the tapes. You know Jim Beckett considers himself to be a man of unprecedented control. ‘Discipline is the key,' that's what he likes to say. However, he's wrong. He is driven by a compulsion that not even he can explain. On the one hand, he considers himself outside the boundaries of society — that is his neurosis. On the other hand, deep down, like any person, he has a need for limits. As he gets away with murder, he tries even more daring and dangerous stunts. Not just because of ego, but because some part of him
wants to be caught
. Like the child who evolves from petty tantrums to small crime to get a parent's attention, Beckett will commit riskier and riskier murders seeking that barrier.

“That is the psychological component of his decompensating. Research also indicates there is a physiological component, but we don't understand it as well. The act of murder appears to release chemicals in the brain. Murderers talk about a feeling of euphoria similar to a runner's high. Before a murder they are tense, wound, overwrought. Afterward they are relaxed, calm, and settled. Over time, the desire, the
need
for this euphoria begins to drive the killer. We see shorter periods of time between killings, cycle times going from six months to
six days
to, in the current case of Jim Beckett,
six hours
.”

The room grew quiet.

“In most cases the organized serial killer begins to demonstrate more and more of the traits we associate with a drug addict. One, he's no longer so composed or calm. Physical health deteriorates. The chemicals released in the brain and constant adrenaline rush interfere with his ability to function. Like someone mainlining cocaine, he stops sleeping, foregoes food, and neglects personal hygiene. Second, his murders become more rash and desperate, the junkie needing his fix. They also become more brutal; the killer goes from carefully orchestrated murders to a blitz style of attack — hit and run. Third, the use of alcohol and drugs generally increases as the killer seeks substitute highs.

“In short, the killer becomes thoughtless and vulnerable. We have seen the pattern in Kemper, Dahmer, Bundy, and numerous other killers. And we are seeing this pattern in Beckett. Observe.”

Quincy waved his hand and the lights dimmed. He turned on an overhead projector and a time line appeared on the wall. It was marked with red lines, then blue. The blue lines leapt up uncontrollably at the end of the graph.

“Before going to prison Beckett killed ten women over sixteen months. This is indicated by the red lines, starting with the birth of his daughter, and ending eight months before he was caught. The blue lines indicate postprison behavior. He's now killed six people in less than four weeks. First he killed two corrections officers. He was quiet for three weeks. Then suddenly, in four days, four people died.

“Not all these deaths were necessary. Shelly Zane was his accomplice and would've continued to aid him. His penetration of the safe house could've been done with less violence. Originally his pattern was one body per letter. For example, he killed one woman in Clinton, Massachusetts, for the letter
C
. Now he's killing multiple people at a location. Two corrections officers in Walpole for the letter
W
. Both Wilcox and Harrison in Springfield for the letter
S
. Basically he's gone into a mode of extreme overkill.

“Also, he's no longer sleeping. Observe the last four days and the distances between the crime scenes. First he killed Shelly Zane in the early morning, dumping her body in Avon, Connecticut. Then he drives up to the Springfield area. He kidnaps, tortures, and kills Wilcox eight hours later. Now he must drive to his hiding place, probably outside the Springfield area, as we've turned the immediate vicinity upside down. He has to steal a police uniform, buy his disguise. Then he must assemble everything. Make the phone calls to cover his tracks, etcetera. Then he has to drive back to Springfield as Officer Travis. By six in the evening the next day he surprises and shoots Harrison. Then he has to stay awake in the unmarked police car. One A.M., after thirty-six hours without sleep, he attacks Difford. Then he kidnaps Sam. Now he must run all night. He's carrying around Difford's corpse, and Difford is not a small man. Maybe he does get to sleep a few hours in the early morning while Sam sleeps. But soon she's awake and now he must entertain his daughter. He's gone over forty-eight hours on minimal sleep, and instead of going to bed that night, he returns to the Difford crime scene. He attacks Ms. Williams and Mr. Dillon, and he sustains a shoulder wound. Once again he must drive back to his hiding place, wounded and having gone fifty-six hours on almost no sleep. Samantha will be awake soon, keeping him up for another day.

“He still has Difford's body, and he still has some sort of plan.”

Quincy looked at Tess. “I believe it's all aimed at getting you, Ms. Williams. His rage is getting high, his blood lust outweighing his control. If he can find you, he'll move. Your idea to serve as bait is most likely the best we can do. Sooner or later there is going to be a confrontation. It's better that it be on our terms than on his.”

The room remained hushed. Tess felt that silence echoed inside her. She nodded slowly.

Abruptly a phone rang. People looked around, shaken and confused. After a moment it became apparent that the ringing was from the back of the room.

“My cell phone,” Quincy murmured. His briefcase was sitting back there. He nodded toward Marion, who picked up his phone and answered it.

She frowned, then covered the receiver with her hand.

“It's a Lawrence Talbert requesting ‘Coroner Quincy.'”

Quincy froze. He didn't say anything, and then Tess understood. It was him. It was Jim. Holy Mother of God, it was Jim.

Suddenly Quincy was gesturing wildly and officers scattered from their seats. Trace the call, trace the call, she watched their mouths cry silently.

Marion walked slowly to the front of the room and handed the phone to Quincy. Her face was calm, controlled. Tess's fingers dug into J.T.'s thigh.

“Hello? Who is calling, please? Dammit, I know it's you.”

Quincy's gaze went to the ventilation grate high up in the wall. “No, wait, I don't understand, tell me more. I don't have tools—” His voice was growing frantic, urgent. His knuckles had gone white on the phone. “Give me a minute. I just need to get a screwdriver. I'm an agent, not a handyman. Wait, I didn't hear you. Can you repeat that? There seems to be interference on the phone —

“Goddammit!” Quincy cried. Beckett had hung up, and in a rare display of rage Quincy hurled the phone across the room. It hit the far wall hard and shattered.

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch,” Quincy was murmuring. His head was down between his knees. He was breathing hard, as if he'd run a long race. Sweat beaded his face.

He straightened slowly and looked at the faces staring back at him. Then he turned toward the ventilation grate.

“Would somebody get me a screwdriver, please.”

Nobody moved. They just stared up at the grate in the high wall. Tess felt the hysteria bubble up in her throat. No place was safe. No place could remain untouched. Jim went anywhere. He contaminated everything, like a pestilence. She felt the contamination in herself, way down deep. She understood that like Quincy, she'd traveled too far outside the bounds of the civilized world and she'd never find her way back.

“Look at me.” J.T. was before her. He'd stood, and now his hands gripped her shoulders. She managed to bring her gaze up and meet his hard, dark stare. “Come on. I want you out of the room.”

Someone had handed Quincy a Swiss Army knife with a screwdriver. He stood on a chair before the grate.

“No,” Tess told J.T.

“Dammit, don't subject yourself to this. It's what he wants.”

“I can't leave.”

“Tess, dammit—”

“What if it's… Sam?” Her voice was so hoarse, she barely recognized it. She hadn't realized her true fear until she spoke the words out loud. Now the rushing filled her ears and she thought she might faint.

The grate came off. She remained sitting there, transfixed.

“Focus on me, Tess. Focus on me.”

The smell hit her first. She gagged. Spots appeared before her eyes. There were tears on her cheeks.

Dimly she heard Quincy say, “Well… we've found Lieutenant Difford's head.”

ONE OF THE officers led them to the main room. J.T. went off to fetch them both cups of coffee. Tess remained standing in the middle of the room, letting the reassuring noise of talking people and jangling phones sink into her.

The room had high ceilings and not many windows. Once there must have been cubicles, but they'd all been taken down and replaced with long tables. Operators sat elbow to elbow at computer terminals, logging calls on the hotline and jotting down notes. The phones never stopped ringing.

Someone had posted black-and-white copies of Samantha's picture along the wall. Her smiling, innocent face ringed the room and reminded them why they were there, why they were keeping the hours they were keeping.

Tess wanted to touch the photographs, stroke her fingers down the pale cheek, as if that would bring her daughter back to her.

It was odd to stand in the middle of such activity and yet have nothing to do with it. Once Tess had thought all this was focused on her. Now she knew better. If she ceased existing tomorrow, Jim would still kill and the law enforcement bureaucracy would still churn, trying to catch him.

J.T. returned and shoved a lukewarm cup of coffee into her hands. Quincy was on his heels with Marion.

“Why don't we go into one of the interview rooms,” Quincy suggested. “Lieutenant Houlihan will join us shortly.”

He ushered them back to a small room with a two-way mirror. It held a single card table and two metal folding chairs. With a murmured apology he went off to find three more chairs.

“How are you holding up?” J.T. asked.

She took a sip of coffee before replying. “As well as can be expected.”

“He does it just to rattle your cage.”

“Then he's good at rattling cages.”

He stood close. She knew he was waiting to see what she wanted. Did she need to wrap her arms around him? Maybe press her cheek against his shoulder. She thought about it, but she didn't think there was any comfort that he could offer that would blot the picture of Difford's severed head from her mind.

It'll be all right, kid. I'll take care of Sam. Houlihan and Quincy will catch Beckett. It'll be all right, kid.

Quincy returned with the chairs and they all took seats. Moments later Lieutenant Houlihan joined them. His face was still gray and his forehead lined with frustration, anger, and pain.

“No blood,” he said without preamble. “The head was cut off immediately after death, frozen to slow decomposition, then left in the ventilation shaft. You can access the shaft via the roof. Son of a bitch must've crawled in the morning we were all still at the crime scene and left his little present.” Belatedly he glanced at Tess and Marion. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It's okay,” Tess said as she gripped her cup more tightly. “I'm getting used to these conversations.”

“How did he get Special Agent Quincy's cell phone number?” Marion was eager to establish that she was part of the law enforcement group and not some weak-kneed female observer. “Surely your number is unlisted, sir.”

“Difford had it,” Quincy said. “Wilcox too. Beckett either found it on their persons or asked them for it.”

That made everyone in the room visualize just how he would “request” information, and they all shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Tess found herself looking at J.T. again. His gaze was locked on the far wall, but she could see that his jaw was tight. He wouldn't worry about himself, it wasn't his nature. But she imagined he could vividly picture Jim Beckett attacking either her or Marion. She had made that horror part of his world. It seemed so blatantly unfair.

“Why just the head?” she asked after a moment.

“I don't know,” Quincy replied.

“Scare tactics,” J.T. stated. “Demoralize the troops.”

Quincy frowned but didn't argue. It was obvious the straightlaced agent didn't approve of a mercenary.

“He still has Difford's body,” Marion pointed out.

“Perhaps,” Quincy shrugged. “No one's checked the trunks of their cars.”

They all fell silent, and the air was heavy and strained.

“Do you think you should also be under watch?” Tess spoke up softly. “You keep saying I'm the target, but he's focused on most of the people who helped catch him before. That was me, Difford, and you, Quincy.”

“It bears consideration.”