by Steven James
“To catch the bad guys,” she announced. Her overly simplistic answer was drenched in sarcasm.
“Yes, good. But also to make a living, to pay the bills, to do something you’re good at . . . right?”
“Your point is?”
C’mon, man. It’s your first full day in town. Don’t go making enemies already.
“My point is, everything we do is a tangle of motives, dreams, regrets, shame, hope, desire—all overlapping and competing with each other, vying for our attention, our lives. As soon as we try to force a crime into a neat little package called ‘revenge’ or ‘lust’ or ‘anger’ or ‘greed,’ we miss the subtle realities of life and tend to overlook the social context of the crime.”
Lien-hua shook her head. She wasn’t convinced. “But without showing a clear motive, you can almost never get a conviction.”
I just wanted to finish this thing up and head out to visit some of the crime sites. I felt anger awakening inside me. Keep still. Keep still.
“Yes, that’s true,” I said slowly. “Showing motive is helpful for getting a conviction, but to show one motive is to ignore the others. Life is never that simple.”
“But don’t you want to get a conviction?” she said.
“My job isn’t to convict them, it’s to help you find them. It might make jurors feel better and readers feel more satisfied to name a motive, but I’m not trying a case or writing a novel. Most of the time people don’t even understand the things they do, let alone what other people do. And sometimes things just happen without any apparent reason at all. Life doesn’t always make sense.” Yeah. People you love get cancer and die. Families fall apart. You lose your direction, your focus, your clarity. Life spins out of control. No rhyme. No reason. No sense at all . . .
The room was quiet. Everyone was staring at me. For a moment I wondered if I’d spoken my thoughts aloud, but then I realized I must have caught myself just in time. “When it comes to crime,” I said at last, “there may be such a thing as a primary motive, but there’s not such a thing as a singular motive.”
Wallace again. “So if you don’t look for motives, what do you look for?”
“Patterns. Habits. Choices. Understanding the intersection of this place and this time and this victim with the life of the offender.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Bowers.” Ah, yes. I should have known Margaret would join the fun sooner or later. “For centuries investigative work has focused on motive, means, and opportunity. You’re telling us we’ve done it wrong all these years?”
I wonder how long she’s been waiting to ask that question.
“Of course not, Agent Wellington. An offender can’t commit a crime without the opportunity to do it or the means to carry it out. But what led up to the opportunity? Why did he have those means available at that specific time? That’s what I’m looking for. I’m not trying to get into the mind of the killer, I’m trying to get into his shoes.”
“Dr. Bowers,” Margaret said, breathing through her nose. She took a slow and deliberate look at her watch. “I have a press conference in less than twenty minutes. Do you have anything more . . . concrete to add to this investigation?”
I wished I had something to throw at her. A rottweiler came to mind.
“Actually, I do. I was just getting to that. Let me show you how all this is going to help us catch this killer.”
13
“Here”—I pressed a button and illuminated two regions of the map—“are the optimal search areas, the most likely anchor points for our offender. This area just west of Asheville, and this region of city blocks downtown. It cuts out 84.6 percent of the search area. Also, I looked up how many suspects there are so far—2,432 names on the master list. Only 12 percent of them work or live in these regions. I checked. At least this gives us a place to start.”
Some of the officers looked stunned that I seemed to know what I was talking about. Ralph looked a little confused. “But why are there two areas?”
Before I could say anything, Tucker answered for me. “In some cases, the mathematics of a geo profile render a bipolar solution; in other words, there are two places equally likely for the offender to reside in or to use as his anchor point.”
OK. This guy was really getting on my nerves.
“That’s right,” I said.
Tucker looked pleased.
“Well,” said Ralph, “we can check DMV registrations to see if anyone living in those areas has a green Subaru station wagon like the one those two hikers saw driving away from the trailhead on the mountain where Mindy was found.”
“I’m on it,” said one of the officers I didn’t know.
“Yeah,” added Sheriff Wallace. “And we can go through our tip list and suspect list and reprioritize them. We’ve gotten thousands of tips since this investigation started. It’s been a little overwhelming.”
“Yes,” I said. “Also see if anyone living in those areas has a history of battery or violent assault.”
“OK,” said Margaret. “Everyone knows their job. Now let’s do it right.” She gave me a stiff nod. “Thank you Dr. Bowers.”
Everyone seemed to be nodding or gathering up their things. Just as I was telling myself the briefing hadn’t ended so badly after all, I noticed Lien-hua.
She was glaring at me. Then she rose abruptly and walked away. Note to self: next time, don’t say “sidetracked by motives” to a profiler.
Especially not to her.
Tucker glanced at his watch. “I have some interviews this afternoon. I’m going to talk a little more to the hikers who found Mindy’s body and then see if the ME is done with the autopsy.”
“All right,” said Ralph. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
Tucker shook his head. “Probably tomorrow. Big date with the wife tonight. I should be back early in the morning, though.”
As he walked away I noticed Margaret lurking in the doorway, arms crossed. “So, Dr. Bowers. Before I go to the press conference, I have one question for you.”
“Yes?”
“Where is he going to strike next?”
I shook my head. “Some crime-mapping theorists have tried predictive analysis, but they’ve only had limited success so far. Sorry, Special Agent in Charge Wellington. I can help narrow down an investigation, but I can’t predict the future.”
“Too bad.” Her voice was ice. “That might actually have done us some good.”
Ah, Margaret.
So nice to be working with you again.
I can’t believe it’s only been four years.
14
I packed up my computer as everyone headed back to work.
I really wasn’t sure what to think. Yeah, I’d plugged in some numbers, given us a starting point, but it was all preliminary. I’d just used the info they gave me. Without visiting the sites I had no idea if we were even on the right track.
Lunch. That’s what I needed. Food and some fresh air. Clear my head. Besides, there was a certain tree I wanted to check out. See if it was real or if it only existed in the mind of a crazy woman.
I grabbed my computer and headed for the door.
One of Christie’s favorite paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City had been a piece called “Hospital Slope,” a painting of a huge spreading beech tree done by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, wife of novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, and sometime schizophrenic. According to the tour guide at the art museum, Zelda had painted the picture back in the 1940s while spending time at the Highland Mental Hospital, a sanitarium in Asheville, North Carolina, where she was being treated for schizophrenia. In those days Asheville was famous for the healing power of its fresh mountain air as a remedy for all kinds of diseases, but especially tuberculosis, which they called consumption. The tour guide said the tree was still there today.
Highland Park was less than two miles from the federal building. I grabbed some Mexican food and hit the street, welcoming the chance to stretch my legs.
As I
walked through town I tried to get a feel for the vibe of the different neighborhoods—demographics, income level, attitude, that sort of thing. Just like every person, every neighborhood has a different temperament. As I neared Highland Hill, the mood of the neighborhood began to shift from stylish and sophisticated to melancholy and grim. And then I saw why.
As I turned the corner, Highland Hall rose ominously from the hill: brick, square, imposing, institutional. Its dark, weather-stained walls seemed to drain sunlight out of air. And sure enough, beside the old sanitarium grew a beech tree that looked old enough to be the actual tree Zelda Fitzgerald had painted more than fifty years ago. At the base of the tree I found a plaque:
In memory of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald 1900–1948 “I don’t need anything except hope, which I can’t find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes.”
—Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
Zelda perished in 1948 along with eight other women when their wing of the sanitarium caught on fire. They all died of smoke inhalation. A bland stretch of gray concrete to the west of the building gave testimony to the lost wing.
I could only imagine what it was like for them. Trapped, dying, knowing there was no way past the flames. Shutting their eyes, screaming for help. Realizing no one could hear them. No one would ever hear them again. Never experiencing the hope they’d been trying so desperately to find.
I sat by the tree for a while, finishing my meal, thinking of Zelda and Christie and this case. I noticed a raven land on the roof of the old asylum, and it reminded me of Tessa. For some reason, she’d always made me think of a raven trying to spread its wings. But maybe instead, she was a dove covered with soot, looking for a safe place to land.
It was hard to know what to think.
After half an hour I walked back to the federal building. There wasn’t enough time left in the day to visit the crime scenes, but maybe I could work on a linkage analysis of the crimes and then walk around the killer’s downtown hunting grounds. I’d seen a climbing gym there on our drive into town; maybe I could even slip in a workout.
I left the tree behind, but the ghosts of Zelda and those other women followed me. The echo of their screams and the scorched smell of dying hope accompanied me all the way back to work.
15
Hanes Mall
Charlotte, North Carolina
6:52 p.m.
The Illusionist stared out the window of his van at the girl walking back to her car. He knew her name—Jolene Brittany Parker. He knew her date of birth—June 17, 1989. She’d been a small baby, weighing in at only five pounds and five ounces at birth. But she’d grown up quite a bit since then. He knew everything.
He watched as she arrived at her car and opened up her purse to pull out her car keys. A smile crept across his face as he saw the bewilderment in her eyes.
She set her purse on the car beside her and opened it up, like the jaws of a snake unlocking and opening wide, too wide, to swallow some trembling rodent. She tipped it over, and her purse spit out all of its colorful contents, but still Jolene Brittany Parker did not find her keys.
She replaced the items in her purse one by one and started patting herself down. Feeling her pockets. Turning her head slightly to look at a corner of the ground. The Illusionist smiled. She’s thinking, Where did I put those lousy keys? I know I left them in my purse. Where could they be?
Oh, this was good. It was so good he could hardly stand it.
She peered in the car. At the ignition. The seat. Nope, didn’t leave them in there.
Despite himself, the Illusionist snickered. Not enough to let her hear him, of course. He was a few car lengths away, watching. But he just couldn’t help himself. This was so good!
She was distracted, just like he knew she would be. Then, he opened the door of the van and stepped outside. She hadn’t seen him yet. She was still looking for her keys. He smiled in a charming way, stepped around a blue pickup, and approached her.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” he asked. The Illusionist was wearing a security guard uniform from the mall. He had thought of everything.
“Oh, I’m just trying to remember where I put my keys,” she said absently, giving him a quick glance.
“Maybe I can help you find them?” His smile was disarming, genuine.
“Um, yeah,” she said offhandedly, looking back at the ground to see if she might have dropped the keys anyway when she was searching through her purse.
The Illusionist stepped toward her.
But there must have been something about him. The way he stood maybe, or his tone of voice, or his eagerness to help, but something made her uneasy. Maybe she suddenly realized she’d said too much to this stranger approaching her in the mall parking lot because she promptly added, “But I must have given them to my boyfriend. He’s coming right now.”
She pointed to the mall, toward some guy who was walking their way. The Illusionist let his eyes follow her finger.
It was all so entertaining. So hilarious! He almost started laughing again. There was no boyfriend. Of course not. He knew it all. He knew everything.
This was even better than he’d planned. “Well, then, I’ll just wait until he gets here. A nice woman like you shouldn’t be standing out in a parking lot all alone. I’ll have to have a word with him about how to treat a woman.” Then he smiled.
He leaned against the door of the car behind him and folded his arms. Watching.
A moment later the guy turned toward the Jiffy Oil and Lube station on the other side of the parking lot.
“Hmm. Looks like he must have parked somewhere else,” said the Illusionist, stepping quickly toward Jolene, so quickly that he caught her off guard.
She was reaching toward her purse again. For the pepper spray?
“Looking for something, Jolene?” Now he had her arm.
She was fumbling desperately through her purse. He could feel her body trembling in his arms. He could almost taste her adrenaline. Smell her fear.
“This maybe?” The Illusionist pulled the bottle of pepper spray from his own pocket with his finger on the trigger, and as a scream froze in her eyes, he emptied it into the face of Jolene Brittany Parker.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand over it and held the cloth tightly against her face before she could. He held his other hand firmly against the back of her head, enjoying the feel of her soft blonde hair feathering between his fingers as she slowly went unconscious. “See, now. It’ll all be over soon,” he said as she wriggled weakly against his grip.
At last she was still.
He dragged her limp body over to the doors of his van, propped them open with one hand just like he’d practiced so many times, and slipped her inside. A normal man would have struggled lifting a 121-pound woman with only one arm. But he didn’t. He was not a normal man. There was nothing normal about him.
He eased in next to her unconscious body. “You shouldn’t leave your purse out in the break room.” He unwound the duct tape from the roll. “Some psychotic homicidal stalker might slip in and steal your keys.” The Illusionist smiled at his little joke.
And then, humming softly to himself, he pulled the doors shut and began his evening’s work.
16
Veach-Baley Federal Complex
Asheville, North Carolina
7:37 p.m.
The linkage analysis was more complex than I thought it would be.
I rubbed my forehead.
I’d spent the last couple hours poring over the files, searching for those things that either didn’t quite fit or fit too well. As my mentor, Dr. Werjonic, used to say, “Life is not precise. The pieces that fit too perfectly tell you there’s more to the puzzle. Keep on looking until it doesn’t all make sense, then you’ll be closer to solving the case.”
And, of course, all the while I was trying to avoid the two biggest problems you run into in an investigation this complex. Number one: getting overwhelmed by the de
tails. With this many crimes, comparing the similarities and differences between so many variables can be overwhelming—which is where computers come in handy. And number two: not properly weighing the importance of each of the variables—which is where computers don’t come in handy.
And as much as I like to think instinct doesn’t play a role in what I do, for some reason, one detail from the fifth murder kept coming to mind, bothering me.
According to the files, Bethanie Dixon had just returned home after attending some kind of private college out west. The killer had left her for dead after stabbing her and strangling her. But somehow she lived long enough to scrawl two words on the linoleum with her blood: white knight.
I could understand why a killer who leaves pawn pieces might scribble a chess reference in blood, but why would the victim do it?
I tried to figure out what this might tell us about the connection between the killer and the victim, but I didn’t have any idea yet what it might mean.
The phrase, along with the pawn at the crime scene, had sent the whole task force off investigating chess clubs and gaming conventions, chess websites, chess chat rooms, you name it. Hundreds of hours of manpower had been spent chasing the chess connection. But I still wasn’t convinced the words and the pawns were linked.
White knight.
What did it have to do with the killer? The rest of the victims?
I sighed.
No idea.
On top of everything else I wanted to patch things up with Tessa but hadn’t been able to get in touch with her. I’d tried calling her numerous times all afternoon, but she wouldn’t answer her cell phone. I pushed the papers to the side. One more time, maybe.
But maybe not her cell; maybe my parents’ landline. Over the last ten years they’d done pretty well incorporating computers into their lives, but when it came to talking on the telephone, they were still stuck in the middle of the twentieth century.
