Granger turned to face O'Bannon, stiff as a board. "Sir, I formally request that former Lieutenant Pulaski be removed from the case. Her services are not needed."
O'Bannon leaned forward against his cane. "Denied."
"Sir, speaking as head of the homicide department, now that we have an eyewitness report, I believe those funds could be better spent on manpower-"
"Speaking as the chief of police, your request is denied."
"But-"
"Denied!"
Jeez Louise-he was getting into with it with Granger worse than I had. I decided to try to salvage my rep by playing the peacemaker. "Hey, everybody. Let's calm down here."
Granger turned a fiery eye in my direction. "Don't tell me what to do, Pulaski!"
O'Bannon was on his heels. "Keep your flap shut, Granger!"
"Whoa, whoa," I said, holding up my hands. "What are we gonna do here? Solve a murder? Or have an Alpha Male Smackdown?"
O'Bannon blew air through his teeth. "Granger," he said quietly, "I need to speak to Susan. Privately."
Granger pivoted and walked away with a supremely irritating swagger. Of course, he was aware that by this time, half the office was watching us. He wanted it to appear to the casual observer that, by some contortion of reality, he had come out on top.
O'Bannon put his hands on my desk and leaned forward, obviously trying to calm himself. "Got something for you."
And what could that be? More bad news, most likely.
He reached under his coat and, to my enormous surprise, pulled out a weapon. The gun and shoulder holster landed on my desk with a thud.
I didn't know what to say. "Is there…perhaps…a badge coming with this?"
"You're not being reinstated, Susan."
"And why not?"
"Because you're not ready."
"Sir, I've been clean and sober-"
"I know. I can tell. Plus, I get reports from your doctor. But a few months on the wagon doesn't mean you're ready for full-time duty. Ready to be someone's partner. Ready to have someone's life depend on your performance."
"Then…" I gestured vaguely toward the gun between us. "…why this?"
"Because it's damn clear that this killer I've asked you to catch is dangerous. I don't want you hurt." He picked up his cane and jabbed it down on the linoleum for emphasis. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't," I said quietly, but he was already walking away, one careful step at a time, acting as if he was just as strong as ever, as if nothing was wrong or ever had been.
Just like me.
I don't know why I didn't think to call Colin before. Probably because he'd been a college friend of David's, and all the experts kept telling me I had to put my memories of David behind me, to compartmentalize them, so I could move on. And I tried to do what they said. But this mysterious equation business was so more up his alley than mine. He'd helped me before, on the Edgar case, when I needed a code breaker-until I discovered Darcy, who could decode more in ten minutes than Colin-or to be fair, any normal person-could do in ten years.
Colin is a self-styled cruciverbalist, or to put it in English-he makes puzzles. For a living. That's his job, if you can imagine. He works out of his home and creates brain teasers for The New York Times and Games magazine and similar publications favored by people with too many brains and too little to do with them. He wasn't rich but he made enough to get by and make his house payments and not have to wear a tie and go to an office and, all in all, especially when I observed Granger glaring at me, it seemed like a pretty good gig, even if I do think people who work mind-numbing puzzles for entertainment are all a little whacked in the head.
"Susan!" he said when he opened the door and ushered me in. "Great to hear from you!"
"You too, Colin." He'd always been the nicest of David's college buddies. Even if he was a little whacked in the head. "Everything going well?"
"Can't complain." I cleared a place on the sofa and sat. The room was a mess and, for that matter, so was Colin. I thought, not for the first time, how badly this man needed a wife. "And you?"
"Fine and dandy." Except for the perpetually shaking hands, the cold sweat on the brow…"You got a girlfriend yet?"
"No. For some reason, chicks just don't dig puzzlemasters." I thought it probably had more to do with the fact that he rarely dressed, groomed, or left his house, but I kept my opinion to myself. "Why don't you ever send a friend my way?"
"Hey, I offered to set you up with Lisa, my oldest friend in the world."
"Yeah. And that was tempting. I loved that Porsche she drove." He sighed. "But I could never get serious with a woman who hasn't mastered cryptic crosswords."
Whatever. "Look, Colin, I'm calling because I've got a puzzle. In a case."
"Think I hadn't figured that out already? Pitch it to me."
"It's weird."
"That's all right. I can handle anything."
So I gave him the formula.
"Hold on, Susan. You didn't tell me this was going to involve math."
"Is that a problem?"
"I'm a word boy. Left brain. Math freaks are a whole different breed. And this doesn't look like a real puzzle anyway. How can you possibly solve an equation if you don't have any of the numbers?"
Which was exactly what Granger's experts were saying. "I'm sorry. I just hoped you might be able to help."
"Sorry, I'm not your man." He paused. "But I know who might be. The distinguished Dr. Goldstein. At UNLV."
"He some kind of math expert?"
"Susan. Shame on you for your sexist assumptions. It's a she. And she's an expert in weird math."
Which would explain why Colin knows her. "What's weird math?"
"Oh my God, you have no idea. Mathematicians are so twisted. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff they get into."
Like maybe melting people's faces? "Sounds like someone I should talk to. Do you have her number?"
"Sure. Better yet, I'll call her. They keep her pretty busy out there and her rep is huge, so she may not take every call she gets. But we were both on the U.S. team in the International Puzzle Olympics two years ago. She'll talk to me."
"That would be great, Colin. Ask if she'll see me as soon as possible. Tell her it's very important."
"Will do. And Susan?"
"Yeah?"
"You think if maybe I sent you a cryptic crossword, you could pass it along to Lisa? I know she's in L.A. now, but-you never know. I mean, that is a really hot car."
"My pleasure, Colin."
This hardly solved any of my problems, but it at least gave me hope. If a specialist in arcane mathematics could shed light on these bizarre murders, so be it.
Seconds after I returned to the office, Amelia sidled up to my desk. "Have you seen my report?" she asked.
"On the sneaker? Converse, size seven-and-a-half."
"No."
"The forensic report? Sounds like the hair and fiber boys got next to nothing."
"No. On the impression I made of the grill." She rolled her eyes in the general direction of Granger's office. "Figured as much." She surreptitiously slid a three-page stapled report onto my desk.
"Learn anything?"
"Not much. There were some swirls in the mix-whoever wrote the equation did it with his finger. But grease isn't a particularly good surface for lifting prints. We've tried several procedures on the grill and my cast and the head and the corpse. But all we've come up with are a few frustratingly incomplete partials. Not a solid print in the bunch."
"Any partial enough to work with?"
"We've created a composite, based on several of them. It's speculative. But it's enough to run through FINDER." That was the FBI's automatic fingerprint reader and processor. If the print was in their database or that of several affiliated agencies and nations, they'd be able to provide an ID.
"And?"
"Nothing."
"So our man has never been printed."
"I can't say that with absolutely
certainty. We're working with pretty low grade material here. But I can tell you who you can eliminate."
"Rage on, girl."
"The victim. And everyone else who worked at that restaurant or had access to that grill."
"So the killer left the equation," I murmured. Just as I thought.
"Looks that way. But I'm a scientist, you know. I don't make theories. I just report the facts."
"And look damn good doing it. Thanks, Amelia."
"Anytime." She laid her hand on my shoulder. "I mean it. And that goes for everyone else in the basement." Meaning the forensic department. "We're all behind you."
Talk about a sweetie. If she only had some clout around here, my hands might even stop shaking. "Thanks, Amelia. That means a lot."
But not enough to keep my hands from shaking. Not nearly enough. I CHECKED WITH GRANGER and confirmed that the coroner's office was still staying tight-lipped. No leaks. No confirmation that the head and the corpse were a match. Which was pretty damn frustrating, because if I was going to come up with a profile, I really needed to know how many dead people we had on our hands. Granger told me he'd tried to pry something out of Patterson, our chief coroner, but without success. Told me not to waste my time trying.
But I have some resources that were not at his disposal. And the greatest of these is girl power.
I hovered in the corridors of the coroner's office, trying to make it look as if I were waiting for someone or something, until I was certain she was alone. When she was, I slipped into her office and closed the door behind me.
Jodie Nida, one of the coroner's techs, was seated behind her desk. She was initially startled when she saw me standing there and checked the window in the door to see if anyone had observed my entrance.
Coast was clear.
"I know we don't have much time," I said, leaning over her desk. "So spill."
She adjusted her cat's-eye glasses and gave me a wry grin. "I assume you're talking about the Burger Bliss corpse and Danielle Dunn. And all their pieces."
"Dead on. Do we have a match?"
"Well, Patterson still wants to run about a day and a half of additional tests but…" She grinned. "It's a match."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Any info on the weapon used on Danielle Dunn?"
"Again, more tests need to be performed. False positives could be created by-"
"Cut to the chase. What did he use?"
She inhaled deeply. "Well, the slash follows a diagonal arc which, when matched with the head, forms a slight wedge shape. Like a tiny triangle. Also, we found particles of rust on the head."
"Which means…"
"A wedge-shaped weapon made of iron. I'd bet on an axe. A long-handled axe, something that would give you the power you'd need to chop off a head in one stroke."
"And you would find such a weapon…?"
"In any hardware store in town. In every other garage in town."
I nodded. "Appreciate the help. You know, if you'd get a phone, this would be a lot easier."
She sighed. "Coroner techs don't get phones. Only Patterson has a phone." She lowered her voice. "Control freak."
"My condolences," I said as I made my way to the door.
"Don't bother," Jodie replied, waving a hand in the air. "At least I don't have to take orders from Granger."
It was all I could do to keep from laughing as I ducked out of her office and slipped away, sight unseen.
15
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.
A
nd 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.
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