"Other stuff? What…other stuff?"
Tucker spoke as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "The brandin'."
"Why would you possibly want to…to…hurt me? I've never done anything to you. I've never done anything to anyone."
Tucker's eyes narrowed. "'Zat what they say back in Terre Haute?"
Even with the blade against his throat, the stiffening of his neck was noticeable. "W-Why would you ask me about…about that city?"
"What kinda man doesn't take responsibility for his own kid, huh?"
Brazee could feel the man's hot breath on his face. He pulled back, as far as the cuffs would allow. "There were…practical considerations…Career…You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
His voice dropped. "His mother was a groupie. Met her backstage at a concert. We weren't married."
"You coulda married her."
"Yeah, and killed my career. I couldn't disappoint the little girls, man. I'm sure you know how that is. The chicks had to think I was available. I was a teen heartthrob."
Tucker placed his free hand atop Brazee's head and slowly turned it to face the mirror, bringing the blade right along with it. "Been a long time since you've been a teen, huh, mister? Bet it's been a long time since you had a teenager in your audience, too."
"That's not my fault. It's just bad management."
"You haven't been makin' your payments."
"I haven't been pulling in the scratch like I used to. But I got a plan. My new manager, he's gonna make my show bigger, better. Maybe bring in the guys who did the act for…for…those two German guys with the cats."
"Too late." Tucker reached under his overcoat and this time withdrew a branding iron with the letter N at the end.
"What-What are you-Oh my God-"
"You are Netzach. You must make the sacrifice."
"The sacrifice. What does that mean?"
"Well," Tucker said, as he pulled out his acetylene torch and began heating the branding iron, "it means you won't be doin' any more singin' anytime soon."
I could hardly ask Amelia to refill the prescription I swiped from her, could I? And I sure as hell couldn't get through all this, Granger breathing down my throat, having to cancel on Amelia, feeling lost, feeling alone.
Watching that videotape. Twice.
I know why he made it, and why he left it behind. At least in my mind I did.
He left it for me. He left it because he knew how badly it would screw me up. And he was right.
Thank God for the Internet. In less than twenty minutes, I found some shady outfit that could have Valium at my doorstep tomorrow afternoon, if I was willing to pay the outrageous shipping costs. But for that matter, as I hyper-clicked around, I found all kinds of options. Why stop at Valium when there was Xanax, and Effexor, and for that matter, even better stuff. Vicodin. Prozac.
I ordered a wide assortment. A smorgasbord of relief. I was going to need it.
Might as well stay up all night working on this preliminary report. I knew I wouldn't sleep, not with two lousy Valiums left. But tomorrow would be different. If I could just get through the next twenty-four hours. So I logged off the Internet, logged onto the FBI's BSI database, and went to work. It would be a hard night. But I knew I could make it.
Help was on its way.
26
BEHAVIORAL PROFILE-THE MATH MAN
by Susan Pulaski, M.A., LVPD
…is complicated by conflicting psychological indicators. The investigators have uncovered data suggesting an orderly personality, as well as a disorderly personality, a narcissistic personality as well as a sympathetic personality, an antisocial or poorly socialized personality as well as a keen understanding of social conventions and social strata. One possible explanation is that the serial killer's modus operandi and rationalizations are still developing; however, the fundamental fact pattern and extremely stylized and complex methodology have remained consistent from the start. Another more dangerous possible diagnosis would be dissociative personality disorder, that is, the existence of multiple personalities, one dominant and controlling, one submissive and compliant, and both extremely dangerous. The prototypical Jekyll-Hyde split allows one alter-personality to assume the qualities which the central consciousness recognizes to be the most socially unacceptable, while the submissive personality, however regretfully, carries out the plans mapped by the other. This is a particularly dangerous combination, because it creates an outlet for rationalization and release that allows even personalities that have not progressed to full sociopathy to commit the most heinous deeds.
Despite the conflicting indicators and the paucity of concrete information, there are some facts we can state affirmatively about the killer. The killer is: 1) a white male between the ages of twenty and forty. (Although this information cannot be ascertained by psychological profiling, eyewitness reports have indicated that he is short, only somewhat over five feet tall, stocky, strong, dark-haired); 2) from a low income bracket, probably only marginally above the poverty level. Most likely he finds his menial job unfulfilling because it provides no outlet for his intelligence, or at least his aptitude for mathematics, creating a desire to do what his delusional mind conceives as "greater things" to show his worth; 3) fond of, or at least able to tolerate, acts of extreme violence. It is possible that he has convinced himself that the merit of his acts is so great that it justifies deeds he would otherwise find repellent. It is remotely possible that he finds acts of violence to be sexually arousing, that his usual impotence is overcome by acts of extreme brutality; 4) the product of a broken home and a troubled childhood. He probably was raised by only one parent, or neither. The fact that he has chosen both male and female victims, however, makes it difficult to determine which influence he was missing in childhood. He probably mistreated animals or smaller children. He may have been a late bed wetter. All factors likely to produce an ongoing frustration with the UNSUB's lack of impulse control; and 5) very fond of and very good at mathematics.
Detectives should be looking for an adult who is lonely, isolated, angry, and violent, someone who spends long hours alone, obsessively working on problems of his own creation, or indulging in an aberrant but well-developed fantasy life. As classified by the DSM-IV, he suffers from antisocial personality disorder and may have sought or been given psychological therapy in the past.
The key to locating this killer will almost certainly be understanding the mathematical clues he has left at the crime scenes, as well as the videotape of the most recent assault. Some part of his complex psyche wants to be caught, or perhaps wants us to appreciate the "majesty" of his design, or to be awed by his superior intellect, hence the mathematical equations. Even if we are unable to perceive it, in his mind there is a rationale, a pattern to his crimes. If we could understand that, we could anticipate his moves. If, for instance, we understood how he selects his victims, we could protect them and lay a trap for him.
It has been suggested that he possesses a prurient mania against pornography or sexual sin, but that does not seem consistent, does not explain his seemingly random and diverse selection of victims, and does not appear to link the most recent victim. The selection process is almost certainly mathematical, but how the determination is made is still unknown. There is a strong indication that all his crimes "add up" to something, some ultimate goal, some purpose, but that too is unknown. In some respects, the killer almost seems driven to commit his crimes, as if somehow he is compensating for past wrongs, perhaps those done to him, or trying to punish others who have committed like crimes, or trying to prevent future incidents from happening. In his self-deluded, narcissistic mind, some such rationale justifies the violence. The exact process, however, remains unknown. When we understand that, we will have taken the most important step toward understanding this killer. If this is, for him, a numbers game, we must try to comprehend, however bizarre they may be, the rules of that game…
I yanked the last page out of the p
rinter, stared at it, then with more than a little reluctance, passed it to O'Bannon's new assistant Amanda David for photocopying. Just as well I was out of the little blue sleepy-bye pills. I was tense as hell, but I had been able to stay up most of the night, working and reworking this report, until it was as good as I could make it, given that I really didn't know squat about this killer and writing this report was pitifully premature.
This should have been simple, but somehow, I just couldn't get my head around it, couldn't get my usual empathic ability to see inside someone else's head. The key to finding an UNSUB is Why + How = Who. And I'd worked it. I'd written a report that was consistent with the facts and made best use of the information in our possession. But deep down, I knew it sucked. A total waste of taxpayer paper. I didn't know enough about Why to get to Who. And I couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere, I'd gotten something fundamentally wrong. It was just a hunch, an instinct. But profilers worked on instinct-or at least they should. They had to be able to sense what could not yet be proven. They had to be able to crawl inside the killer's mind, or perhaps more accurately, reconstruct it on a piece of paper. But my instincts had gone to hell, and I was stuck here, banging at the keyboard like a monkey, putting words together that didn't say much and wouldn't help anyone, much less Granger. Well, they might help him prove my utter worthlessness, but nothing else.
The worst of it was, if Granger came after me again, now, I'm not sure I'd fight him. Maybe it was just the stress weighing down on me while I waited desperately for the pharmaceutical FedEx. But somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that despite my best efforts, everything I'd written was critically, tragically wrong.
"For God's sake, can't you hold still?" Tucker bellowed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut a leg off?"
He wiped his brow, then took aim again with his axe. It would be so much simpler if she weren't so particular. Everything had to be done just right-removal at precisely the pinpointed place, the body carried to a predetermined location, most of them incredibly inconvenient. And it had to be on the right day. All according to the numbers. Maybe when the baby came she would relax a little. Even though she wasn't showing that much, the doctor said her time was a lot closer than they had previously imagined. Maybe her health was a factor-he didn't know. Unfortunately, between now and the blessed arrival, there was still much work to be done.
"Please don't do this," Brazee cried. His hands were restrained behind his back, his right leg was handcuffed to a table, but unfortunately Tucker hadn't brought anything to close his mouth. Next time he would invest in some heavy-duty duct tape. It would be worth the investment. "What are you, a critic or something?"
Tucker didn't honor that one with a reply. He had hoped that after the branding, after the searing pain of an N imprinted on his leg, he might be somewhat subdued. That was how it had worked before. But not this guy. No matter what Tucker did to him, he just kept on talking. Like, thanks for the essay, but you're still losing your leg, okay? It was as if the man thought he was still on the stage and the adrenaline rush was immunizing him against the pain. He worked mindlessly through the same old patter, as if his purgatory was being forced to run though an endless lounge act, over and over again. And Tucker's purgatory was to have to listen to it.
"I mean, I know some of the patter fell flat tonight. I was having troubles, you know, with my manager. I was distracted. But I can do better. I promise. What'd'you want? A song? A joke? I know some great ones. Hey, how many Republicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"
Tucker tightened the rope that held the man's right leg to the card table. "I'm not interested in jokes."
"What then? You wanna song? You wanna hear 'I Miss You So in Springtime'? I mean, I hate that old song, never wanted to record it in the first place. But for you-I'll make an exception."
"This may come as a shock to you," Tucker said, balancing the axe in his hands, "but this isn't really about you. Certainly not about your stage act."
"Then-what is it?"
"It's about fate, destiny. God is in the numbers," he said, with a self-evident air of pride. "Brace yourself. I imagine this will hurt."
"Wait!" Brazee cried. "What about-everything you said. About my daughters."
"What about it?" Tucker glanced at his watch impatiently. He knew he had only so much time before others would enter the theater. Plus, he wanted to get to the delivery spot before the sun rose and his chances of being detected multiplied.
"You…you gotta understand what really happened."
"No, actually, I don't."
"But you're punishing me-"
"I don't make the decisions."
"It wasn't my fault. There was nothing I could do. The kid's mother wanted it this way. And I've taken good care of them."
"The Department of Human Services has a different opinion."
"'Cause I was late with the money a few times? I'm an entertainer, for God's sake. An artist. I don't get a check every two weeks like the mundanes. I pay when I can. But I've always made it good in the end. Hell, with the manager I got, it's a miracle I work at all."
Tucker shrugged, then focused his attention on the man's leg. The dismemberment had to occur at just the right point, the juncture between the pelvis and the thigh. He needed to remove the leg, but nothing more and nothing less. He raised the axe All at once, Brazee thrust his upper body forward, as if performing a monumental sit-up. He head-butted Tucker in the abdomen, sending him reeling backward. Tucker was tempted to bring the axe down on his neck, but he knew that was not what Esther wanted. While Tucker was trying to think what to do next, Brazee brought his free leg around and kicked Tucker.
Tucker hit the wall with a thud.
With an impressive display of strength, Brazee balanced himself on his free leg, using it as a pivot point to twist around. Although he was still dazed, Tucker saw to his horror that the man had managed to get his hands free. He dove forward across the room.
He was trying to get the axe.
Tucker forced himself into action. He raced forward, knees still wobbly, and stomped on the man's hand with all the force he could bring to bear. Brazee shouted in pain, pulling his hand back and cradling it against his body.
Tucker grabbed him by the hair and slung him roughly back to where he was supposed to be. He raised his fist toward the man's face Then stopped. There could be no extraneous bruising. She had made that clear. They must stick to the plan. If we indulge our violent passions, we are animals. If we hew to the plan, we become creatures such as even God must sit up and take notice.
He cuffed the man's hands, this time making certain there was no chance of his escaping. He wiped the sweat from his brow, wiped his hands dry, and recovered his axe.
"You shouldn't've done that," Tucker muttered, low and gravelly.
Brazee was amiable and nonchalant. "Hey, can't blame a man for trying, right?"
Tucker's glare was sufficient to communicate his feelings.
"Okay, look, I'll come clean," the pinioned man said. "I got some money. You don't need to be telling the little lady in Terre Haute or nothin', but I do got a little something stashed away. A Cayman Islands account. You know how it goes. Not a fortune, but every penny of it is yours."
"I don't want money."
"Then what do you want?" The strain was evident in his voice. Beads of sweat streamed down the sides of his face. "Girls? Is that what trips your trigger?"
Tucker hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Aha! Well, let me tell you, mister, you've come to the right place. I got girls out the wazoo. I'd be more than happy to throw a few your way."
"I-I don't-"
"And we're not just talking any girls here, buddy. We're talking Grade A prime cheesecake. Showgirls. Strippers. Hometown homecoming queens looking for their first big break. I mean, you've never seen boobs like the boobs on some of those wheatfield wonders."
"I-I'm not interested-"
"You wouldn't say that if you
saw them. These girls will do anything, my friend. Anything. Let your imagination run wild-you still won't come up with everything these girls will do. And they're limber-there's no position they can't make work."
"I-"
"Threesomes, what about that? I bet you've never been the creme filling in an Oreo cookie, huh? This is your big chance. A once-in-a-lifetime."
"I'm-not interested."
"I know-you're worried about…the way you look. Listen to me, bud-these girls don't care. They aren't gonna be looking at your face, if you know what I mean."
"I-am not interested!" Tucker bellowed. "I have a girl. A beautiful, smart wonderful woman. I love her. I love her and she-she-" Tucker cried out, something between a growl and a battle cry, and the axe swung downward, precisely on target.
It was just as well there was no one else in the theater. Some of the diners in Monet's, almost three hundred feet away, heard something strange, faint, but still possessing its distinctive character-an agonized cry of un-endurable pain. They assumed there had been an accident in the kitchen and went about eating their asparagus mousseline.
27
July 22
"Amelia!" I said, glancing up from the papers that spread across my desk like an asexually reproducing organism. "What brings you to my pathetic workstation?"
Amelia smiled a little, but it struck me as a pretty weak effort. "Doing the friend in need bit. Thought you could use a little cheering up."
"I guess you've read my report."
"Umm, well, actually, no. Should I?"
"Not really. Won't tell you a damn thing. So if it's not the report, what brings you to-"
"I have it on good authority that you're about to receive a visitation from Granger."
"You say that like he's an archangel or something."
"Maybe one of the ones who got booted out and had to take up new residence in H-E-double-hockey-sticks."
Strip search sp-2 Page 20
