by John Lutz
“Any DNA?”
“No. Analysis of the envelope flap reveals no saliva. He didn’t lick it. A few microscopic cotton fibers were found, indicating he dampened a cloth and ran it across the adhesive areas. But the fibers are so common they lead nowhere.”
“What about the printing itself?” Beam asked.
“Handwriting analyst says it’s so carefully drawn and proportioned, maybe using a ruler or some other straight-edged object to maintain evenness, that it doesn’t reveal much. Certainly nothing that would bear meaningful comparison in court. Pencil’s number two lead, like ninety-nine percent of the pencils sold. A wooden pencil, probably, not mechanical. Lab says it didn’t wear down the same way as less tapered mechanical lead.”
Da Vinci turned the note paper so it was angled Helen Iman’s way. “Tell you anything about this guy?” he asked, “Like how tall he is, is he a Mets or Yankees fan, what’s his favorite color?”
Helen Iman admirably ignored da Vinci’s sarcasm. In her business it was the usual thing. Some cops, especially the older ones, or those in higher office like da Vinci, didn’t have much faith in profiling.
Helen moved nearer to the desk and looked closely, the second time, at the printed note.
“She’s gonna tell us everything about this guy,” da Vinci said with mock confidence, “including whether he wears boxers or Jockey shorts.”
Helen felt like telling da Vinci the killer wore shorts that were all twisted up like his own.
“He’s psychic,” she said. “He knows what Captain Beam dreams.”
Da Vinci glared at her, waiting for her to smile. She didn’t.
“What would be his reaction if I answered this note,” Beam asked the profiler, “and we get my reply printed in the Times?”
“He’d probably love a public display of your reply to his letter. It would make it seem the two of you were a set, acting out a drama on a vast stage. You might see this investigation as a job, but he sees it as an epic.”
“I’ll tell him I’m simply doing my job,” Beam said. “I’ve seen insane killers like him before and I will again. After he’s lost his freedom or his life, I’ll move on and he’ll be forgotten.”
Helen smiled. “He wouldn’t like reading something like that. Especially the mention of insanity.”
“Might it rattle him?”
“It might. I think he’ll almost immediately write an answer. He’d love to carry on a public correspondence with you.”
“I’ll tell him this will be the only message he’s going to get from me until I read him his rights.”
“Tell him again he’s a nutcase,” Looper suggested.
“Once is enough,” Helen said. She looked at da Vinci. “What do you think of the idea?”
“You’re the profiler,” he said. “What will it accomplish?”
“It’ll anger him. Maybe to the extent that he’ll make a mistake. And it will make him dislike Captain Beam all the more. And respect him all the more.”
“Will he fear him all the more?”
“Yes, but remember, he chose him because he feared him.”
“I’d like you to look over the letter before I send it,” Beam said to Helen. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Helen was gaining respect for Beam herself. If the Justice Killer had wanted a formidable opponent, he’d chosen well.
“Will it make him kill again?” Nell asked.
Helen shrugged. “It might make him kill sooner, but I doubt even that. He’s going to kill again one way or the other. He’s going to keep killing until he’s stopped. And he knows it. A certain part of him even wants to be stopped, because he knows he can’t stop himself. That’s why he’s happy to have Captain Beam in charge of the investigation. After six victims, the killer might be in the early stages of coming unraveled. He wants to be famous when he is caught or killed, and he knows he’s working toward that moment. He’s sure that in the end, Captain Beam won’t let him down.”
Da Vinci chortled and shook his head. “God! Is it really that complicated?”
Helen grinned as if she and da Vinci shared a secret. “Maybe not.”
“Madmen can be complicated,” Looper said.
“I’m not so sure he’s mad,” Helen said. “Not in the way we’re talking about-uncontrolled, irrational. That’s not what comes across to me in the note. He’s more like someone pretending to be mad.”
“Laying the basis for an insanity defense when he’s caught?” Nell asked.
“Possibly. Or maybe he’s simply playing for effect.”
“Killer like that’s already a leg up on an insanity plea,” Looper said.
“If he’s only pretending to be irrational,” Beam said.
Helen looked at him and nodded. “It’s true that at this point we can’t know for sure, but my hunch is that he’s feigning insanity.”
“I know six people who’d disagree with you,” da Vinci said, “if they could.”
Martin Portelle liked to ride the subway to and from work. Not that he couldn’t afford a cab. For that matter he might have twisted somebody’s arm and gotten a company car to drive him back and forth. He was at that level, since the report he’d made on Sculler Steel, a small foundry in the Midwest that had the potential of increasing top line earnings by fifty percent with only a few minor operational changes.
He wished he were paid a commission on all the money he’d saved his company. He might be the firm’s highest paid employee. Mr. Kravers had referred to him more than once as its most talented. Martin could spot, in corporate financial statements, anomalies that other analysts’ attention glided over. It was as if they were half blind and he had perfect vision.
Besides knowing how to squeeze a dollar, that was Martin’s great gift, perceiving anomalies however slight. Which was why over the past several days he’d become increasingly worried.
More than worried, actually-spooked.
“You mean afraid?” Tina asked, when he tried to explain. They were seated, each with a cool drink, on their high balcony, tiny creatures affixed to their building and waiting for the sunset.
Martin wasn’t so sure now that he should have confided in Tina. She was such a fearless, practical woman. Yet she’d been afraid for him; that was why he’d told her about what had been happening lately, how he felt.
“All right,” Martin said, “I’m not too proud to admit it. I’m seeing…I don’t know, pieces that don’t quite fit.”
“What’s that mean-pieces?”
It was so difficult to explain this to someone else. “I might see someone in the corner of my vision, and when I turn around they’re not there. Or a door might close, someone going out just as I enter a room.”
“That happens to all of us.”
“It’s a small thing, but to me it’s been happening too many times.” He took a sip of his drink.” I’ve seen the same man seated across from me on the subway three times in five days. What are the odds?”
“Slim,” Tina sipped her Long Island iced tea. She could drink the lethal things without showing any signs of inebriation. Up to a point, of course. “What does he look like?”
“Average. Very average. He’s always wearing sunglasses.”
“Not unusual,” Tina said. “Summer in New York. Are they always the same kind of sunglasses.”
“Yes…Well, I don’t know. They’re always the most common kind. You know, like aviator’s glasses. But I suppose they could be different ones.”
“And he always sits directly across from you?”
“Not directly, no. But always on the opposite side of the car, facing me.”
“You wouldn’t notice such a man if he were sitting on the same side of the car, would you?”
“Of course not.” Martin was getting irritated. Tina seemed to be suggesting that if he switched sides, he might very well see a similar man who’d draw his suspicion. “I also get the feeling someone’s been following me as I walk the sidewalks. To an
d from my subways stops, and sometimes when I go out for lunch.”
“Same man?”
Martin put down his drink on the glass-topped table and cradled his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It isn’t as if I’ve ever directly looked into the eyes of whoever might be tailing me. Maybe they’re that skilled, or maybe I’m that paranoid. If you’re telling me this might be my imagination, you could be right. But it’s got me going. Yesterday, when I got this creepy, watched feeling, I even walked up to a cop that was handy and talked to him.”
“Told him someone was following you?”
“No. I didn’t want to open that can of worms.”
“You should go to the police and request their protection.”
“You’re not saying they actually could protect me-or anyone else?”
“Theoretically they could,” Tina said. “But in reality, no. Not with certainty. Yet, when you thought you might be in danger, you went to a cop.”
“I just knew if somebody meant me harm they wouldn’t try it with a uniformed cop next to me. Besides, this could all be my imagination. Maybe I’m paranoid. The calm and reasoning part of my mind thinks I’m spooked by shadows, but it gave me a sense of security, talking to that cop about the weather. One I’ve never needed before.”
“I don’t think you’re paranoid,” Tina said. “And I didn’t marry you for your imagination.”
Martin opened his eyes and peered at her through spread fingers. “Lawyers aren’t supposed to be enigmatic. What does that mean?”
“That I think you might have real reason to fear. I’ve thought so ever since this Justice Killer psychopath started murdering former jury forepersons. In case you’ve forgotten, we acquitted Maddox. You were jury foreperson. He killed again, later.”
Martin lowered his hands from his face, lifted his martini, and took a long sip. “Unfortunately, there are too many such cases, in New York and other cities, where the obviously guilty have to be set free because of trial irregularities or just plain dumb-ass prosecutors, judges, or juries. That’s how the system works; there are Constitutional rights, and lots of guilty people take advantage of them and are walking around free even though they should be imprisoned or executed. Lots of them. What that means is, logically, I’m not much more likely to be this sicko’s next victim than I am to win the lottery.”
Tina stared at him over the rim of her glass. “Logically, somebody wins the lottery.”
Martin gazed out over the darkening city, understanding why his wife was such a good trial lawyer. “I guess that’s why I’m afraid.”
“Then we’re both afraid for you.” She set the glass down and leaned toward him. “But Martin, we don’t have to be afraid.”
“Are we back to me leaving the city until this nut is caught?”
“It makes sense. At least you can get away for a while. You’ve got vacation time coming.”
Martin smiled. “The kind of job I have, you retire with vacation time coming.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. You could explain the situation to Mr. Kravers. He’d understand.”
“He’d think more of me if I stayed in town.”
Tina glared at him. “This isn’t a pissing contest, Martin. The object is to see that you don’t get killed. Kravers has the good sense to understand you’re more valuable alive. Just as I do. You know who doesn’t seem to have the good sense to realize that?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“You could visit your brother Irv in Chicago. Listen to him bitch about his divorce, go with him and take his kids to some Cubs games. A hit man’s not likely to follow you there.”
“Very few hits at a Cubs game,” Martin said.
Tina grinned. “See! You’re not so scared you’ve lost your sense of humor.”
“I’m not really scared,” Martin said. “I’m…uneasy. Like a part of me knows something bad’s gonna happen.”
“You won’t be so uneasy in Chicago. And Irv and the kids’ll love seeing you.”
“Maybe, since I’m going someplace, I should go to Miami or Sarasota in Florida, eat lobsters, and walk the beach.”
“I don’t give a damn where you go, Martin, just that you go. If you’re out of New York, I won’t be so uneasy. You say somebody might be watching you, I believe it. Maybe more than you do. I love you, Martin. I don’t want to lose you.”
He couldn’t hold back a smile. “Is that your second drink?”
“Damn it, Martin! I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” he said. “I love you too, Tina. I can clear it at work; I’ll phone Irv and make sure it’s okay if I stay with him a while.”
“I’ll call and make your flight reservation,” Tina said. There was so much relief in her voice, he thought she might be about to stand up right then and head for a phone.
“I’ll do it through work,” Martin said. “That’ll make it deductible.”
When they finished their drinks and went inside, the sun had set.
The city was completely dark.
Beam awoke in the hot bedroom; he was cold but coated with sweat. He’d resisted taking a pill to help him sleep, and the dreams had been waiting.
His dreams.
It was like taking the lid off a jar and dumping out everything in his subconscious. Letting it all tumble this way and that. Tumble and jumble. None of it meant anything-though Cassie might disagree-but it was damned unpleasant if not horrifying.
Harry Lima and Nola, together, writhing, Harry grinning down at her, choking her while she stared up at him, not struggling, seeming almost bored by the notion of dying. Then was it Harry and Nola, or was it Beam?
Was it Nola?
Beam reached over and switched on the light. Shadows fled.
He lay back and ran his hand through his hair. It was soaked, like his pillow. A car or truck drove past slowly outside with deep, throbbing beats blasting from oversized speakers. Oddly, it had a calming effect. The normal, recognizable world was out there.
After a while, he got out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and took a pill.
21
Beam’s reply to the Justice Killer’s letter appeared in every New York newspaper. It was on the front page of the Post:
JK:
I’ve been busy and only just now have time to answer your letter. You are not my opponent, you are merely part of my job, as a roach would be part of an exterminator’s job. Deranged killers are parasites and are dealt with routinely in the city. When you are gone, another psychotic killer will occupy the police. That will be soon.
Capt. A. Beam
The Justice Killer set aside the Post on top of today’s Times and Daily News on the seat of the cab he was in. He was smiling. The cab jounced over a pothole and the driver’s eyes fixed momentarily on his passenger.
The Justice Killer’s smile disappeared. “They oughta fix those things,” he said of the pothole. “It’s a wonder this city’s cabs have got any suspension left at all.”
“They’ll fix ’em when we’re both dead and gone,” the driver said, eyes straight ahead now as he braked to turn the corner onto Park.
“I can hardly wait,” the Justice Killer said, barely concentrating on the small talk he was dishing out, still thinking about Beam’s letter.
Certainly the related news articles surrounding the letter were more frantic and hinted at more fear than the letter itself. Which, the Justice Killer knew, was how Beam had planned it. Beam was persuasively feigning nonchalance, pretending the Justice murders were nothing special and didn’t occupy his every waking thought as well as his dreams.
So the veteran cop said publicly that the killer is deranged. Psychotic. The Justice Killer knew that nothing could be further from the truth. It was precisely what he wanted the police to believe, to announce; it was their unintentional way of saying they had no inkling of what was in his mind.
Of course you don’t.
Of course you know I’m sane.
The seemingly dashed of
f reply to his letter was calculated to make the Justice Killer feel slighted. Angry.
But the tone of the letter was no surprise, and made the killer feel neither slighted nor angry. He felt gratified. Beam was living up to expectations. His reply was actually quite a good attempt, and it was a smart thing to release it to all the media.
But Beam and his detectives weren’t smart enough to guess their quarry’s next move. They thought in the usual channels and assumed he was a classic serial killer, that he was moved by compulsion and locked into patterns of thought and action.
Not at all. They didn’t know, for instance, that his list of potential victims had increased eleven-fold.
He smiled again. He couldn’t help it, and he’d scooted sideways on the seat so the cab driver couldn’t see him now in the rear-view mirror. A part of the Justice Killer’s mind was leisurely, almost lovingly, contemplating the identity of his next victim. A common juror rather than a foreperson. Which juror hadn’t been decided yet. That was all within the power of the Justice Killer. Only the Justice Killer. He felt a tightening in his groin and was surprised to find that he had an erection.
That isn’t what this is supposed to be about. Not primarily, anyway.
Think about baseball. He grinned inwardly. Damned Steinbrenner. All the money in the world and can’t buy a world championship. Now, the Mets…
The baseball diversion actually worked pretty well. Within a few blocks the bulge beneath his fly was gone.
The designated hitter. What a dumb-ass move that turned out to be.
He casually scanned Beam’s letter again beside him in the Post. It really was an admirable effort, deceptively simple.
It hadn’t the desired effect, but of course Beam couldn’t know that. He was probably reading all the papers, like his opponent, and smiling, like his opponent.
They were both pleased this morning. Beam would doubtless consider his published reply progress. And maybe it was, though in the wrong direction. Still, a move, progress.
Something, anyway. A countermove.
