"Do you know it?"
"Remember, I am the foremost scholar in the field."
"I said one of the foremost scholars."
"I didn't catch that part.'' He smiled. "The quote's from the Book of Acts, 20:31."
She read the note again, searching for a hidden meaning, wondering if it was a sick joke that only the killer could decipher. She glanced up and caught Farrell watching her curiously. “Here’s the other note,'' she said.
"For into a malicious soul wisdom shall not enter; nor dwell in the body that is subject unto sin. It's not from The Old Testament, I'm sure about that. Let me think." He closed his eyes, as if in prayer. "I need to check something," he said, abruptly getting to his feet. She watched him whisper something to the librarian, before disappearing into the back room. He emerged a few minutes later with a thick, leather-bound book, which he carried to his desk, turning pages as he walked.
"Did you find what you were searching for?" Elizabeth asked.
"I certainly have."
***
Elizabeth rummaged in her bag for her mobile phone, but couldn't find it. She swore under her breath for leaving it in Holland's car. As soon as she found a payphone, she dialled Frank's number. "Can you talk?" she asked.
"Briefly."
"I've left my bloody phone in Holland's car. I'm with Professor Farrell at the university."
"Has he been much help?"
"He tracked down the quote left on Amber Foley's body. Apparently, it comes from The Apocrypha."
"What's that?"
"The professor said that many holy books were excluded from the Bible because they were fakes. These books were called The Apocrypha, which is where the word apocryphal originated, meaning fake."
"Is there a point to this history lesson?" Frank asked.
"It's a message. The killer is trying to say that he's a fake too, he's not Campbell."
"McGovern's going to love this," Frank sighed. "How am I going to present this theory to him? I don't have eyewitnesses, blood matches, or a confession. Oh, but I have a two millennia old book proving that the killer couldn't possibly be Ross Campbell."
Silence.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I'm taking my temper out on you. I confronted McGovern this afternoon about the autopsy. He took great pleasure in reminding me that there are people queuing up to take my job and that they'd probably be much better at it than me."
"He can't fire you, can he?"
"He can promote me, and that's worse. It won't be long until I'm on the next pay grade and tied to a desk all day, which would drive me around the twist."
"He'd never do that to you. You're much too valuable to be wasted as a glorified administrator."
"I appreciate your confidence in me. Unfortunately, you're not the Assistant Commissioner.'' He yawned. Last night's wine was catching up. "Anyway, enough of my whining, tell me more about this biblical book."
"Never mind that, tell me what've you've been up to."
"We found a knife at the scene."
"Of course, Campbell left a knife behind when he killed his third victim."
"There was blood on it, and Forensics lifted a partial fingerprint."
"You must be pleased."
"It's the first break we've had. Hayes found it."
"Campbell wiped his knife clean; do you think the print’s a mistake or another part of the killer's game?"
"We'll have to wait and see."
"Do you have a name yet?"
"She's Orla Delaney, aged twenty-five."
"Delaney?" Elizabeth's brown eyes were huge in her pale face.
"I know what you're thinking: first there was Foley, now there's Delaney."
"This is part of his game, choosing women with the same surnames as people on the investigation."
"I doubt it's a coincidence."
"That means he knows who everyone is."
"It's not classified information. Our names are all over the news headlines."
"I suppose. What does Delaney think about having his name connected to a psycho?"
Frank sighed. "I have no idea what Delaney thinks most of the time. At the moment, he's too busy rounding up the student population so he can pull his hard cop routine on them."
"Maybe the killer’s closer than we think," suggested Elizabeth. "He’d get a thrill from being nearby when the body’s found."
"Preston thought the same thing."
"Preston's at the scene?"
"He was here until five minutes ago. I called to let him know what happened. We didn't have much of a chance to talk, but he invited us to dinner later."
She snorted. "He's not the type to throw dinner parties."
"It’s work. He said he’ll have the profile ready for us tonight."
"That was fast."
"He knows we're up against the clock."
"One more thing," she said. "What was the quote this time?"
***
Elizabeth handed Professor Farrell the killer's latest message:
So now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.
“It's from the Book of Romans," said Farrell.
"It's rather convenient to blame sin itself for what he's doing,'' said Elizabeth, drumming her nails on the desk in irritation.
"The verse is a comment on the law and sin." He hesitated before continuing. "Elizabeth, may I call you Elizabeth?"
"Of course." She smiled.
"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me."
"Professor Farrell..." She should have seen this coming.
"Pat."
"Thank you for your offer, Pat, but I can't have dinner with you. It wouldn't be right."
"You're married, I should have known. Ah well, you can't blame me for trying. I never could resist a beautiful woman."
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth arrived at Harold Preston's university lodgings at 9p.m. sharp. There was no sign of Frank, but punctuality wasn't one of his strong points.
"Evening," said Harold gruffly as he opened the door.
She glanced around the room, taking in the worn furniture and shelves lined with other people's books. There was a door near the window, which she presumed led to the bedroom. A small arch framed the tiny kitchen. A plastic Christmas tree stood on his desk, draped with a single string of red tinsel and crowned with a cardboard star. He’d made more of an effort than she had in her own apartment.
“Nice place,'' she said, collapsing into an armchair.
"You think so?"
"No, I was being polite. It's hideous."
"It's the standard sub-monastic accommodation that most universities set aside for staff. It'll do for now."
"I suppose it will."
"Coffee?"
"Please."
The whistle from the boiling kettle filled the silence. She willed Frank to arrive and fill the awkwardness sparking between them. She hated being in such close proximity to Preston. Neither of them had enough small talk skills to pretend at normality. At least at the crime scene there had been enough space between them. When she'd called him earlier to tell him about what she'd learned from Professor Farrell, he was distant, and he certainly wasn't making any effort now. He handed her a chipped mug and sat down in front of her.
"Relax, Harold, will you?" she said when she couldn't stand the tension any longer. "You're making me nervous."
"I didn't think you got nervous."
"I am human."
"Are you?" He smiled faintly and was about to say something when a loud knock interrupted him.
Moments later, Frank swept in. He was full of apologies as he flung his coat on the couch and sank into the armchair where Preston had been sit
ting.
"Busy?" Elizabeth asked.
"Up the walls. Is that coffee?"
"Coming up," said Preston, ducking into the kitchen. "I could have gone to the Station. It would probably have made life easier for you." His voice floated back from the kitchen.
"Thanks for the offer, but it's better we meet here. McGovern would have been full of questions. Seeing you this morning made him uneasy enough. He cornered me when he heard you were at the crime scene this evening. He wanted to know all about you."
"Does he think I'm a suspect?" asked Preston.
"Who knows?" said Frank. "You're the first criminal profiler we've had around here, and the murders started shortly after your arrival. Be careful, or we'll be asking you to account for your movements."
"That wouldn't take long."
"McGovern doesn't have the imagination to consider you a suspect," Frank continued. "He's old-fashioned; profiling makes him edgy, that’s all."
"This reminds me of the arguments we used to have at The Met a decade ago. It's about time the police stopped fighting every new development and seeing everything as a threat," said Preston.
"I'm grateful for any insight you can give us," said Frank.
Preston nodded, satisfied. "Let's get started." He picked up a large file from his desk and handed a stapled copy to them. "These are my preliminary observations," he began. "They’re pointers, nothing more."
"Understood," said Frank. "Tell me what you've got."
"It's difficult to separate this killer and Campbell. He’s emulating Campbell because he's hiding behind him."
"Are you saying that the killer is definitely not Campbell?" asked Frank.
"There are no certainties. Even if it is Campbell, he's continuing to work to a pre-existing template, so it's difficult to separate them, but I'll come back to that in a minute. I want to make things clear so that no one can accuse me of anything later."
Elizabeth didn't look up; she knew he was making a dig at her. It was about time he got over the past.
"What did the crime scenes tell you?" asked Frank.
"The killer is familiar with the area. He's confident of coming and going without being noticed. He knows his way around. He knows the locations of the CCTV cameras. He'll have spent a lot of time staking out the crime scenes. "
"Does he live locally?" asked Frank.
"It's difficult to say because the locations where Amber Foley and Orla Delaney were found are some distance apart. However, I don't think he lives locally; he's too careful, so he won't take the risk of being recognised by a neighbour. How he appears to others matters greatly to him. His reputation and standing in society is paramount.
"He's intelligent, on the same intellectual level as Campbell. He's organised. He knows all about police procedures and is confident of evading detection. The crime scenes are ordered and controlled, even though he's working at high stress levels. He finds it easy to rationalise the murders and distance himself from them. He's probably late-thirties to mid-forties. It's difficult to be certain because he's copying Campbell's pattern. Campbell is his screen, and he was thirty-eight when he started killing. However, the confidence of this killer suggests someone older."
"What do you mean by "socially invisible"?" asked Frank, glancing up from his copy of the profile.
"He blends in. He's able to form relationships. He's probably married or living with someone, although she knows nothing about what he's done. He drives a decent car and holds down a steady job."
"There go my suspicions about Campbell's son,'' said Elizabeth.
"He's killed before," Preston continued. "I'm certain about that. No one is this good first time round. I doubt it's Campbell coming back for more, but serial killers don't retire. If it is Campbell, where has he been hiding for the past decade? It doesn't fit. Where's the degeneration and escalation? Every case I've ever worked has had escalation; the original model stops satisfying their fantasy eventually."
"But there's escalation this time too," said Frank, looking confused.
"Yes, but it's too perfect, too unemotional and businesslike. He's simply recreating what Campbell did right down to the last point. He even cut Orla Delaney's hair so that she matched Campbell's type.
"You didn't mention the hair to me." Elizabeth turned to Frank.
"Didn't I? I thought I'd told you on the phone earlier. He took the hair with him."
"As a trophy?"
"Possibly," Preston continued. "But the cutting of the hair can't be particularly symbolic; otherwise he would have done it to the others too."
"Maybe it's a sign that he knew the victim," said Elizabeth.
"Not necessarily. I think he wants to be seen as Ross Campbell. There have been three murders, with only minor variations on Campbell's theme, proving that he's also playing out his own game."
"I wouldn't consider dismemberment a minor variation," Elizabeth pointed out.
"Perhaps he removed the head to delay identification or to hinder forensics,'' said Preston.
"That doesn't explain why he removed her feet."
"I don't have an answer for everything, I'm afraid. He's playing a game, proving a point. He's killing to copy Campbell, but he won't be able to avoid escalation much longer. For now, the killing isn't the point; it's all about the game and the contest of wills and intellects, which is why he's choosing women with the same surnames as people connected to the investigation."
Elizabeth wasn't convinced. "What about the Hebrew writing on Amber Foley's foot?"
"It means something, but I don't think it's part of his fantasy. The Gimel is the third letter in the Hebrew alphabet, but it also symbolises the number three. Maybe it’s a statement of intent."
"You don't know that. Maybe it's the key to the entire investigation."
"Even if it is the key, it will be so simple that you'll overlook it, or so personal that it will only make sense in retrospect. He wants you to lose yourself in some imagined complexity."
"How are we going to catch him?" Frank sighed. He sipped his coffee before realising it was cold.
"When is Amber Foley's body being released for burial?"
"Not for some time; there are tests that need to be done."
"I think he'll turn up at the funeral or visit the grave when everyone has left. He might even try to insert himself into the investigation as Campbell did. Is there anyone who's been asking a lot of questions? Look out for a witness who keeps calling with more details that he claims to have suddenly remembered. He'll also be obsessed with the media coverage that he's getting."
"Maybe we could use the media against him," Frank suggested.
"At the moment the coverage is good for his ego," Preston continued. "But if the press reports that the profile suggests that the killer is sexually impotent or has a low I.Q., it might alter his relationship with the press and make him careless. Ideally, Brendan Mahon should write the article."
"Brendan won't do it," Elizabeth said. "He won't jeopardise their special relationship. Brendan wants to keep the communication going. There's no way he'll risk scaring him off."
"There's more than one newspaper in Ireland," said Preston. "Use them and the television and radio stations. Hold a press conference. Say there was a witness, even if you don't have one. Say you have a description, a sighting, anything to make him start doubting his control."
"And then?"
"Then we wait."
Day Four
Chapter Seventeen
"It seems we have had another diatribe from Mr. Campbell, our serial killer. There are copies of the letter at the front desk for anyone who hasn't received one yet," said Assistant Commissioner McGovern.
Elizabeth looked at him contemptuously and wondered how he could be so stupid in assuming that the killer was Campbell, just because the letter-writer claimed to be him. She watched him as he stood in front of the map of Cork City that was pinned to the wall, noticing that he'd added other pins to represent Orla Delaney. Frank had once to
ld her that McGovern liked to take meetings when there was progress to report, but she was amazed that he considered this progress.
She was in a bad enough mood without having to listen to him rattling on. Preston's profile hadn't delivered what she'd hoped it would; she could have drawn up the same preliminary sketch of the killer herself. She had expected more from him, some flash of insight, but he hadn't been forthcoming, and she wasn't prepared to dismiss the Hebrew writing or the dismemberment.
She was sick of the killer's letters and his hidden meanings. Surely, he didn't believe that he was on a divine mission. Frank had given her a copy of the latest letter that morning when she arrived at the crime team room. Despair gnawed at her as she read the same mumbo-jumbo. At least Preston agreed it was highly unlikely that Campbell was the killer, but it wouldn't be enough to convince McGovern.
McGovern reminded her of Brendan Mahon. She had listened to Brendan being interviewed earlier on one of the radio shows about his special relationship with Ross Campbell. It was more an attempt to address the nation than an interview. He wasn't a second-rate journalist fighting for scraps anymore; he was an expert, an authority, and he was loving every minute of it. She blamed herself for Brendan and McGovern bandying Campbell's name about so easily. She could stop them, but she was scared of what would happen when she did.
All eyes were on Frank. He sat at McGovern's side, listening to him rant. He leaned back against a desk, one hand either side of his body, grasping the edge, legs stretched out, feet crossed, staring at his shoes. Occasionally, McGovern turned to him for affirmation or support, but he remained focused on his shoes. Elizabeth grinned. She liked Frank’s style; he made contempt look like concentration.
"The letter was sent this morning to Brendan Mahon at The Examiner," McGovern said. "It has the same postmark, typeface and paper as the previous letters. The editor sent it around to us immediately."
"Will they publish it, sir?" asked Foley.
"They said they'll wait a day, which gives us twenty-four hours to track down this Kay person he mentioned in the letter. We've contacted Vice to help us track down anyone with a record of prostitution over the past few years, but so far, we've found nothing."
Tear Drop: Serial Killer Thriller (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series Book 1) Page 8
