Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  When the receptionist was called away he slipped out of the building, into the night.

  79

  In a seedy hotel on Manhattan’s West 49th Street, close enough to the railway to be disturbed by the clatter of passing trains, he was already in a foul mood. As he sat on the end of the bed, watching the girl undress, his features darkened.

  Jacob had promised him something special for tonight. So far he was not impressed.

  As the girl peeled off her clothes, indifferent to his gaze, he studied the body with an expert eye. Skinny enough to be anorexic, she was clearly used to the work. Under-developed. But thirteen?

  She wriggled out of her underwear, standing before him, waiting. He returned a menacing gaze that made her feel uncomfortable. She tried to stare back, but couldn't face his eyes. Dark and cold, almost colorless, they seemed to ravage her very soul. She looked nervously around the room.

  The first tinge of fear.

  His eyes traced her body, lingering.

  Some punters liked to look first. Some actually paid just to look. There was a special cheap rate for that, but she knew this client was paying top dollar. Anything goes. She had ambitions of sneaking off and going solo one day. But for now she worked for Jacob. It was safe, clean and comfortable.

  There was no reaction in his eyes as he clinically studied her body. No sign of interest. No lust. No arousal. Just contempt.

  The words came uneasily, but she had to break the silence. “Would you like me to wear something?”

  His eyes returned to hers. A shiver ran down her spine. She wished she was anywhere but here.

  “To put something on? My cheerleaders outfit?”

  No response.

  “Majorettes?” Some punters liked that. The gym slip. The white socks.

  He stared at her, as if considering the question. Then, “Come here.”

  She moved closer.

  Nervous.

  She reminded herself Jacob was just a scream away.

  He asked, “What's your name?”

  She relaxed a little. Some punters liked to know who they were getting. A few personal details. They didn't have to be true.

  “Mary.” It was no lie. There was no harm in telling him that much.

  “Local?”

  “Yes.” Another honest answer. “I need the money,” she added. As if he might have thought she did this for a hobby.

  She stood in front of him, trembling, covering her body with her hands, as if suddenly shy. He remained seated, his eyes glued to hers.

  “How old are you?”

  She hesitated. “Thirteen.”

  He reached down and picked up the nylon tights she had discarded earlier. “Come and lay down here, Mary.”

  She moved round the bed to climb on, cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

  80

  As her knee touched the mattress she felt the movement from behind. In a second she was flat on the bed, on her back, his two-hundred-forty pounds weight crushing the breath from her. She tried to cry out but a massive hand clasped around her mouth. The nylons were round her neck in an instant, pulled tight, choking her.

  “Let's try again, girlie, shall we? How old are you?”

  He released his grip on her mouth and she forced the words out.

  “Thirteen.”

  She gasped for breath. The nylons gripped tighter, cutting into her windpipe. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head up hard. Pain seared across the back of her neck. She almost passed out. The cold, dark eyes stared unblinking into hers.

  “Last chance.”

  She choked the words out, all pretence abandoned, in fear for her life. “Sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”

  He twisted the nylons one more time then pushed her head hard onto the bed. She gasped for breath, her arms still pinned beside her by his weight. A knife appeared in his right hand and she tried to scream, but he smothered her mouth and nose before she could manage a sound. The eyes were wide with fear, the anorexic body struggling pathetically beneath his mass. She felt the tip of the knife blade press into her neck.

  “One sound and I'll slit your throat. Understand, whore?”

  She nodded as much as she dared. He took his hand away. She gulped down mouthfuls of air, fighting for breath. The blade cold against her skin. She felt it run down over her neck, over her collar bone, pressing into the flesh. She felt the blade on her left breast. It stopped at the nipple. She held her breath, eyes wide with fear.

  “Thirteen? Whose idea was that, whore?”

  “Jacob. Jacob made me.”

  He grabbed the nipple between thumb and forefinger and lifted it slowly until her whole body weight pulled against it, the pain excruciating. She grit her teeth to stop herself screaming. The tears ran down over her ears, into her hair. He pressed the point into the skin.

  “How about some plastic surgery? To make you look your age.”

  She shook her head violently, eyes wide with fear, not daring to make a sound.

  Suddenly he was off her, on his feet before even she'd fallen back onto the bed. For a moment she lay there, not daring to move, the pain searing.

  He spat the words out with venom. “Get out of my sight, whore. Before I change my mind.”

  She ran naked, sobbing, from the room.

  Seconds later Jacob's wiry, tanned, five foot two frame appeared in the doorway.

  “Wassamatter, my friend? You got a problem?”

  It was hardly an even match. His muscular frame towered above the pimp's.

  Jacob drew on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream into his customer's face. “I say again, my friend, you got a problem here?”

  “You told me you had something special for me this time, Jacob.”

  “That right. They don't come more special than Mary. One of my best girls. Why, I have her myself sometimes, that's how good she is.”

  “I asked for your youngest girl.”

  “Barely thirteen. What more can you ask for?”

  “That whore was not thirteen.”

  “I swear she is! What lies did she tell you?”

  “Don't fuck with me, Jacob.”

  “Honest to God. Straight out of diapers.”

  His hand swung up in a flash, grabbing the pimp around the neck, lifting him several inches off the ground with the one arm. “I said, don't fuck with me.”

  Jacob's short, wiry arms were clutching at the steely biceps as he fought for breath, legs flailing wildly beneath him.

  “Put him down, man.”

  He turned, still holding the pimp off the ground, to see two heavy-duty black bouncers in the doorway. One held a machete. His own blade paled by comparison. He returned their gaze with unblinking eyes while the pimp choked at the end of his arm, then suddenly he released his grip. Jacob dropped to the floor, gasping for breath.

  The two bouncers looked to their boss for instruction but he waved them away, massaging his throat with the other hand. They backed off, reluctantly.

  He reached into his pocket. “Wise move, Jacob.” He extracted five hundred dollar bills and flicked each one between finger and thumb before dropping them into the pimp's eager hand. “This is my deposit for next month. You know what I want, Jacob. Try pass me off with some spotty teenage hooker again and I'll break you in two, do you understand? And your two goons alongside.”

  Jacob smiled at him. “Would I let you down, my friend?”

  “The second time will be your last.”

  81.

  As the last detectives filed into the room Weisman put himself centre-stage and gestured for quiet. The room fell silent, thirty pairs of eyes watching him.

  “Good morning gentleman. Ladies,” he added, nodding to the few female officers in the second row. They smiled dutifully. A homicide inquiry was not considered to be women's work and they were acutely aware they were only involved because the guys were considered too insensitive to deal with the victims' parents.

  “For those who've not yet had the p
leasure I'm Captain John Weisman. I don't propose to waste time going over old ground other than to say this: The decision to link the child-murders with the death of our own girl, Rebecca Meadows, was not taken lightly. Nor was the decision to involve the FBI.”

  He paused to study his audience. “Obviously they have experience and expertise in dealing with these sort of crimes that makes our own pale by comparison. Now let me be clear, I do not want to see any evidence of rivalry between us. We have our methods and they have theirs, but we both have the same goal: to lock up the sick bastard killing our children.”

  He glared across the room, challenging anyone to argue.

  “Above all, the FBI have invaluable expertise in criminal profiling, and they have agreed to one of their senior profilers sharing with us his analysis of the crimes so far. He turned to his associate. “Which brings me neatly to my guest, here, Professor Colin Dunst. I'm sure you all know of Professor Dunst, or at least his reputation.”

  Dunst stood briefly to acknowledge the audience. The double-breasted Armani suit and polished shoes stood in sharp contrast to the cheap day-suits the detectives wore.

  “Professor Dunst, for those of you recently returned from exile in Canada, is a criminal psychologist and a senior advisor to the John Hopkins Sexual Disorders Clinic in Baltimore, and is intimately involved with the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI training centre in Virginia. I think it no exaggeration to say Colin is one of the foremost experts on psychological profiling in the United States.” He paused to allow these facts to be fully appreciated, then took his seat.

  A polite ripple of applause ran through the room as Dunst took centre stage.

  “Thank you for the warm welcome. I should say immediately that your Captain is overly generous in his praises. There are many others in my field with as good or better a track record than I.”

  He paused to clean his glasses, deliberately taking his time, playing to the audience.

  “Some of you may be unfamiliar with criminal profiling, other than the fanciful version in the crime-thrillers, so I'll briefly explain the principles, the better that you will understand my conclusions.”

  A second pause while he examined the ceiling, then, “As psychologists, we believe every action or interaction with a person or object leaves a psychological imprint of some sort, just as it will leave a physical imprint which traditional forensic science may detect. I have to say it's nowhere near as exact a science as forensics, and there's no guarantee it will work. There have been a few spectacular failures as well as successes over the years. I'm sure you can all think of examples.”

  He scanned the room, giving them time to briefly think. “But despite the occasional hiccup psychological profiling can have a genuine impact on a criminal investigation, identifying offender characteristics which might otherwise not be seen.”

  He sipped from a glass of water before continuing, taking the opportunity to evaluate audience interest.

  “My best advice is, don't expect too much. The classic profiling scenario is that of James Brussel, the father of forensic psychology, who in the nineteen-fifties pin-pointed the Mad Bomber of New York right down to the way he buttoned his jacket. It was a classic case, but hardly typical. Brussel went on to profile the Boston Strangler and made serious errors of judgment, not least suggesting the suspect was impotent, when in fact he was a convicted rapist. So please, don't expect miracles.” He paused again, studying his audience.

  “What we can't do is produce a list of suspects complete with names and addresses. But we can, in many cases, produce a list of characteristics, for instance approximate age, the likelihood and nature of previous convictions, the type of employment and family background a suspect may have, which may be of great help when applied alongside traditional detective methods. I stress that point. In the past I've come up against detectives who fear I'm in some way deliberately undermining their authority, or trying to cast doubt on their abilities. That is not the case. Psychological profiling is simply another tool, like forensic, which you, the real detectives, can use to your advantage.” He paused again, pleased to see one or two of the audience taking notes. “I'm sure most of you are familiar with the film The Silence of the Lambs?”

  An animated murmur suggested many were.

  “Well forget it. It's pure Hollywood fantasy. Jodie Foster has a lot to answer for. Don't get me wrong. It was great entertainment. And Jodie Foster is a fine actress. I’ve been a fan of hers ever since I -”

  Weisman coughed impatiently. Dunst took the hint.

  “What I propose to do is run through the facts as established and comment on them from my own perspective as I go. Some of what I say will be obvious to you, but most of it hopefully won't be. If it is, you're in the wrong job.”

  82

  Dunst moved back to a large whiteboard and selected a purple marker, writing up salient points as he spoke, linking items with coarse arrows.

  “What we have so far is the sexual assault and murder of three girls. I stress girls. Female. The killer is, therefore, a heterosexual male. All three girls were prepubescent. Again, I stress the point. The oldest was nearly eleven, but physically undeveloped. The others, obviously, younger and smaller. What does that tell us? Anyone?”

  “That he's a sick bastard and wants castrating.”

  “I was thinking of something a little more subtle.”

  “He's frightened of women?”

  “That's better. Now you're thinking. Not necessarily frightened, but certainly uneasy about them. There are two main schools of thought on this. One is that the suspect is unable to control his sex drive, perhaps due to an organic problem - an hormonal imbalance, brain damage, or some such. But the murders are quite methodical, so I incline towards the second, psychological premise. That the suspect has a problem relating to women, is inexperienced in sexual matters and may well have had a bad experience at some stage which has turned him against the opposite sex. Domineering mothers are the classic, of course. We've all seen the film Psycho. So it's safe to say that somehow he needs to exercise control over his victims, to exert his own sexuality over theirs. That's a traditional rapist scenario. With children it may be also a matter of size.”

  “What, you mean he's got a tiny dick?”

  A rumble of laughter ran through the room. Weisman glowered at the comedian in the second row.

  Dunst smiled indulgently. “I was thinking perhaps an overall lack of physical stature. It may be that the killer simply doesn't have the physical strength to tackle adult women, so he preys on children instead. Again the age group involved would lean towards this hypothesis. The girls are very much helpless children, but even so there is evidence that they were further restrained before and during the assault, as indicated by the marks to their wrists. The need for total control over the victim is a clear and recurrent trait in this case, as in so many. Sex crimes are rarely about sex. They're about control. Dominance. Power.”

  “But none of the kids were actually raped.”

  “Exactly my point. Now I'm a psychologist, not a forensic scientist. My role is to collate the available information and try and get some order from it. As I understand it there was interference of some sort in all three cases, though almost certainly not by the assailant's penis. The post-mortem insertion of the calling-card rather implies a form of substitute rape. What is not in question is that the bodies of the victims were thoroughly cleaned, probably post-mortem, before being disposed of. Any ideas?”

  “Washing away the semen, if he masturbated over them?”

  “Possibly, yes. But what does that tell us about the assailant?”

  There was a collective shrugging of shoulders, the less experienced among the audience genuinely at a loss, the more worldly-wise unwilling to pander to Dunst's school-masterly overtures.

  “What about saliva? Skin tissues? Externally there were indications of oral and tactile manipulation, on the breasts and torso. In each case the child's body had been cleaned, using
a soap solution. Imperial Leather, I believe, was identified. The hair had been brushed and plaited, and the genitals thoroughly cleaned.”

  “Like an enema, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe he's a rogue doctor. A pedophile pediatrician.”

  A few laughs erupted at the alliterative humor and private conversations began to spring up. They were getting restless. Dunst let them talk, gesturing to Weisman to assure him he had things under control. He rapped twice on the table with his knuckles and the room slowly fell silent.

  “Okay, I appreciate you're impatient. You want to be out there doing something, not sitting in here listening to my waffle. So let's get to the point.”

  His smile vanished. His tone became serious.

  83

  Dunst peered around the room. “What we're looking for is a mid-thirties white male, slight in stature, with previous convictions for indecency involving minors.”

  The floor was silent, all eyes pinned on the speaker.

  “He may have a marine background, possibly naval, but certainly associated with boats, and is currently either self-employed as a sole trader of some sort, or more likely working in a semi-skilled job involving shift work or casual labor. He may at one time have held a delivery job and certainly still drives. He owns a van, a white van, probably a transit or similar. Windowless. Between five and ten years old, in reasonable repair, road legal with insurance, but he may have false license plates. He's right-handed, of no more than average intelligence, unmarried, no children, and lives alone, in rented accommodation. A small apartment, not a house. Probably near or, very likely, overlooking a school or play park.”

  Dunst scanned the audience, pleased to see their wary expressions.

  “Our suspect comes from a large family, the youngest of probably six children, and the only boy among five sisters. He's clean and tidy in appearance, a neat but not fashionable dresser. Short hair. Clean shaven, but possibly a moustache. He's likely to have a small group of male friends who he meets in bars on a regular basis, but no close friends and no significant female associates. He probably drinks heavily and may have convictions for drink-driving offences as well as the history of sexual misdemeanors already referred to.”