101
Weisman rubbed his hands gleefully. “That was Clinton County. The Saranac kid in the burned out car Their CSI guys have just come up with a trace on the body..”
“A trace?”
“It looks like he couldn't keep his hands off the kid. Nicotine trace.”
“Dirty motherfucker.”
“There's further tests to be done, but it's looking good.”
“What can we expect?”
“At best? A brand. Now that would be a turn up. Regardless, we know we're after a smoker now. It’s the best break we’ve had.” He produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. “This calls for a celebration.”
There was just the one abstention, but they all knew Pitman was teetotal.
“Let's get the team back in harness, David. I want the smoking habits of everyone on the suspects list by the end of shift. But discreetly. The longer we can keep this from the press, the better.”
102
The smell of burned joss-sticks was almost overpowering, but strangely welcome, after the biting tang of the Professor’s cheap aftershave.
Claire plied the threadbare stairs to the top storey of the Samuel Blodget Park building where Ceri's student apartment was situated. The banister was unsafe, the walls in need of new paper, and the woodwork needed repainting. The lights didn't work and the windows were so grimy they advanced the afternoon sun to dusk.
Student accommodation hadn't changed much, Claire reflected.
The water jug was slow and they used the opportunity to get the feel of one another. The journey over, Professor Large's eating habits, anything but the subject they'd met to discuss. Scalding water dissolved the cheap coffee granules and milk powder with a deal of stirring. The refrigerator didn't actually work, Ceri explained, but it was nice to have it there anyway.
“It must be an interesting job, being a reporter?”
The comment took Claire by surprise. Large obviously hadn't explained the precise nature of her interest.
“I'm not actually a journalist. My partner Matt is. I've been... Helping him cover the investigation.”
Ceri nodded. “Professor Large did tell you this was a private meeting. Off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
“I've never done anything like this before,” Ceri said nervously.
Claire gave a reassuring smile. “Professor Large, speaks very highly of you.”
Ceri looked surprised. “He does?”
“He said your profile of Uncle Tom was quite exceptional.”
Ceri laughed. “That's rich. He wouldn't even mark it!”
It was Claire’s turn to be surprised. “But I thought…”
Ceri smiled. “My fault. I didn't actually do what I was asked to. We were supposed to profile a convicted murderer. Of course, everyone plumped for the big names. You know, Dahmer, Nilsen. Dead boring.” She paused, searching Claire's eyes for a sign of recognition. She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Dead boring. They were necrophiles, right?”
Claire permitted a wan smile. “So why choose Uncle Tom?”
“I wanted to do a child-killer. I think that is just so sick. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying taking men off the streets and boiling their heads is normal, but children... So I was looking through the options... Brady, Black, Fish, Lopez, when the girl went missing at my sister's school in Red Hook. They weren't close friends or anything. But...” Her voice choked over. “It could so easily have been Britney instead.”
She was clutching her cup tightly, her knuckles almost white, but her face remained calm. “Supposing he was still in the area, waiting to strike again?”
Claire reached out a sympathetic hand.
“I've had a few sleepless nights,” Ceri continued. “But I believe he's moved on now.”
“I read that in your profile. Could you talk me through it? I've got a copy with me.”
Ceri took the papers and leant back in the armchair, glancing over the document to refresh her memory. “Who else has seen this?”
“Just Matt and I, and Professor Large, obviously.”
Ceri seemed satisfied. “All I did was to try to build up a picture of the killer. Key movements, correlation of dates and places, any similarities between the kids attacked. That was easy enough from the newspapers. But to do a serious profile you need to know the gory detail of how he operated. What he did to his victims. Exactly how they were killed. That sort of thing.”
“But we know what he did, surely?”
“Only what’s been reported. What I really need are the forensic reports and the autopsy analyses. Obviously we have this nail-paint business. At first glance very significant. These kind of singular abnormalities are what usually help identify the killer. You know, there might be ten suspects all with a background of assaults on children, but only one will be so disturbed as to want to decorate his victims in this way. Colin Dunst says it's some kind of fetish. At first I agreed with him. But then it struck me that if the killer has some fetish about nail varnish then only nail varnish would do.”
“Why?”
“Paint and varnish have entirely different smells.”
“So?”
Ceri smiled. “Do you know how fetishes develop?”
“It’s not something I’ve made a life-time’s study of, I must admit.”
“There are several theories, but I favor the idea that the object - the fetish - in some way rekindles subconscious memories of pleasant experiences dating back to adolescence or even childhood. In Uncle Tom's case perhaps an experience with a woman who wore yellow nail varnish. That's Dunst's reasoning, anyway. But like I say, why use paint? It would have a totally different olfactory association. And contractors' paint yet, not house paint, or modeling paint, either of which are more readily available. That's weird, really weird. Then I read a cop quoted as saying the nails were painted with meticulous care. If that's true then Dunst is way off the mark.”
“I don't follow.”
“It's simple. If the nails were painted with meticulous care I'd wager the girls were already dead when he did it. If they were alive, even if restrained, they'd be struggling. There'd be paint smudges, not this meticulous piece of art.” She was reliving her inquiry now, going through the reasoning as she had first done when she wrote the report, her voice becoming more excited, oblivious as Claire's composure slipped.
“Then there's the question of how he actually assaulted his victims. The police have been pretty circumspect about that, other than to deny actual rape took place. The press reports merely referred to sexual assault and strangulation. What kind of assault? Did he bugger them? What part of his body did he use? Was there oral contact? Did he use an object? Were they strangled before or after? I understand the first girl, Rebecca, was alive when the assault began. It must have been horrific for her. I mean he...”
She realized Claire was in tears. “I'm sorry. Are you okay? Let me get some tissues.” She reached for a box of Kleenex beneath the bed. Claire took them gratefully, dabbing her eyes.
“I'm sorry, Ceri. I should have been honest with you from the start. You’ve every right to know. Rebecca was my daughter.”
103
“For the recording, son, where did you steal the car from.”
“Tupper Lake. A motel next to Raquette Pond. I don’t remember the name.”
“But you’d know it if we took you there?”
“Sure.”
“What time?”
“About midnight.”
“Can you be more precise?”
Jeff shrugged his shoulders.
“I don't think you appreciate how serious this is, Jeffrey.”
“We didn't know. Honestly. It was just another car. We never went near the trunk. I swear I didn't know she was there. How could anyone know?”
The attorney spoke up. “My client is a car thief. He's admitted to stealing the car. It's quite obvious he didn't know about the child.”
“Maybe not. But he lit the match that killed
her.”
“That’s way out of order, Detective. On your own admission you believe the girl to have been abducted by this so-called Uncle Tom. Given his record so far it seems this unfortunate child would have died one way or the other regardless of my client's involvement. My client isn't facing murder charges here. He stole a car, that's all.”
The detective ignored the attorney, turning on Jeff. “Was there anything else in the car when you took it? Anything at all that might give us a lead as to the previous driver?”
“Nothing.”
“No bags or cases? No papers or documents? Anything at all?”
“Nothing. Just a map.”
Both detectives were leaning forward. “A map?”
“A street map. Of Troy - in the dash.”
“Where is it now?”
“Ashes, I expect.”
“And there was nothing else?”
“Nothing.” A long pause. “Just a disc.”
“A what?”
“A compact disc. You know, music, on CD? Well, you might call it music. It was just some old guy singing.”
“So this CD went the same way as the map, I suppose. Lost in the fire?”
A hesitation.
“Jeff?”
He took a deep breath. “No, I gave it to Mom. Thought she might like it. It's more her style. You know, old-fashioned music.”
“Ted, you get hold of the rental firm. I'll go see Mrs McAllister.” The officer was half-way out of the room when he stopped and turned. “Interview suspended three fifty-one pm. You two wait here. I'll send someone through.”
104
“Rumor has it one of the key suspects has just been asked what cigarettes he smokes.”
McIntyre shrugged. “So?”
“It's a new angle. Shows the investigation is still progressing.”
“Don't waste my time with jigsaw pieces, Matt. I've got a paper to edit. Tell me when you've got a picture and I'll come and admire it. Until then I suggest you try do some reporting for a change. In case you've forgotten, it's what you're paid for. Get the background before that motherfucker Kellerman beats us to it again. Proctor's been giving me hell all week about you, Matt. Seriously. He is not a happy bunny. Our own correspondent, personally involved, and Kellerman's getting all the scoops. I know it's been a difficult time for you and Claire, but Proctor's got a point. The biggest crime sensation since the Hannibal the Cannibal, right on our doorstep, and we're rehashing other papers' stories.”
Matt looked sullen.
He knew Harvey Proctor was on McIntyre’s back.
It was the proprietor's role to lean on his editor.
It was the editor's role to lean on his journalists.
“I've been in this business fifteen years, Mac, and I've never dealt with anything like this before. Kids killed, yes, but this is a once in a lifetime scenario. Kellerman's just a sick bastard out for what he can get. He doesn't care who gets hurt along the way. I do.”
“I’m running a newspaper, Matt, not a bloody counseling service.”
Matt slammed the door behind him. “Fuck you.”
105
At 5.40pm Weisman addressed his team in grave tone, biting his lower lip with irritation.
“This morning the lad who stole the burned-out vehicle the girl's body was found in came forward voluntarily. A sixteen year old. Saranac police have been with him all afternoon. The FBI are with them now. They've confirmed what we suspected: that the vehicle was taken and torched by a joy-rider. Saranac are convinced the kid had no knowledge of the child in the boot. Needless to say he was too scared to come forward sooner.”
“I suppose we should be thankful he came forward at all,” Pitman observed quietly.
“My sentiments exactly, David. The good news is, the kid had two very useful clues for us. Firstly, there had been a street map of Troy in the glove compartment. It was destroyed in the fire, but suggests the previous driver may not have known the town too well. The vehicle had sat-nav, but nothing was recoverable after the fire. But safe to assume the driver deliberately refrained from using it. But the map suggests the abduction of the child from Troy may have been planned in advance, presuming the two are connected.”
“Not my idea of good news, Sir. If you're right, it's a matter of waiting for the body to turn up.”
“That had occurred to me as well, David. But we have to take heart from what little information we have. The nicotine trace you heard about earlier. They've narrowed that down to a cigar.”
“Better than nothing, What's all this about a CD?”
Weisman suppressed a sigh. “The wonders of internal communications. Our joy-rider found a disc in the vehicle's stereo system. It wasn't to his personal taste so he pocketed it and gave it to his mother. It's been tracked down and is with forensics now. The good news is that, as well as the boy's and his mother's prints, they've got a third. There's a strong possibility it's the killer's.”
“And the bad news?”
“The print has no match with any known offender. So, three possibilities: one is that the print is from a third party not involved with the girl. The previous two bona fide rental customers have both been traced, questioned and eliminated.”
“That was quick!”
“The FBI work fast. More resources. Anyway, the second possibility is that this case is unconnected to the other killings. I think that's unlikely, given the circumstances. Which brings us to the third scenario.”
“That the FBI profile is wrong?”
Weisman looked uncomfortable. “Colin was specific in his assurances that the killer would have previous convictions. That he’d be in the system somewhere. Personally I can't fault his logic. What little I understood of his explanation made a lot of sense. But the latest evidence points to this print being the killer's. If it is, and Colin Dunst is wrong on such a central part of the profile, then gentleman, to put it mildly, we've got a problem.”
There was silence from the floor as the information sank in.
“As a matter of interest, Captain, what type of CD was it? The music, I mean. The sounds he's into may give us a clue of some sort. If he's a heavy rock freak or a country and western fanatic maybe he wears a leather jacket or a Stetson.” It was a weak comment, meant to break the silence and raise a laugh, but Weisman wasn't smiling.
“I was saving that ’til last. The disk is a home-burned CD-R, playing a loop of the same song. I don't think there can be any doubts about these being Uncle Tom's prints and this being Uncle Tom's disk.” He paused for effect. The room was silent, everyone there hanging on his next words.
“The one, single song on the disk is a repeat loop of Maurice Chevalier, singing Thank Heaven For Little Girls.”
106
He might have anticipated Dr Quinlan presence by the gleaming Lincoln in the CEO’s bay, but his mind was elsewhere. Molly led him through to Quinlan’s office.
Randall enthusiastically shook hands with the frail man in the wheelchair, thankful he wouldn’t be facing that woman again. But as Quinlan assumed his place behind his desk it was the older man’s serious expression that worried him.
“Dr Reynolds recommended I should speak to you directly, to make clear our concerns,” Quinlan began, with no resort to small-talk.
“Concerns?”
“I'll come straight to the point, Mr Randall. You came here by way of self-referral because of your interest in children. As I'm sure Dr Reynolds explained, your predilection for young girls is by no means unique. Here at the Foundation we have many years experience in recognizing the condition in its various stages.” He paused.
Then, “I'm sorry, there is no easy way of saying this. Dr Reynolds and I are extremely concerned for the safety of your daughters.”
Randall froze. His mind was active in his defense, but the words would not come.
“Don't misunderstand me. We're not suggesting anything has happened yet. But we've encountered similar situations before, and we know from experience h
ow very rapidly these things can get out of hand.”
Randall was nodding mindlessly, his eyes glazed.
“Our concern is that your interest in children, which you have already indicated is growing, could in a very short space of time progress to breaking the body barrier. As the father of two young girls... I'm sure you understand my point. Our experience shows that in this sort of paraphilia the progression from fantasy to actuality, from thinking to doing, can be very sudden, escalating out of control without warning. Without wishing to alarm you unduly, both Dr Reynolds and I are agreed that your condition warrants urgent and immediate therapy.”
Randall was struggling to take this in. He thought of the Dynamite Twins, Natalie and Tamara. “This therapy... What exactly does it involve?”
Quinlan eased back into his wheelchair. The battle was won. Now it was simply a matter of selecting the most appropriate tools. He had already decided, but went through the motions of presenting a range of options.
“There are three basic methods for the treatment of sexual dysfunctions, all of which have a proven success record, and all of which are available through the Foundation. There will, of course, be a fee. I believe I intimated as much to you when you first contacted us back in, when was it now, May, June some time?”
“May twelfth.”
Quinlan nodded. “We're a private organization, as you know, not a charity. And certainly not state-aided. But that said, we do have a sliding scale of fees to accommodate as many clients as possible. Dr Reynolds and I have discussed your case and we feel we would be able to offer you an appropriate course of treatment for about fifteen thousand dollars.”
Randall stared at him, the figure dancing before his eyes. “Fifteen thousand?” He struggled to articulate his thoughts. “I... I don't have that kind of money.”
“I'm truly sorry, Mr Randall. You must understand these types of treatment are both time consuming and staff-intensive. We use only the latest technology, to ensure we provide the highest possible quality of care. Such things do not come cheaply.”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 20
