"She's a child who's been hurt and needs help, Smoky. That's never a burden in our home, and never will be." Her words are simple factual statements, meant from the heart. "Do you want to speak to her?"
My heart skips a beat. I realize that I do. Very much. "Please."
"Hang on for a moment."
A minute later, Elaina comes back on the phone. "She's here. I'm going to hand her the phone now."
Fumbling sounds and then I hear the faint sound of Bonnie breathing.
"Hi, honey," I say. "I know you can't talk back, so I'll just talk to you. I'm really sorry I didn't come get you last night. I had to work late. When I woke up this morning and you weren't here . . ." My voice trails off. I hear her breathing. "I miss you, Bonnie."
Silence. More fumbling noises, followed by Elaina's voice. "Hold on, Smoky." She speaks away from the phone. "You have something you want to say to Smoky, sweetheart?" More silence. "I'll tell her." Talking to me now: "She gave me a big smile and hugged herself and pointed to the phone."
My heart clenches tighter. I don't need a translation for that one.
"Tell her I just did the same thing, Elaina. I have to go, but I'll be by this evening to get her. No more sleepovers if I can help it. Not for a while, at least."
"We'll be here."
I sit for a moment after hanging up, staring at nothing. I am aware right now of all the layers of emotion I am feeling, the obvious and the subtle. I have strong feelings for Bonnie. Feelings of protectiveness, tenderness, a burgeoning love. These are fierce, real. There are other feelings whispering around, though. Tumbling through me like dry leaves, padding on quiet, shadow feet. One is annoyance. That I can't just be happy about my night with Tommy. It is faint but has its own strength. The selfishness of a very small child who doesn't want to share. Don't I deserve some happy time, it whispers, petulant?
And there is the voice of guilt. It is a smooth voice, oil and snakes. It asks only one question, but it's a powerful one: How dare you be happy when she isn't?
Recognition shivers through me. I've heard these voices before, all of them. Being Alexa's mom. Being a parent is not a one-note thing, a single-act play. It's complex, and it contains both love and anger, selflessness and selfishness. Times you are breathless and overwhelmed at the beauty of your child. Times you wish, for just a moment, that there was no child at all.
I'm feeling these things because I'm becoming Bonnie's mom. This brings a new guilt voice, one of rebuke and misery: How dare you love her?
Don't you remember?
Your love brings death.
Rather than bringing me down, this voice makes me angry. I dare, I reply, because I have to. That's being a parent. Love gets you through most of it, duty gets you through the rest.
I want Bonnie to be safe, and have a home, and that feeling is real. I dare the voices to respond. They don't.
Good.
It's time to go to work.
The door to the office flies open, and Callie enters. She's wearing sunglasses and clutching a cup of coffee.
"Don't talk to me yet," she growls. "I'm not well caffeinated."
I sniff the air. Callie always has the best coffee. "Mmm . . ." I say.
"What is that? Hazelnut?"
She moves away, clutching the coffee close. One side of her mouth raises in a snarl. "Mine."
I walk over to my purse, reach inside, and pull out a package of small chocolate donuts. I see Callie's eyebrows shoot up. I wave the donuts.
"Oh, look, Callie. Yummy chocolate donuts. Mmm, mmm, good."
Emotions war across her face in something just short of a nuclear conflict. "Oh, fine," she says, scowling. She grabs the cup on my desk, filling it halfway with her coffee. "Now give me two of those donuts."
I pull two out of the wrapper, moving them toward her as she pushes the coffee cup toward me. When the two meet, she snatches the donuts as I grab the cup. The hostages have been exchanged. She sits down at her desk, gobbling the donuts, while I sip from the cup. Heavenly.
Callie sips her coffee and eats her donuts, and I feel her gaze on me. Thoughtful and piercing at the same time, even through the sunglasses.
"What?" I ask.
"You tell me," she murmurs, taking another bite from a donut. Jesus, I think. Is that old myth true? About it showing if you got laid?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
She continues to look at me through her sunglasses, giving me a big, Cheshire-cat smile. "Whatever you say, honey-love."
I decide to ignore her.
Leo, Alan, and James all arrive fairly close to one another. Leo looks like he's been hit by a truck. James looks like he always does.
"Gather round," I say. "Time for a coordination meeting.
"Leo and James--where do we stand on the user name and password search?"
Leo rubs a hand through his hair. "We reached every company, and all are cooperating." He checks his watch. "I actually spoke to the last one a half hour ago. We should have all the results within an hour."
"Let me know the moment you have anything. Callie, where did we end up on the DNA?"
"Gene really put some feet to the fire, honey-love. He told me he'll have results by the end of the day. Meaning, if there is DNA and he's on file, we'll know who it is by dinner."
Everyone pauses at this, considering. The idea that we could have the face of one of our monsters before it gets dark. Could have one or both in custody before the day is over.
"Wouldn't that be a hoot?" Alan murmurs.
"No kidding," I reply. "In the meantime, when did Dr. Child say he'd be ready to see me?"
"Anytime after ten," Callie replies.
"Good. Callie and Alan--follow up with Barry and see what's happening with CSU processing the rest of the Charlotte Ross crime scene."
"Sure thing, honey-love."
"I'm going to see Dr. Child." I look around at everyone. "We are now officially hot on his trail, people. Let's keep moving. Speed and momentum are everything." I look at my watch and stand up. "Let's go."
It's time to cast another net.
*
*
*
I knock on Dr. Child's door before opening it. He's seated behind his desk, reading a thick file. He looks up when I poke my head in and smiles.
"Smoky. Good to see you. Come in, come in." He indicates the chairs in front of his desk. "Please sit down. I'll just need a moment to refer to my notes. Fascinating case."
I sit, and I watch him as he reads the papers in front of him. Dr. Child is in his late fifties. White-haired, with glasses and a beard. He looks like he is in his sixties. He always seems tired, and his eyes have a haunted look to them that never goes away, not even when he laughs. He's been peering into the minds of serial killers for almost thirty years. Will I look like that, I wonder, twenty years from now?
He's the only person I trust more than James and myself to have useful insights on what drives the monsters. He nods to himself and looks up. Leans back in his chair. "You and I have collaborated before, Smoky. So you know that I tend to natter on. I imagine I'll do a fair amount of that now. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Doctor. Please."
He steeples his fingers under his chin. "I'm going to address this as applying to a single individual. The 'Jack Jr.' persona is our primary, and dominant, personality. Do you agree?"
I nod.
"Good. What we have here can be one of two things. The first is possible, but, I feel, improbable. That he is faking all of it. That his claims of being a descendant of Jack the Ripper are a part of an act, designed to throw you off his trail. I feel this view is overly paranoid and unproductive.
"The second is the most probable and is highly, highly unusual. What we are talking about is a case of nurture versus nature. A kind of longterm brainwashing. Wherein someone spent a very long time imprinting our 'Jack Jr.' with the identity he has assumed. In my opinion, this would have to have started from a very young age to be this su
ccessful. It's probable that this was done by one, or both, of his parents.
"Most serial killers, we find, have similar histories. This usually involves abuse from a very young age. It could be physical, it could be sexual, often it is both. The result of this is rage, and it is a rage that they cannot express against their abuser, someone larger and stronger than they are, someone in a position of emotional trust and authority. The abuser is almost always a father or a mother. The abused loves this person and feels certain that the abuse must be justified. Caused by something they have done wrong.
"Rage must have an outlet. Without an immediate target, it is channeled by them, almost invariably in the same three ways. First, in violence against themselves: chronic bed-wetting. Then in violence against their environment: the setting of small fires. Finally, escalating in violence against living things: torturing and killing small animals. Once they are adults, this leads them to the logical conclusion: the infliction of harm against other human beings.
"All of this is, of course, an oversimplification. Human beings are not robots, and no one mind is the same as the other. Not all of them wet their beds, set fires, or kill small animals. The abuse is not always from a father, or a mother. But over time, the trends that we have found make this oversimplification more or less accurate."
He leans back, looking at me.
"There are exceptions. They are rare, but they do exist. They are the argument for those that feel nature is the explanation. Killers who came from decent homes and decent parents. Bad seeds. No apparent reason or explanation for what they do." He shakes his head. "Why does it have to be one or the other? I have always felt, and many agree, that it can be both. Nature and nurture. Of course, nurture, as I said, tends to be the most prevalent and observable cause." He taps on the report in front of him. "In this instance, the variables abound. He says he wasn't abused physically or sexually. That he didn't set fires or torture small animals. That may not be true. Perhaps he is in denial. But if he's not, then he is something new. He is a serial killer created from scratch. Someone who has been indoctrinated so heavily and for so long into a belief system that it has become a certainty for him. If that is true, he would be a very, very dangerous man. He won't have the injuries to the psyche caused by sexual or physical abuse. He won't have the low self-esteem these things cause.
"He would be able to operate at an extremely high level of rationality. He would have no difficulty assimilating himself into society. Indeed, he might have been trained to do just that.
"Jack Jr. would be doing what he does with the idea that it is his destiny. What he was born to do. He wouldn't consider it wrong. Because he has been told just the opposite from the moment he could understand the spoken word."
Dr. Child looks at me. "He has fixated on you because he needs this to complete the fantasy. He stated as much himself, that Jack the Ripper must be chased, preferably by a brilliant detective. He has chosen you for this. An astute choice."
He leans forward, tapping the report again. "The truth about the contents of the jar he sent you, the fact that they were bovine and not human, as he seems to think, this could be your most potent weapon. It is a symbol of everything he believes. He has always accepted it as truth. If he were to find out that this symbol is a lie, and always has been . . . it could shatter him. Could bring the world he's crafted tumbling down."
He leans back. "He has been very smart, very organized, very precise. If he were to find out about the jar--he could unravel. Of course, there is another possibility we can't ignore. That he would reject that truth out of hand. That he would decide it was a lie, designed to unsettle him. In such a scenario, he would blame the individual who had delivered this
'lie.' He would likely have an overwhelming urge to harm that individual. Both scenarios have their uses, yes?"
I nod. "They do."
"Be aware that each one contains possible dangers. If what he has built his life on is removed with such suddenness--he could become suicidal. In this case, however, I can almost guarantee you that he would not want to die alone."
I get the message. An enraged Jack Jr., devoid of hope, might well turn into a suicide bomber. Dr. Child is telling us to be prepared for this possibility.
"What about Ronnie Barnes?" I ask.
He nods, looking up at the ceiling. "Yes. The young man he claims to have found on the Internet and 'nurtured' himself. Very interesting--
though not entirely unprecedented. Killing in teams isn't as rare as people might think. Charles Manson may have led the most famous group of killers, but he was not the first or the last."
"Right," I reply. "I can think of twenty cases off the top of my head."
"More than that; but, yes, that's my point. An estimated fifteen percent of serial victims are the result of team killings. And while this one has a twist, it does fit the scenario. Teams generally consist of two individuals, but have numbered more. There is always a dominant figure, someone with a particular energy and a specific fantasy. He--or she--inspires the others, emboldens them to put the fantasy into action. All involved have psychopathic traits, but it's been thought in some instances--and I agree--that without that central figure, the others might never have taken that extra step to committing actual murder."
He smiles, and I get a glimpse of weary cynicism. "That's not to say that they were victims. It's not uncommon after arrest for the nondominants to claim that they were unwilling accomplices. But the evidence rarely bears this out."
"The Ripper Crew," I say.
Dr. Child smiles at me. "Excellent example. And a relatively recent one."
I was referring to the so-called Chicago Rippers of the 1980s. A psycho named Robin Gecht led a team of three other like-minded men. By the time they were caught, seventeen women or more had been raped, beaten, tortured, and strangled. Gecht's crew severed one or both breasts off their victims, which they used later for sexual purposes and . . . dining purposes.
"Gecht never personally killed anyone, did he?" I ask.
"No, he did not. But he was the driving force behind it all. Very charismatic man."
"Similar," I muse. "But not the same."
Dr. Child cocks his head, interested. "Explain."
"It's just a sense of him that I get. Sure, Jack Jr. is the dominant. He's calling the shots. But in most cases of team killings, there's an interpersonal relationship between the killers. They give each other something. They may be twisted, but they're a team. Jack sacrificed Barnes, and it was all to get to me and confuse us." I shake my head. "I think the followers are a calculated means to an end. I don't think he needs them, emotionally, for his fantasy."
Dr. Child steeples his fingers, considering this. He sighs. "Well, that would fit with his dual victimology."
"You mean his other victim type being us."
"Yes. It certainly makes him more dangerous. He's a 'man with a plan' as they say. Mr. Barnes--and any others--would in that scenario be pawns. Plastic pieces to move on a chessboard. Not the worst news, but not the best either. Less emotional involvement means less chance of him tripping himself up."
Great, I think.
"How would he go about finding potential teammates?" I ask. "In your opinion."
"Obviously, the Internet has provided him with both anonymity and access." Dr. Child looks almost wistful. "It's the continuing irony: worldchanging inventions, they can do great things or be used for great harm. On one hand, the Internet has broken down political boundaries. E-mails came out of Russia before the Iron Curtain fell. People from different places in the world can communicate in a heartbeat. Americans and Eskimos can find out that they aren't really so different from one another. On the other hand, it has provided an environment nearly free of constraint for the Jack Jr.'s of this world. Rape Web sites, pedophilia, sites devoted to displaying photographic grotesqueries such as execution victims or the bloody results of car crashes." He looks at me. "So, to answer your question, and based on the evidence he's provided thus far
, he would look for converts by rooting around in the less-desirable areas of the Internet, specifically in areas where he could first observe. He'd need to be able to do nothing, in the beginning, but watch. He'd look for certain proclivities. Like all manipulators, he'd find key talking points, those things to ingratiate himself, to be authoritative about. However"--and he leans forward as he says this--"he would have to meet them face-to-face. Simple e-mail or chat rooms would not be sufficient. For various reasons. One would be simple security. It's far too easy to pretend an online identity. Our Jack is a risk taker, but he prepares before taking those risks. He'd want to ensure that the person he was talking to really was who and what they claimed to be."
"Why else?" I ask.
"Foremost is the proverbial two-way street. Those he was speaking to would be just as concerned about the truth of his identity. Most relevant, however, is that I simply do not think it's plausible for him to make them act on their fantasies without personal interaction on his part. No. If I were him, I would take my time, look around, and make my list. Next, I would verify their identity in some way. Then I would initiate online contact. This would be followed by face-to-face meetings. From there, you can pick your method of will-bending. Perhaps it begins on a small scale.
'Let's go peeping on a sorority house. Let's beat up a prostitute, but not kill her. Now let's murder a cat, and be sure to look into its eyes as it dies.'
By building slowly, he would break down whatever flimsy morality they may have thrown up to regulate their behavior, to make them feel human. Once you've put one foot into hell, why not two? After all, and let's not forget: To them, hell feels like heaven itself."
"How long would something like that take? Conditioning a person, making them cross that line?"
He looks at me. "You're asking me how many other proteges could he have created, yes?"
"Basically."
Dr. Child spreads his hands. "That is an unknown. It depends on too many factors. How long has he been doing this? What pool does he draw from? If, for example, he were to choose recently paroled rapists to contact and mold . . . well, the jump from rape to murder is a short leap indeed."
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