“But they all gave you pleasure?”
“Some more than others.”
“Tell me about one that stands out for you. One that you remember in particular. Is there one?”
He nodded. “There’s one that I always think about.”
“More than the others?”
“Yes. It’s been on my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t finish it. Because I never got the chance to enjoy it. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch.”
“That makes it sound trivial.”
“Does it? But over time, even a trivial itch begins to consume your attention. It’s always there, prickling your skin. One form of torture, you know, is to tickle the feet. It may seem like nothing, at first. But then it goes on for days and days without relief. It becomes the cruelest form of torture. I think I’ve mentioned in my letters that I know a thing or two about the history of man’s inhumanity to man. The art of inflicting pain.”
“Yes. You wrote me about your, uh, interest in that subject.”
“Torturers through the ages have always known that the subtlest of discomforts, over time, become quite intolerable.”
“And has this itch you mentioned become intolerable?”
“It keeps me up at night. Thoughts of what might have been. The pleasure I was denied. All my life I’ve been meticulous about finishing what I start. So this disturbs me. I think about it all the time. The images keep playing back in my head.”
“Describe them. What you see, what you feel.”
“I see her. She is different, not like the others at all.”
“How so?”
“She hates me.”
“The others didn’t?”
“The others were naked and afraid. Conquered. But this one is still fighting me. I feel it when I touch her. Her skin is electric with rage, even though she knows I’ve defeated her.” He leaned forward, as though about to share his most intimate thoughts. His gaze was no longer on O’Donnell but on the camera, as though he could see through the lens and stare directly at Rizzoli. “I feel her anger,” he said. “I absorb her rage, just by touching her skin. It’s like white heat. Something liquid and dangerous. Pure energy. I’ve never felt so powerful. I want to feel that way again.”
“Does it arouse you?”
“Yes. I think about her neck. Very slender. She has a nice, white neck.”
“What else do you think about?”
“I think about taking off her clothes. About how firm her breasts are. And her belly. A nice, flat belly …”
“So your fantasies about Dr. Cordell—they’re sexual?”
He paused. Blinked, as though shaken from a trance. “Dr. Cordell?”
“That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it? The victim you never killed, Catherine Cordell.”
“Oh. I think of her, too. But she’s not the one I’m talking about.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The other one.” He stared at the camera with a look of such intensity that Rizzoli could feel its heat. “The policewoman.”
“You mean the one who found you? That’s the woman you fantasize about?”
“Yes. Her name is Jane Rizzoli.”
eighteen
Dean stood up and pressed STOP on the VCR. The screen went blank. Warren Hoyt’s last words seemed to hang like a perpetual echo in the silence. In his fantasies, she had been stripped of her clothing and her dignity, reduced to naked body parts. Neck and breasts and belly. She wondered if that was how Dean now saw her, if the erotic visions that Hoyt had conjured were now imprinted in Dean’s mind as well.
He turned to look at her. She had never found his face easy to read, but in that instant the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.
“You understand, don’t you?” he said. “You were meant to see this tape. He laid a path of bread crumbs for you to follow. The envelope with O’Donnell’s return address led to O’Donnell herself. To his letters, to this videotape. He knew you’d see it all, eventually.”
She stared at the blank TV. “He’s talking to me.”
“Exactly. He’s using O’Donnell as his medium. When Hoyt talks to her, in this interview, he’s really talking to you. Telling you his fantasies. Using them to scare you, humiliate you. Listen to what he says.” Dean rewound the tape.
Once again, Hoyt’s face appeared on the screen. “It keeps me up at night. Thoughts of what might have been. The pleasure I was denied. All my life I’ve been meticulous about finishing what I start. So this disturbs me. I think about it all the time.…”
Dean pressed STOP and looked at her. “How does that make you feel? Knowing you’re always on his mind?”
“You know damn well how it makes me feel.”
“So does he. That’s why he wanted you to hear it.” Dean pressed FAST FORWARD and then PLAY.
Hoyt’s eyes were eerily focused on the audience he couldn’t see. “I think about taking off her clothes. About how firm her breasts are. And her belly. A nice, flat belly …”
Again Dean hit STOP. His gaze made her flush.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want to know how that makes me feel.”
“Exposed?”
“Yes.”
“Vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
“Violated.”
She swallowed and looked away. Said, softly: “Yes.”
“All the things he wants you to feel. You told me he’s attracted to damaged women. To women who’ve been violated. And that’s precisely the way he’s making you feel now. With mere words on a videotape. Just like a victim.”
Her gaze shot back to his. “No,” she said. “Not a victim. Do you want to know what I’m really feeling right now?”
“What?”
“I’m ready to tear that son of a bitch into shreds.” It was an answer launched on pure bravado, the words punched into the air. It took him aback, and he just frowned at her for a moment. Did he see how hard she was working to keep up the front? Had he heard the false note in her voice?
She forged ahead, not giving him the chance to see past her bluff. “You’re saying he knew, even then, that I’d eventually see this? That the tape was meant for me.”
“Didn’t it sound that way to you?”
“It sounded like any sicko’s fantasy.”
“Not just any sicko. And not just any victim. He’s talking about you, Jane. Talking about what he’d like to do to you.”
Alarms crackled through her nerve endings. Dean was turning it personal again, aiming it like an arrow straight at her. Did he enjoy seeing her squirm? Did this serve any purpose except to heighten her fears?
“At the time this was recorded, he already had his escape planned,” said Dean. “Remember, he was the one who contacted O’Donnell. He knew she’d talk to him. She couldn’t resist the offer. She was an open microphone, recording everything he said, everything he wanted people to hear. You, in particular. Then he set loose a logical sequence of events, leading right to this moment, with you watching that videotape.”
“Is anyone that brilliant?”
“Isn’t Warren Hoyt?” he asked. It was another arrow launched to pierce her defenses. To drive home the obvious.
“He’s spent a year behind bars. He had a year to nurse his fantasies,” said Dean. “And they were all about you.”
“No, it was Catherine Cordell he wanted. It’s always been Cordell—”
“That’s not what he told O’Donnell.”
“Then he was lying.”
“Why?”
“To get at me. To rattle me—”
“Then you do agree. This tape was meant to end up in your hands. It’s a message directed at you.”
She stared at the blank TV. The ghost of Hoyt’s face still seemed to be staring at her. Everything he’d done was aimed at rattling her universe, destroying her peace of mind. It’s what he’d done to Cordell before he’d moved in for the kill. He wanted his victi
ms terrified, broken down by exhaustion, and he harvested his prey only after they’d been thoroughly ripened by fear. She had no denials left to offer, no defense against the obvious.
Dean sat down and faced her across the table. “I think you should withdraw from this investigation,” he said quietly.
Startled, she stared at him. “Withdraw?”
“It’s become personal.”
“Between me and a perp, it’s always personal.”
“Not to this degree. He wants you on this case, so he can play his little games. Insinuate himself into every aspect of your life. As lead detective, you’re visible and accessible. Fully immersed in the hunt. And now he’s starting to stage the crime scenes for your benefit. To communicate with you.”
“All the more reason for me to stay on.”
“No. All the more reason for you to walk away. To put some distance between you and Hoyt.”
“I never walk away from anything, Agent Dean,” she shot back.
After a pause, he said dryly: “No. I can’t imagine you ever do.”
She was the one leaning forward now, in an attitude of confrontation. “What’s your problem with me, anyway? You’ve had it in for me from the start. You talked to Marquette behind my back. You raised doubts about me—”
“I never questioned your competence.”
“Then what is your problem with me?”
He responded to her anger in a voice that was calm and reasoned. “Consider who we’re dealing with. A man you once tracked down. A man who blames you for his capture. He’s still thinking about what he’d like to do to you. And you’ve spent the same year trying to forget what he did. He’s hungry for a second act, Jane. He’s laying the foundation, drawing you right in where he wants you. It’s not a safe place to be.”
“Is it really my safety you’re concerned about?”
“Are you implying I have another agenda?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t figured you out yet.”
He stood and went to the VCR. Ejected the tape and slid it back in the envelope. He was stalling for time, trying to come up with a believable answer.
He sat down again and looked at her. “The truth is,” he said, “I haven’t figured you out, either.”
She laughed. “Me? What you see is what you get.”
“All you’ll let me see is the cop. What about Jane Rizzoli, the woman?”
“They’re one and the same.”
“You know that’s not true. You just won’t let anyone see past the badge.”
“What am I supposed to let them see? That I’m missing that precious Y chromosome? My badge is the only thing I want them to see.”
He leaned forward, his face close enough to invade her personal space. “This is about your vulnerability as a target. It’s about a perp who already knows how to twist the screws on you. A man who’s managed to get within striking distance. And you never even knew he was there.”
“Next time I will know.”
“Will you?”
They stared at each other, their faces as close as two lovers. The dart of sexual desire that shot through her was so sudden and unexpected it felt like both pain and pleasure at once. Abruptly she pulled back, her face hot, and even though her gaze met his from a safer distance, she still felt exposed. She was not good at hiding her emotions, and she’d always felt hopelessly inadequate when it came to flirting or engaging in all the other small dishonesties that play out between men and women. She strove to keep her expression unchanged but found she could not keep looking at him without feeling transparent to his gaze.
“You do understand there’ll be a next time,” he said. “It’s not just Hoyt now. There are two of them. If that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, it should.”
She looked down at the envelope containing the videotape, which Hoyt had meant her to see. The game was just beginning, advantage Hoyt, and yes, she was scared.
In silence she gathered up her papers.
“Jane?”
“I heard everything you said.”
“It doesn’t make a difference to you. Does it?”
She looked at him. “You know what? A bus could hit me when I cross the street outside. Or I could keel over at my desk from a stroke. But I don’t think about those things. I can’t let them take over. I almost did, you know. The nightmares—they just about wore me down. But now I’ve got my second wind. Or maybe I’ve just gone numb and I can’t feel anything anymore. So the best I can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep on marching. That’s how to get through this, just keep on marching. That’s all any of us can do.”
She was almost relieved when her beeper went off. It gave her a reason to break eye contact, to look down at the digital readout on her pager. She felt him watching her as she crossed to the conference room phone and dialed.
“Hair and Fiber. Volchko,” a voice answered.
“Rizzoli. You paged.”
“It’s about those green nylon fibers. The ones lifted from Gail Yeager’s skin. We found identical fibers on Karenna Ghent’s skin as well.”
“So he’s using the same fabric to wrap all his victims. No surprises there.”
“Oh, but I do have one little surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I know which fabric he used.”
Erin pointed to the microscope. “The slides are all ready for you. Take a look.”
Rizzoli and Dean sat down facing each other, eyes pressed to the microscope’s double teaching head. Through the lenses, they saw the same view: two strands, laid side by side for comparison.
“The fiber on the left was lifted from Gail Yeager. The one on the right from Karenna Ghent,” said Erin. “What do you think?”
“They look identical,” said Rizzoli.
“They are. They’re both DuPont nylon type six, six, drab green. The filaments are thirty-denier, extremely fine.” Erin reached into a folder and took out two graphs, which she laid on the countertop. “And here’s the ATR spectra again. Number one is from Yeager, number two from Ghent.” She glanced at Dean. “You’re familiar with Attenuated Total Reflection techniques, Agent Dean?”
“It’s an infrared mode, isn’t it?”
“Right. We use it to distinguish surface treatments from the fiber itself. To detect any chemicals that have been applied to the fabric after weaving.”
“And were there any?”
“Yes, a silicone rub. Last week, Detective Rizzoli and I went over the possible reasons for such a surface treatment. We didn’t know what this fabric was designed for. What we did know was that these fibers are heat-and light-resistant. And that the threads are so fine that, if woven together, they’d be watertight.”
“We thought it might be a tent or a tarp,” said Rizzoli.
“And what would the silicone add?” asked Dean.
“Antistatic properties,” said Erin. “Some tear and water resistance. Plus, it turns out, it reduces the porosity of this fabric to almost zero. In other words, even air can’t pass through it.” Erin looked at Rizzoli. “Any guesses what it is?”
“You said you already know the answer.”
“Well, I had a little help. From the Connecticut State Police Lab.” Erin placed a third graph on the countertop. “They faxed that to me this afternoon. It’s an ATR spectrograph of fibers from a homicide case in rural Connecticut. The fibers were lifted from the suspect’s gloves and fleece jacket. Compare it to Karenna Ghent’s fibers.”
Rizzoli’s gaze flew back and forth between the graphs. “The spectra match. The fibers are identical.”
“Right. Only the color’s different. The fibers from our two cases are drab green. The fibers from the Connecticut homicide came in two different colors. Some were neon orange; others were a bright lime green.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sounds pretty gaudy, right? But aside from the color, the Connecticut fibers match ours. DuPont nylon type six, six. Thirty-denier fila
ments, finished with a silicone rub.”
“Tell us about the Connecticut case,” said Dean.
“A skydiving accident. The victim’s chute failed to open properly. Only when these orange and lime-green fibers turned up on the suspect’s clothing did it turn into a homicide investigation.”
Rizzoli stared at the ATR spectra. “It’s a parachute.”
“Exactly. The suspect in the Connecticut homicide tampered with the victim’s chute the night before. This ATR is characteristic for parachute fabric. It’s tear-resistant, water-resistant. Easily packed away and stored between uses. That’s what your unsub is using to wrap his victims.”
Rizzoli looked up at her. “A parachute,” she said. “It makes the perfect shroud.”
nineteen
Papers were everywhere, file folders lying open on the conference table, crime scene photos layered like glossy shingles. Pens scratched on yellow legal pads. Although this was the age of computers—and there were a few laptops powered up, screens glowing—when information is spilling fast and furious, cops still reach for the comfort of paper. Rizzoli had left her own laptop back at her desk, preferring to jot down notes in her dark, assertive scrawl. The page was a tangle of words and looping arrows and little boxes emphasizing significant details. But there was order to the mess, and security in the permanence of ink. She flipped to a fresh page, trying to focus her attention on Dr. Zucker’s whispery voice. Trying not to be distracted by the presence of Gabriel Dean, who sat right next to her, taking his own notes, but in far neater script. Her gaze wandered to his hand, thick veins standing out on his skin as he gripped the pen, the cuff of his shirt peeking out white and crisp from the sleeve of his gray jacket. He’d walked into the meeting after she had and had chosen to sit beside her. Did that mean anything? No, Rizzoli. It only means there was an empty chair next to you. It was a waste of time, a diversion, to be caught up in such thoughts. She felt scattered, her attention fracturing in different directions, even her notes starting to wander in a skewed line across the page. There were five other men in the room, but it was only Dean who held her attention. She knew his scent now and could pick it out, cool and clean, from the room’s olfactory symphony of aftershave scents. Rizzoli, who never wore perfume, was surrounded by men who did.
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