by Tim Stevens
“Some say two or more killings by the same person in the space of thirty days or more, others three killings. Three is I believe a safer definition, because it reduces the element of coincidence. These killings are usually carried out in a similar manner. Usually, but not exclusively. So, for example, there may be different MOs employed each time. This of course makes identifying a pattern far harder, and you’ll see that there may be far more serial killers out there than we’re aware of, if some of them are carrying out their murders in such a different way each time that nobody’s spotted a link yet.”
He changed the slide. A bullet-point list of facts came up.
“A lot of lay people believe the typical serial killer is a white male. This is in fact wrong. The majority of them who’ve been identified are, yes, white males, especially here in the United States. But it’s estimated that up to twenty per cent may be African Americans. Similarly, approximately one-quarter are female.”
Venn thought: Fincher was picked up by a woman.
As if he’d read Venn’s thoughts, Teller said, “Serial killers usually work alone, but they’ve been known to team up. The Hillside Stranglers in Los Angeles in the 1970s... they were a couple of guys who’d help one another out. Team working simultaneously makes our job more difficult and a little easier. The killings may be more complex when there are two people involved, and the elimination of clues such as DNA samples is more easily achieved when you’ve got two or more people working. On the other hand, the more people there are involved, the more likely it is one of them’s going to slip up and leave some trace behind.” He glanced at Venn. “You may be thinking that our guy, Fincher, got picked up by a woman, who then lured him into a trap where he was killed by an accomplice, a man. It might otherwise seem implausible that a young, fit soldier could be killed so efficiently by a woman. Yes, this is of course one possibility we need to consider.”
He resumed his short, choppy pacing, after clicking over to another slide. “As far as the typical psychological profile of a serial killer goes, I’ll provide you with some detailed literature you can read at you leisure. But the basics are these. The killer is in most cases of average or even slightly below average intelligence, though some are brainy. There are five principal motivations for serial murder, each one associated with a slightly different personality type. In this case, we can probably eliminate a couple of motivations. I say this with caution, because it’s early days and we really don’t know quite what we’re dealing with here. But basically, this is looking not like a frenzied attack, but rather a cold and clinical slaying which suggests some factor at work other than bloodlust.”
“How did the other two killing get picked up?” Venn said. “The two men who were murdered with the same MO?”
Teller raised his eyebrows. “Damn good work on the part of the NYPD,” he said. “As soon as the local cops who caught the Fincher killing saw the sigma symbol, they recognised it as some kind of possible ritualistic feature and hit the databases, looking for something similar. The first murder, the Barnaby O’Farrell guy, was thought at the time to be the result of a home invasion by druggies. There was evidence of forced entry, the victim had put up a fight, and the whole thing was generally messier than our case. The killing took place out in the Bronx, and the dead man, O’Farrell, was divorced and living on his own, with no close family. It sounds like the local cops investigated it fairly thoroughly, but didn’t think the sigma clue amounted to much, and assumed it was some kind of gang thing. So the case went cold.
“The next one, the homeless guy in the alley, almost got missed. Only when the cops who picked up the Fincher killing ran ‘sigma’ specifically though the databases did they make the connection. The victim still hasn’t been identified. He was in the end stages of severe alcoholism, a real down-and-out, and needless to say his death wasn’t treated as a priority case. But two, and now three murders with a similar MO... it was enough for us, the FBI, to become involved.”
”They sound like practice killings,” said Venn. “The first two. Leading up to this one.”
Rickenbacker answered: “It’s a possibility, yes. I’ll agree it looks that way. But here’s the thing. Sometimes the first killing or two in a sequence is deliberately made to look like the killer’s warming up, honing their technique. That’s intended to muddy the waters, to confuse the cops. In such cases, later killings have no more significance than the early ones. They’re just meant to look that way.”
Teller clicked onto a new slide. Venn wondered why he was bothering. He was clearly in command of his audience, and they didn’t need the distraction of dense text on a screen. The slide was another page from the monograph on serial killers, this time listing demographic features of the assorted victims in various historical cases.
“So,” said Teller. “We’ve spent the day examining the three victims. Three that we know of, by the way. There may be others who haven’t been discovered yet. All three of them are male, aged thirty and above. All three are, or were, white. And that’s about all they have in common. There’s no link as regards social class. Barnaby O’Farrell was blue collar, a ticket clerk for the New York subway. The John Doe we of course know nothing about, but we can assume his background was a humble one. Dale Fincher, on the other hand, is from affluent Connecticut stock. His mom’s a judge, as we know. His father died when Dale was four years old, but he was an Army major, a West Point graduate. There’s nothing obvious that these three men had in common with each other.”
“And we need to be careful not to attribute too much significance to their gender, race, or age,” said Rickenbacker. “That may be coincidence, too.”
“What about location?” said Venn. “All within the New York City bounds.”
The two FBI agents looked at him.
“I mean, that may be confining your thinking, too,” said Venn. “Have you started looking outside New York? There may be other victims elsewhere.”
“Yeah,” said Rickenbacker abruptly. “We have, in fact, run the details through our national databases. But there’s no comparable MO in the recent past, nobody else who’s been killed in the same way, with the same symbol branded on their foreheads. But thanks for the suggestion.”
Beside Venn, he felt Harmony shift angrily. He wondered at Rickenbacker’s sarcasm. He tipped his head, said nothing.
Teller continued: “So far, the press hasn’t gotten hold of this. Either the fact that Fincher is the Judge’s son, or that there’s a serial killer angle. When they do, of course, it’ll be a feeding frenzy here in Manhattan. And we won’t be able to keep it under wraps for too much longer. We need to move fast on this one, and hard, before the media attention starts getting in the way. And before any nut job decides to start carrying out copycat killings. Doesn’t happen very often, thank God, but still.”
Venn glance at the others, who looked mildly back. He wanted to ask a question, but knew he couldn’t. Just what do we bring to the party?
Instead, he decided on an active approach. “Okay. I assume you have a plan of action. So before I hear what it is, let me tell you how I’d approach this. Bearing in mind that I’m not a federal agent, and that I don’t have experience in dealing with serial killers.”
Teller folded his arms. “Go ahead.”
Venn said: “First, I’d talk to the judge. Find out if she can give us anything about her son. She’s smart, she’ll have been thinking it through, even if she is overcome with grief. If there’s anything about her son, anything that might give a clue as to how he might have become a victim, she’ll know.”
Teller nodded. “Okay.”
“Next, talk to his Army buddies, and to his seniors at Fort Irvington. Find out what kind of a guy he was. See if he ever dropped any hints about fetishistic behavior. I’m not saying there’ll be anything, but it’s possible he was a willing participant in something, up to a point. Allowed himself to be tethered to the bed, which would explain why there’s no signs he was forcibly subdued.”
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“That’d be a tough one,” said Teller. “Seeing if any of his peers knew about his quirks. It’s the kind of thing he’d keep under wraps in the Army. He wouldn’t want something like that to screw up his career.”
“Nevertheless,” said Venn. “It needs exploring.” He paused. “Since I’ve been brought in on this, I should talk to the Judge.”
“A meeting’s already been arranged,” said Teller. “She’s out of state, but will be in New York tomorrow morning. Taking an emergency flight. And yes, Lieutenant, you’ll be in on the interview. With me.”
Fair enough, thought Venn.
Rickenbacker spoke up. “For now, I’d suggest you and your partner get to know our team. Familiarize yourselves with the way we work, and with the data we’ve gathered already. There’s probably not a lot else you can contribute tonight.”
And if that isn’t dismissing us, I don’t know what is, thought Venn.
He stood up. “No,” he said.
Harmony rose beside him, an instant later.
Rickenbacker and Teller stared at them.
“Excuse me?” said Rickenbacker.
“These aren’t terms I’m prepared to work under.” He jerked his head at Harmony and they headed for the door.
“Just a minute,” said Teller. “What do you mean?”
Venn half turned. “This kind of command approach,” he said. “It isn’t going to fly.”
Teller regarded him for a moment, then indicated the chair Venn had just vacated. His tone was reasonable. “How about you explain?”
Venn stayed put, didn’t sit back down. “I’ve – we’ve – been called in because of our special expertise at this kind of thing. Crimes with political connections. We’re also here as the representatives of the New York Police Department, to ensure that this killing remains under the auspices of the local force and doesn’t become exclusively a Federal deal. So, if we’re here, we’re going to have an equal say.”
Rickenbacker made a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding,” she said.
Venn looked straight at her, giving her the thousand-yard stare he’d honed on the streets of Chicago and in the Marines. She didn’t falter.
Venn said, holding her gaze: “We work with you, but not for you. I have my own offices, and I’ll be based there, together with Detective Jones here and the rest of my team. You carry on here. We’re not part of the task force, we’re allied to you. All information gets shared, both ways. Nothing’s held back.”
Rickenbacker started to say, “Hold on,” but Teller held up a hand.
Venn went on, “No command structure. You’re in charge here, Special Agent Teller, and I’m in charge on my side. But we’re both in charge of the investigation. Neither of us pulls rank on the other, because the term doesn’t apply. I don’t care if you’re Feds. I don’t care if God himself has appointed you. This is my city, not yours. My jurisdiction.”
Was there a trace of amusement in Teller’s eyes? Venn thought he saw it there, fleetingly.
In Rickenbacker’s, on the other hand, a cold fury burned.
“All right. All right.” Teller held up his spread hands in a placatory gesture. “You’ve made your point. I can work with that.” He glanced at Rickenbacker. It wasn’t a look that seemed to be seeking her approval. Rather, Venn observed, it was the look of a superior making sure his subordinates understood what was what.
Rickenbacker didn’t return Teller’s glance. She kept her eyes on Venn, with an occasional flick toward Harmony beside him.
Teller said, “At least stick around for a while, as we said. Get to know us, and take a look at some of the data we’ve put together so far.”
Venn nodded. There was a lifting of the atmosphere in the room, an easing of tension that was as palpable as a sigh.
*
He reached home a half hour before midnight, after dropping Harmony back at the morgue to collect her own car.
Home was a townhouse west of Central Park. It had a complicated history for Venn. He’d bought it a couple of years ago with Beth, and they’d lived there together until late last summer. Then she’d moved out, for complex reasons, and so had Venn, renting an apartment in Brooklyn.
But now he and Beth were back together again, and because they hadn’t yet managed to sell the house, Venn was back living there. Beth, on the other hand, continued to rent an apartment, this one in the East Village. She’d made it clear she wanted to move back in, but they were taking it slowly. So she visited, three or four nights a week, and stayed over. Except visiting was an odd term, because she jointly owned the house.
Venn saw from the lights on through the upstairs windows that Beth was there. He let himself in, didn’t call out in case she’d nodded off. But she was awake, lying in bed, her eyes sleepy but welcoming.
“Hey,” he said, marveling once again at the rush of delight he felt whenever he saw her. Whenever he grasped that she was back with him, that he hadn’t lost her forever.
“What time do you call this?” she murmured, with a smile. He saw she’d been reading by the light of the bedside lamp: one of the medical journals she always seemed to have her nose buried in.
Venn slung his jacket over the back of a chair and kicked off his boots. He perched on the bed beside her, reached out his hand. She took it.
“New case,” he said. “Looks complicated.”
Beth propped herself up on the pillows. “Tell me about it.”
Her movement dislodged the counterpane. She was wearing a negligee made of something that looked like gauzy silk. Venn’s eyes dropped, then quickly went back up to her face.
“Jeez,” he said. “Talk about distraction.”
He did tell her about the case. Eventually.
Chapter 5
Sally-Jo opened the door of her apartment and knew, without doubt, that Frank was there.
She didn’t see him, didn’t hear his movements. But she could feel his presence all the same, immediately.
Her apartment was small, a garret more suited to a starving artist type, which she wasn’t. Located in an achingly trendy street, it had been going for a surprisingly low rent when she’d been scouring the ads in the Village Voice, and she’d been thrilled to discover that she was the first person to call the landlord about it. He’d been an amiable Italian man and seemed to like her at once.
That was four months ago. She’d been there ever since, and it suited her just fine.
She dropped her purse on the coffee table in the small living room and hung her overcoat behind the door. The central heating had kicked in several hours earlier and the place had a snug, toasty feel. She’d have liked a grate with a fire, but she supposed in an apartment of this size it was too much to ask. Maybe, one day when she bought her own place...
Her arms ached, and there was a stiffness in her neck she hadn’t been able to ease away while at work. If anything it had gotten worse as the day progressed. The aches and stiffness were new to her, and she’d need to remember to do some regular exercises to limber up.
The clock on the wall told her it was five after midnight. Which meant twenty-one hours had passed since she’d killed Dale Fincher.
All day, at work and in the coffee shop she went to at lunchtime, and in the subway home, she’d burned. Burned with the conviction that what she’d done was written all over her, tattooed on every inch of exposed skin like a bizarre kind of public confession. How could the man who stepped aside for her on the steps of the subway station not smell the guilt on her? How could the couple of middle-aged evangelists who approached her on Broadway to ask if she’d given her soul to the Lord not feel the sin radiating off her?
But she’d been through this before. Had learned to handle the crushing weight of fear, the dread of imminent discovery, and to accept that it was a normal part of the process. If she held her composure, it would float on past, and before long it would be gone. And sure enough, by the middle of the evening, she felt more
able to relax, as if the tension of the day had uncoiled itself like a snake and slipped away.
Usually, after a long day at work, Sally-Jo would pour herself a drink and curl up on the second-hand couch in front of the TV for a few minutes, not watching anything, sometimes with the tube switched off, just listening to the stillness of the apartment and the distant night sounds of the city around and below her. Today, though, she went into the apartment’s single bedroom.
Frank was there. He watched her, saying nothing.
She smiled.
Sally-Jo slipped off her coat and trousers and hung them carefully on their hangers, leaving them out of the closet to air overnight. She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop, then stepped out of her underwear.
Naked, she stood before the full-length Venetian mirror propped against one wall. She’d gotten the mirror at the thrift sale in Hell’s Kitchen, and it suited her purposes perfectly. It was just long enough for her to be able to observe herself fully.
She stood, rapt, gazing at herself.
Perfection. The work rose unbidden in her mind, as she knew it would.
She pivoted this way and that, eyeing as much of herself as she was able. Not a flaw in sight. Not a bulge or a sag or a jiggle as she moved.
A temple. And she treated it just like one.
Frank said, “You can’t stop now.”
“I know.” She couldn’t take her eyes off her body in the glass.
“Even though you might want to.”
“It’s not whether I want to or not,” she murmured. “Want has nothing to do with it.”
He was suddenly close, his presence forceful and immediate, his voice at her ear. “Choose more wisely next time.”
She said nothing.
“This time, you erred. You thought he’d understand, but he didn’t.”
