by P J Parrish
Louis turned. “I’m calling Mrs. Tatum.”
They watched silently from the corridor, staring into the dimly lit cell. Levon had asked that the overhead light in his cell be turned out and at first Wainwright had objected. Louis had turned it off anyway.
Roberta had made them wait for Bledsoe before questioning Levon, and he now stood next to Louis in the corridor, his eyes wide as he watched Levon.
Roberta was the only one Levon had allowed into the cell. She stood facing him, shoulders straight, hands clasped in front of her.
“Levon,” she said, “it’s Berta.”
He emerged from the shadows of the lower bunk, planting his feet on the concrete floor. He sat hunched and frightened, his bald head shiny in the thin light.
“Levon,” Roberta said again.
He lifted his face to hers. Louis thought he could see the dried streaks of tears on his cheeks, but wasn’t sure.
“Why did you come here?” Roberta asked. “Why did you turn yourself in?”
“I’m guilty, Berta. You know I am.”
“Guilty of what?” she asked.
“Walter’s dead. Walter’s dead. I’m guilty.”
“Did you kill Walter?” Roberta asked.
Levon hung his shoulders, his long arms almost reaching the floor. “I must’ve.”
Bledsoe nudged Louis. “He’s crazy,” he whispered. “No chair. Slam dunk.”
Louis shot him a look to silence him. He looked back at Roberta.
She was leaning over Levon now. “Don’t say that if you didn’t do it, Levon. You either did or you didn’t.”
She took his chin and forced him to look up at her. “Tell me what happened to Walter,” she said firmly.
“I killed him. I beat him with these,” Levon said, holding up both fists. “I beat him with these. I’m sorry, Berta. I’m so sorry.”
Louis could see Roberta’s body go rigid and he thought about intervening, but he waited.
“Why?” Roberta whispered.
Levon whimpered, choking on his words. “He was mean, Berta, mean.”
She smacked him lightly above the ear. “Tell me the truth. Can’t you for once tell the truth?”
Levon recoiled, grabbing his head. “Stop it. Stop it! I’m telling the truth. I killed Walter. I killed him. I know I did it. I just don’t remember.”
Louis let out a long sigh, glancing at Emily. She was watching intently, but was no longer writing in her notebook. Louis looked back at Roberta and caught her eye, motioning her toward the bars.
“Ask him about the others.”
“Not so fast,” Bledsoe said. “He confesses to the others, you’ll fry his ass.”
Emily pressed forward. “I don’t think he knows about the others, Mr. Bledsoe. He won’t be able to tell us anything.”
Roberta eyed them hard, then glanced at Wainwright, standing by the edge of the cell, near the wall.
“You don’t know Levon,” Roberta said softly. “He’s a confessing fool. All his life, always taking the blame. For me. For our daddy. For damn near everything. What makes you think this will be different?”
“Because we’ll know if he’s lying,” Emily said.
Roberta moved away and walked back to Levon. “What about the others?” she asked.
“What others?”
“The others!” Roberta said loudly. “That man from Ohio and the homeless man! What about them?”
Levon’s eyes took on a confused, empty look. “Did I kill them?” he asked.
Louis came forward. “Why did you paint them, Levon?”
Levon’s vacant eyes shifted to Louis. “Paint? Paint what?”
Louis glanced at Roberta. “They were painted,” he said softly.
“Painted?” she said.
“I’ll explain later,” Louis said. “If Levon did it, he would have known about it.”
Roberta’s shoulders slumped slightly with relief and she moved to her brother. She pulled his head to her belly, and held his neck. Louis could hear his muffled whimpers.
Wainwright turned away. “What a crock of shit,” he muttered, moving past them. He shoved open the door to the office.
Louis and Farentino followed. Bledsoe stayed with Roberta. When Louis and Farentino went into Wainwright’s office, he was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall.
“He seemed confused,” Emily said.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Wainwright said. “It could all be a put-on. He’s a damn good actor when he wants to be. Believe me. Last time I had him in this jail, one minute he was making sense, the next he was tearing the toilet off the wall.”
“He’s disturbed,” Emily said. “I’d like to find out more about his illness.”
“It’s not an illness, Agent, his brain is scrambled,” Wainwright said. “And you know what makes this really tragic? He’ll never see the chair or even a jail for these murders.”
“Mentally ill people don’t belong in the chair, Chief,” Farentino said sharply.
“I suppose you think we should study them like goddamn rats in a lab?”
“In a hospital.”
“He confessed,” Wainwright said firmly.
“I’d hardly call it a confession,” Farentino said.
“He’s guilty, I know the man. He’s capable of extreme violence.”
“I’m not saying he’s not. I just don’t think he’s our killer.”
“Our killer? Jesus . . .” Wainwright let out a low laugh.
Louis stepped forward. “Enough!”
They both stared at him.
“Listen to you, both of you,” Louis said. “We have a suspect in there. Let’s deal with him. And each other, for Christ’s sake.”
Wainwright was still staring at Louis. “Do you agree with her?” he asked.
Louis hesitated. “Everyone is a suspect until cleared,” he said. “Levon needs to be examined and—”
“Take a stand, Kincaid,” Emily said firmly.
Louis looked Wainwright in the eye. “I don’t think Levon’s the killer.”
Wainwright drew back, just a step. His eyes moved from Louis to Emily with a sudden coolness Louis could almost feel on his skin.
“We still hold him on the other charges—resisting arrest and evading,” Wainwright said in a tight whisper. “Is that okay with you, Agent, or do you want to send him home to Mommy?”
“Lock him up for the rest of his life, if you want. It’s not going to make him guilty of these murders,” Emily said.
Wainwright shook his head slowly. “I need some air,” he said.
Louis waited until he had gone through the door before he turned to Emily.
“Why did you have to make it confrontational?” he said.
“What do you mean?” Emily said.
“We’ve got Levon. You could evaluate him, we could investigate Van Slate and anyone else. Why do you have to push so hard?”
“Someone has to,” she said.
“Get off his back, Farentino,” Louis said.
“He’s in over his head,” she snapped. She started toward the conference room. “Maybe you are, too.”
Louis spun away in anger.
Damn her. Damn Wainwright. Damn Levon for not being the goddamn killer.
He drew in a breath, hands on hips. Shit, this was falling apart. Mobley was going to get the case by default if they kept this up. He went quickly into the conference room. Emily was sorting through some files.
“Hey, Farentino,” he called.
She looked up. “What?”
“Truce. Come to the Dodies’ for dinner. That’s where I’m staying,” he said. “Dan’s coming. The Dodies would like to meet you.”
She stared at him. “I . . . I’m not good at parties—”
“It’s just us, Farentino,” Louis said. “Just cops.”
Her small shoulders rose and fell. She looked out toward the outer office, shook her head slowly, and looked back at Louis.
“I’ll bring t
he wine,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-five
Emily’s glass of Chianti sat untouched on the patio table. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Wainwright was prone in a lounge chair, his beer on his belly, eyes closed.
Louis glanced back at Farentino, watching her from behind sunglasses that he would soon need to remove. The sun was setting behind her, casting her in a soft, orange light, turning her red hair copper.
The three of them had barely said a word in the last half hour.
Louis had not told Wainwright that Emily was coming, and when she had shown up—a half hour late—Wainwright simply cracked open his second beer and headed to the patio. Louis knew Wainwright was pissed that he had invited her. This patio had become their sanctuary, their platform for discussing the gruesome aspects of their case. Outsiders weren’t allowed in, although Louis and Wainwright had given Dodie a sort of special dispensation. But women weren’t welcome. Even Margaret understood that.
The small talk had died quickly. After that, Margaret had lured Dodie inside to help with dinner. Wainwright had downed his beer too quickly and retreated to the lounge. Louis wondered how in the hell they were going to get through dinner, let alone any productive discussion of the case.
Emily looked at him suddenly and he knew he had been caught staring at her. There was this strange look in her eyes, this plea for some kind of communication, some kind of acknowledgment that she was here.
Louis took off the glasses and stood up. “Refill, Farentino?”
She shook her head, her eyes flitting to the comatose Wainwright and then back out to the canal. Louis could hear Dodie and Margaret. They were arguing about something, trying hard to keep their voices low. But not low enough that Louis didn’t hear Emily’s name . . . and his own. To his horror, he realized that Margaret was talking about how he should ask Emily out.
He glanced at Emily and knew she had heard it.
“Margaret thinks I’m lonely,” he said.
“I gather,” she said with a small smile.
He was glad when she let it go at that.
After a moment, she reached down and dragged forward her huge briefcase.
“I have something to show you,” she said, pulling out some manila folders. “It’s why I was late.”
She tossed the stack on the table between them with a thunk.
“I spent the day going through VI-CAP,” she said. “He’s killed before.”
Louis stared at the folders, then slowly came forward and picked up the top one. “Where?” he said.
“I found three other cases, similar MOs. All unsolved.”
Louis was scanning the first file, a report out of the Ocean County, New Jersey, Sheriff’s Department. A black man, shotgun wound, beaten, stabbed, and painted. His body was found August twenty-eight of last year.
He picked up another file. The second and third cases were from Broward County, Florida, in November of last year. Both with the same MO, including that the two men were likely killed on Tuesdays.
Louis looked over at Wainwright. His eyes were open.
“There could be more, but this was all I found,” Emily said.
Louis nodded as he read the Jersey file. He knew a little about VI-CAP. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was new, a national system designed to identify serial murderers. The idea behind it was to bring together the fragmented efforts of law enforcement agencies around the country so data could be fed into computers for analysis. The problem was, few police departments and agencies had the equipment and manpower to either input or access the pool of information. Things had gotten even more muddied two years ago when VI-CAP was merged into the FBI’s labyrinthine control.
But Farentino had cut through the red tape. Louis glanced again at Wainwright. He struggled up to a sitting position in the lounge chair and was looking at Emily.
“We have to start talking about patterns,” Emily said.
“The only pattern is the day of week,” Wainwright said.
“There’s got to be more,” Emily said.
“If there was, we’d have seen it,” Wainwright said.
“Maybe you don’t know what to look for,” Emily said.
Louis shot her a glance. She looked away.
Wainwright stared at her for a moment, then slowly hoisted himself out of the chaise. “I need another beer,” he said.
Louis waited until he went inside. “Farentino, he’s got thirty years on you. For God’s sake, show some respect.”
She dropped her gaze, then started sorting through the papers in the briefcase sitting between her knees. “Okay, I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“Tell it to Dan,” Louis said. He went back to reading the file from New Jersey.
She waited a moment, then let out a long sigh. “This isn’t easy, you know,” she said. “Most cops think the stuff I do is voodoo, or that I’m like some weirdo psychic called out to the scene to pick up vibrations from the victim’s shoe or something.” She paused. “This is science and I believe in it. I believe it can help.”
“Tell that to Dan, too,” Louis said.
Wainwright shuffled back out onto the porch, a fresh Budweiser clutched in his hand. He paused, then came over to the table. He picked up one of the files and squinted to read it in the spare light of the Japanese lanterns. Finally, he retreated back to the chaise, taking the file with him. Emily watched him.
“Maybe I should explain how profiling works,” she said, walking over to him.
Wainwright didn’t look up from his reading. With a glance at Louis, Emily cleared her throat.
“The basic principle we work on is that behavior is a reflection of the personality,” she said. “Criminal investigators, like myself, are called in to analyze the data gathered by law enforcement agencies and provide a picture—a profile, if you will—of what the UNSUB or unknown subject is like.”
Wainwright was still reading the file.
“It’s like . . .” Emily paused. “You’re the regular doctor and we’re the specialists, called in to offer advice. We’re usually called in as a last resort.”
Emily and Louis both waited for Wainwright to say something.
When he didn’t, Emily continued. “I know you aren’t comfortable with this, either of you. Cops are used to dealing with facts. Shit, so’s the rest of the bureau.” She paused and ran a hand over her messy curls. “And then, suddenly, here I come, giving you nothing but my feelings.”
Wainwright had put down the file and was looking at her.
“With what I do, I don’t have the luxury of dealing in black and white,” she said. “I’m dealing with human behavior, in all its perverse forms. And believe me, there is nothing black and white about that.”
Wainwright took a long swig of beer and let out a soft belch.
“Maybe I should go through the steps of how this works exactly,” Emily said.
She glanced at Louis. He gave her a small nod.
“First, I evaluate the criminal act itself, the crime scene, police reports, and autopsy protocol. I’ve done that already through the files you sent to the bureau.” She looked at Wainwright. “Then I develop a profile of the offender, with critical characteristics, and offer suggestions.”
“And we take this profile and just go out and magically match it up to some dirtbag,” Wainwright said.
“There’s nothing magical about it,” Emily said quietly.
Wainwright took a drink of his beer. Louis came forward and took the chair next to Emily.
“Go on,” he said.
“Serial murderers tend to have certain common denominators,” Emily said. “They’re usually products of abusive homes, they often torture animals or set fires as children. They have low self-esteem, hate authority, and blame the world for their problems. They crave control and believe by killing, they are calling the shots. They almost always kill strangers and they are almost always the same race as their victims.”
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br /> “But you still don’t think it’s Levon,” Wainwright said.
Emily seemed surprised to hear him ask a question. She shook her head. “I talked to Roberta Tatum some more today, and Levon wasn’t abused. He does, however, exhibit profound self-esteem problems and may be mentally ill.”
Wainwright got up suddenly and headed for the canal, the file in his hand. He went out to stand by the barbecue, staring out at the canal. For a second, Louis was afraid he was going to heave the file into the water.
“What else?” Louis asked, drawing Emily’s attention back.
“Serial killers generally can be divided into two categories—organized and disorganized offenders,” she said. She paused. “You’re sure you want to hear all this?”
Louis nodded, taking a drink of beer.
“Okay,” Emily said. “The organized offender is basically what we know as the sociopath. He’s methodical, smart, socially adept, able to manipulate his victims so they feel comfortable. He carefully selects and stalks his victims from his comfort zone. Often there is a ritual aspect to the murders, usually sexual. The place where he dumps them often has some symbolic importance. He knows police procedure and likes to taunt cops.”
“Ted Bundy,” Louis said.
“Exactly.” Emily reached for her wineglass and took a drink.
“Now the unorganized offender is different,” she said. “He usually has a psychotic disorder of some kind—schizophrenia, personality fragmentation—that creates delusions. These guys are below average intelligence, loners, unmarried, live near the crime scenes. They use a ‘blitz’ style of attack, catching their victims off guard. The crime scene is disorganized. This is the guy neighbors always describe as weird.”
“Son of Sam?” Louis asked.
Emily nodded. She took another drink of her wine. “We also have to look at the MO and the signature.”
“Okay,” Louis said, “the MO is what the killer does to effect the crime. In these cases, the shotgun to the leg, the beatings and stabbings.”
She nodded. “And the signature is a symbol,” she said, “the thing that gives him emotional satisfaction.”
“The black paint,” Louis said.
Emily nodded.
