I have to admit, I hadn’t thought I’d like working with a partner, but I did. Bouncing ideas off someone who had the same grasp of the field was exciting, almost electric. I felt a tingling run through my body that wasn’t all about serial killers, either. Good thing Patrick wasn’t in any position to make advances. I would’ve melted like a custard. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s the logical conclusion.”
“Despite the age and gender similarity, both girls looked quite different.”
“He can only choose from what’s available.”
“This is Vegas, Patrick. You can find anything you want, and plenty of it. Take a short walk down the Strip and you’ll find a dozen girls who fit any possible physical description. No, he chose these victims because they fit some specific parameter-we just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”
“And as to the killer’s self-perception?”
I pondered a moment. “That’s more difficult.”
“He obviously likes being in control. Exerting power over others.”
“Ye-es…”
“He enjoys inflicting pain on his victims.”
My neck twisted. It would be easier just to agree than to try to explain my reluctance. But as always, I had to go with my feelings. “We don’t know that.”
“Susan, think about what he did to these two girls.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean he enjoyed it.”
“What other possible reason could he have for burying a woman alive? For making someone bleed to death?”
I shrugged. “This may be a rather heterodox theory, but I don’t believe this guy perceives himself as an evildoer. Or even a punisher. He’s communicated with us twice, but there’ve been no jeremiads about whores and harlots. No suggestion of guilt on the part of the victims. I get the sense that he somehow thinks what he’s doing is… honorable. That he’s acting purposefully to accomplish… something.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t imagine. You think our guy has a personality disorder?”
“Duh.”
“Psychopath?”
“Actually, we don’t use that term anymore.”
“Oh, spare me.”
“The currently preferred mental health term is antisocial personality disorder. APD for short.”
“Whatever. You think that’s our guy?”
“Not if you’re right that he thinks he’s doing a good thing. That would be more like… I don’t know. Schizoid personality disorder.”
“Or a narcissist.”
Patrick batted a finger against his lips. “That’s not bad. Delusions of grandeur. Belief that he’s special and his actions can’t be comprehended by ordinary people. Feeling of divine entitlement.”
“If I’m right, what does it tell us?”
“That he needs constant admiration. That he won’t hesitate to take advantage of others in order to achieve his plan, whatever it is. That he will be indifferent to or unaware of the needs or feelings of others. Basically, the world is his stage, and the rest of us are just props at his disposal.”
“How does that help us catch him?”
“Well, he’ll be seeking attention. Praise, even.”
“He’s going to try to contact us, isn’t he?”
“Almost certainly. He already has, with those coded notes that were bound to lead us to the Poe connection. But he’ll do more. He’ll talk to us.”
“Good. That would help me understand him, what he wants. Empathize.”
“With a serial killer? Is that a good idea?”
I stood up and stretched, wondering whom I’d have to sleep with to get a fresh cup of coffee. “ ‘Is that a good idea?’ hasn’t really been the touchstone question of my life.”
We were well on our way to a solid and surprisingly useful profile when we were interrupted by O’Bannon’s secretary, Madeline. She looked put out, probably because she’d had to walk across the station to deliver the message herself-Granger hadn’t given me a phone.
“O’Bannon wants to see you. Right now.”
As if she thought I might keep the man waiting for an hour or so. Maybe stroll down to the pub and have a few drinks first. Whatever-I didn’t have to look at the woman to see that she had it in for me. So I obediently pushed myself off the Naugahyde and headed for O’Bannon’s office. I was almost there when I was accosted by an attractive middle-aged woman with large red spectacles and a neatly tailored suit. I didn’t have to look at the label to know it hadn’t come off the rack. And I didn’t need an introduction to know who she was.
“Are you Susan Pulaski?” she asked.
Moments like this, one has to wonder about the wisdom of the saying “Honesty is the best policy.” “I am.”
“I’m Fara Spencer. The mother of Annabel Spencer. She was-”
“I know who she was,” I said, sparing her the explanation. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, but that really isn’t good enough. I want to catch the bastard who did this.”
“We all do, ma’am.”
“That’s what I keep hearing, but as far as I can tell, no one is doing anything.”
“I can assure you-”
“I have some serious complaints about the way this investigation is being handled.”
I tried to edge past her, but she wasn’t budging. “Any complaints should be directed to Lieutenant Granger. It’s his case.”
“My understanding is that he’s essentially a supervisor. All my sources tell me that in a case such as this, a proper psychological analysis is critical to catching the killer. And that’s your department, right?”
“I’m also working with-”
“So let me be blunt, Ms. Pulaski. Do you think you’re up to this?”
Every joint in my body stiffened. “I’ve been working as a behaviorist for over-”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that you were recently fired and have not been reinstated. I know about your personal problems. As well as the… addiction that led to your hospitalization.”
“You’re terribly well informed, aren’t you?”
“In my business, it’s essential.”
“Well, in my business, it’s essential to know what the hell you’re talking about. We’re running a first-rate investi-”
“I’ve had recovering alcoholics on my show, Ms. Pulaski, as well as experts in the field of substance abuse. And I know you can’t just square your shoulders and be cured a week after you go into rehab.”
“It was detox, not-”
“Frankly, I’m appalled to think that a critical role in the apprehension of my daughter’s killer has been relegated to someone who only weeks before was suffering paranoid alcohol-infused delusions and behaving in a violent and psychopathic manner.”
“We don’t say psychopathic anymore,” I told her through clenched teeth. “I’m surprised all those experts on your show haven’t told you that.”
“My point, Lieutenant Pulaski, if indeed it is still appropriate to refer to you as a lieutenant, is that you have no business working on this case. I want you to resign so that someone better qualified can take your place.”
All right then, the gloves were off. “Ms. Spencer, this isn’t some daytime TV show dispensing feel-good bullshit to bored housewives. This is reality. And the reality is, I’m good at what I do. You’re not going to find a replacement who does any better.”
“I find that very difficult to believe. Your judgment is clouded.”
“Ma’am, don’t talk to me about clouded judgment. With all due respect, I’m not the one who just lost her only daughter. In every case of this nature we have grieving parents, and they are almost always obstacles, not assistants. We put up with it because we are service-oriented professionals and we realize that dealing with the death of a loved one is difficult.”
“Certainly you’re a testament to that,” she said dryly.
I sucked it in, showing a degree of restraint that surpr
ised even me. “My point is, we’re doing everything we can to catch the killer and we will continue to do so. If you’re not going to help, get the hell out of the way!” I pushed her aside and marched on toward O’Bannon’s office.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” she shouted after me, confirming what I already knew all too well. “I’m not that easily brushed off.”
I entered O’Bannon’s office and slammed the door behind me. He was sitting at his desk, pretending to rifle through some papers, but really just marking time till I arrived.
And to my surprise, Darcy was there, too, sitting in a chair just behind him.
“Hey, Darce,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “How’s my main man?”
He blinked. “Did you know that coffee is the second largest trade commodity in the world market? Americans consume more coffee than the inhabitants of any other nation on earth.”
“It’s my fault. I skew the average.” I turned my attention to the boss. “What’s up, Chief?”
“How are you getting along with the Feeb?”
“Swimmingly.”
“No complaints? On either side?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” I looked at him. “You seem somewhat incredulous.”
“I’m glad to hear you’ve finally learned to play well with other children.”
“So what’s Darcy doing here?”
O’Bannon squirmed slightly. Not physically; he was too savvy for that. But I saw it, just the same. “He… asked to come. He wanted to see you.”
I smiled. “No new developments today, Darce. No more crime scenes.”
“Nonetheless, he… wanted to be involved.”
“Okay by me. But Granger apparently has a problem-”
“I’ll speak to Granger. He’s pissed at me already because of the press conference.”
“We’re doing a press conference? I thought you hated-”
“We don’t have any choice. Do you realize how much attention this case has been getting?”
“I’ve seen the local papers.”
“It’s not just local. It’s everywhere. Only thing worse than a serial killer is a serial killer during a slow news week. I guess it’s to be expected-this case gets weirder and weirder every day. The press has a million questions about the Poe connection. And now we’ve got a beloved television celebrity involved. We’re the lead story on CNN Headline News, for God’s sake.”
“So if the press is all over it already, why hold a conference?”
“We’ve got to do something. Tourism is down dramatically. People are canceling their vacations. I guess no one wants to gamble badly enough to risk being buried alive. Or bled to death.”
“But unless they’re young women-”
“Which is one thing we need to explain. But the main chore will be to convince everyone that we’re working hard and we have substantial leads.”
“We do?”
He ignored me. “I’ve got the Chamber of Commerce breathing down my neck, Susan. The mayor. The hotel commission. We need to put on a dog-and-pony show.”
“Okay. So Granger is traumatized because he has to go before the press?”
O’Bannon’s eyes drifted down to his desk. “Granger isn’t doing it. You are.”
“Me? But he’s-”
“You know as well as I do that once those reporters get going with Granger he’ll come off looking like a doofus. He’s a good cop, but quick wit isn’t his specialty. Besides, what does he have to tell them? The only person who’s come up with anything useful is you.”
“And Darcy. But what if the press hassles me about my recent demotion to consultant status?”
“Tell them it’s none of their damn business. Stick to the case.”
“But-”
“Don’t bother arguing. You’re doing it. Unless you’d like me to terminate that consulting agreement.”
I fell silent.
“Good. The press will assemble at five. So go change your clothes and do something with your hair and get ready. If you want to bring your FBI guy, that’s fine, but I want you to do the talking. We have to impress upon them the fact that the LVPD is in charge and has the investigation under control.”
“Great. Just great.” I checked my watch. “I’d better-”
He held up a finger. “One more thing.” He turned. “Darcy, can you get me some more coffee?” O’Bannon held out his mug. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Darcy tilted his head. “D-D-Did you know that Americans drink over forty million cups of coffee a year?”
“Fascinating. So refill my mug, will ya?”
Darcy left the office. And O’Bannon gave me the harshest look I’d had since I got out of detox. “Don’t hurt him.”
I was totally flummoxed. “What?”
“You heard me. I don’t want my boy hurt.”
“I wouldn’t dream of hurting him. He’s adorable. And I think he loves working on this case.”
“What he loves is-” He stopped, shook his head.
“I’d think you’d be pleased. You know, in his own weird little way, he has a real aptitude for detective work.”
“There is no way in hell Darcy could cut it as a detective. He can’t even carry on a coherent conversation.”
“He might need help in certain areas, but who doesn’t? Lots of people can’t carry on conversations. I don’t know anyone who can do what Darcy does.”
“How could he interview a suspect? How could he organize his thoughts and come up with a theory? Write a report? It’s ridiculous.”
“I think you’re being too hard on him.”
“I didn’t just stroll into his life last week. I think I know a little something about what he can and cannot do.” He muttered something under his breath. “Look, you can take him around to the crime scenes. Let him talk to the techies. Fine. But I don’t want him hurt. Are we clear?”
I stood quietly at attention. “Yes, sir.”
The door opened again and Darcy entered. “Here’s your coffee, Dad.”
O’Bannon took a deep drag, then winced. “What the hell is this? This isn’t-”
“I got you decaf. Because caffeine is not good for you.”
“Decaf?”
“In controlled studies conducted at Stanford University, caffeine and caffeine withdrawal were linked to headaches, nosebleeds, stomach disorders, irritability, impotence…”
O’Bannon pressed a hand against his forehead. “One more thing to remember about this press conference, Susan. Your psycho killer may be watching.”
“Almost a certainty,” I said. “So I’ll be careful not to make him feel challenged, offended, maligned. No telling what he might do if that happened.”
He was disturbed.
He had done everything according to plan. He had sacrificed the offerings. He had followed the directions in the prophet’s work. But the Golden Age had not come. Ginny had not been returned to him.
Was it possible he was wrong?
It must simply be delayed. A transformation of this magnitude cannot come about overnight. This would give him more time to get the word out. The media coverage had exceeded his most fevered imaginings. It seemed he was everywhere, or his work was-on newspapers and magazines, on the television, on street corners and newsstands and even the giant electronic billboard on the MGM Grand. A condign response to actions of this boldness, of this import. His great commission had been to spread the good news, to tell those who would hear of the coming of Dream-Land. He’d become a sensation.
Such success could only presage greatness. Such acceptance could only validate the rightness of his path. With this degree of exposure, he could be assured that any receptive ears would hear the message. Not everyone would understand it, of course. Some would write it off as just another news story. Another pathetic wretch trying to get his fifteen minutes. But the enlightened would see more. The prophet had known his message would not be heard by everyone: To the few who love me and whom I love-To those who fee
l rather than to those who think-To the dreamers and those who put their faith in dreams as the only realities-I offer this Book of Truths…
On the television, a popular talk show host was interviewing an English professor about how Poe’s dark and nihilistic visions might inspire an unbalanced personality. The professor appeared delighted to be consulted. Not surprising, in this age in which colleges push professors to become media consultants as much as they push them to publish. An expert in American literature probably receives few calls from the six o’clock news.
“Tell me the truth,” the host said, leaning forward in her swiveling chair. “This Poe stuff is mostly for kids, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” the man replied, straightening the cuff on his tweed jacket. “Poe was an important figure in American literature-indeed, in world literature. He invented, or at least defined, the modern short story as a literary form. He invented detective fiction, wrote the first true science fiction story. He invented symbolist poetry and the New Criticism, which would be fully realized only half a century later, during the Modernist era. He may not be America’s greatest writer, but I would be hard pressed to identify one whose contributions were more widespread. Poe had a huge impact on many great writers. Oscar Wilde. Jules Verne. Thomas Pynchon. Nabokov. Poe has fallen out of favor with my academic colleagues at this time, who tend to favor Faulkner as the chief figure in American literature. But Poe’s influence has been vastly greater.”
“But Dr. Watson… Poe may have been a good writer, but wasn’t he kind of a freak?”
“Much of the Poe persona as we know it today was the creation of his literary executor, Rufus Griswold, who was jealous of Poe’s work and sought to destroy his reputation. He began this stereotype of Poe as a dark, cruel, nasty, abusive alcoholic. In fact, most accounts from contemporaries who knew Poe describe him as charming, witty, intelligent, generous, courteous, even chivalric. Women adored him; toward the end of his life he was seeing several wealthy socialites at once. He had lived in the North, the South, and even England, but always considered himself a southern gentlemen and behaved accordingly. Except when he was drinking, of course.”
“But those stories he wrote-that’s really twisted stuff. Burying people alive-”
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