Thief of Souls

by Ann Benson

  So it fit, pretty nicely—there was just that one little problem of skin color.

  The mother expressed shock and outrage at my telephone request that her older son submit to questioning in the matter.

  Not him, she told me. He’s such a good, good boy, more like a father than a brother. They have their problems, but they love each other, I know they do.

  I had no choice but to insist. The mother eventually acquiesced and said she would bring him to the station. I wanted to go out and talk to him at the family home, but she was adamant that she bring him to me.

  They got there pretty quickly, and the sergeant put them in an interview room for me. When I walked in, I stood there for a moment and just stared at them like a complete idiot. So much for all my diversity training.

  Both the mother and the older brother were white.

  It was like a pole vault—an epiphany. The appearance of the victims was roughly the same in all but one of the missing boys, but it wasn’t the only determiner in the perp’s selection process—I was absolutely sure of it. It was the skin color of the supposed abductors that matched.

  Just to make it look good, I asked a number of relevant questions. They answered everything straight out, no hesitation, no shifty eyes, none of the classic signs that they were lying or withholding something important. When I asked the older brother if he’d be willing to take a polygraph test to verify his testimony, he didn’t even flinch, just said yes right away. I thought his mother was going to smack him.

  The last question I asked was the only one that mattered to me at that point.

  “Were there any special events that you and your brother attended in the last couple of years?”

  Both the mother and the brother looked completely bewildered. I know they wanted to hear questions that were relevant to the search for their lost kid. But the brother answered.

  “A couple of ball games, a concert, that dinosaur thing at the Tar Pits Museum . . .”

  In view of how they’d been investigated previously, there was no reason on earth why any of these people should be expected to answer more questions about where they’d been with their missing kids. I’d already spoken with most of them, ostensibly to bring myself up to speed on their individual cases, but in this round the questions would be more pointed. It took some world-class convincing and a good deal of apologizing, most of it for things I hadn’t done myself. Imagine how humiliating and degrading it would be to go through something like that, to be suspected, nearly accused, of harming someone you loved, and then have the accuser say, Never mind, we didn’t really mean it. Why hordes of lawyers hadn’t descended on the LAPD in the aftermath of these initial investigations is unfathomable. The trauma of their experiences would stay with these people for a long time, and I had to be achingly careful that none of them thought they were under suspicion again.

  I reassured everyone that the information would help me determine if some new theories about their kids’ disappearances were workable, and this explanation was generally accepted. But they were all a little confused about the questions—what special events did you and your missing child attend? It would have been too leading to ask the question outright—did you and your kid attend the beasts exhibit? It needed to come out without being dragged out.

  In every case, they mentioned the museum. I spoke to all of them over the course of three or four days, and I came away with a new conclusion: Most of these people were of early middle age, had heights between five eight and five eleven (including the three women), were of average or below average weight, and all were Caucasian.

  It was a rough physical description of my suspect.

  I needed a Doc fix, but on neutral territory. Being in his office made me feel like a student, and I didn’t want to feel that way with him. The PD was always chaotic, so I asked him to suggest a place where we could meet. We ended up at the Santa Monica Pier, for a hot-dog lunch.

  The seagulls were as loud as ever, but the noise didn’t bother me. I love the pier, with all its activity and energy. The place can be lousy with bad guys sometimes—bad girls too, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. But in the mid-afternoon it was heaven. It was a place that my kids loved to visit, especially Evan, one of our special spots.

  “All of the failed suspects are roughly the same height, average of five nine to five ten, and they’re all on the thin side. So I’m assuming my suspect is like that too, since those qualities are pretty hard to fake.”

  “What about the facial appearance?”

  I thought about the poster, with its black slit where the eyes ought to be. My mental image of the suspect had a bigger, darker hole where the face was supposed to be. “I don’t have a clue what the guy’s face looks like.”

  “So what did you want to get from me on this?”

  “I want to talk about the psychological attributes again, if you don’t mind beating it with a stick. I finally found one thing that all the missing kids and failed suspects have in common. They all went to a certain exhibit at the La Brea Tar Pits Museum—”

  “The one with the animals?”

  “Yeah. It went on for a long time and a whole slew of people went through there. So I have to check out all the people who worked there during that period or were associated with that particular exhibit, including the employees of some of the contractors who provided services.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Yeah. It is. I’d like to separate out a reasonable number of suspects from among hundreds, and I need all the help I can get.”

  “You’re pretty sure this is where he finds his victims?”

  “At this point it’s still wishful thinking. Truth is, it seems kind of far-fetched to me, but it’s the only common thread.”

  “Well, if it is someone who works at the museum or is associated with it, then you probably have an organized killer on your hands.”

  That already seemed obvious. “Well, the pickups don’t seem to be spontaneous . . .”

  “True, that’s one determiner, but there are some subtle qualities that are worth reiterating. Organized killers are generally rather quiet people who live in a fantasy world that is highly developed, as opposed to the disorganized, random guys who are much more impulsive in their fantasies and their acts. Your organized deviant will plan his act down to the last detail as a form of fantasy and then go out and, you’ll forgive the word, execute that fantasy. The disorganized guy will have untethered fantasies and be triggered by something exterior to go out and pick up a kid. What they do to that kid won’t necessarily coordinate with the fantasy that prompted the grab, except in a general way.”

  “When you say quiet, what do you mean? If you’re doing something like this, you have to be bold, I’d think. Bold and quiet seem sort of contradictory.”

  “It does require a certain kind of bravery, I’ll give you that. But you could also call that quality compulsiveness. You probably won’t see it on the exterior—few of the people who commit sexual crimes against children are so outwardly distorted that we would recognize them as such. You hear talk all the time of seeing it in their eyes, usually after the fact, but the truth is that if you put a suit and tie on one of these guys, he would blend in nicely on a commuter train. That runs contrary to the image that comes to mind; most of us immediately envision a Manson-type character—although Manson was actually more a spree killer than a serial killer—wild hair, unkempt clothing, crazy eyes, a discernible psychopathy to warn us away. In most of these cases the book’s cover belies its contents; most of the men who commit serial murder or serial pedophilia exist inside external packages that are alarmingly normal. John Wayne Gacy is a perfect example of a guy who looked really good on the outside. He was a successful building contractor with a thriving business during the time when he committed his crimes. As his own boss, he had the freedom to take time away from work to attend to his compulsion, and the money to make it easier for himself. We could go right down the list of the most fam
ous killers in history and find lots of normalcy, even some exceptionally attractive figures. What distinguishes these men from everyone else is far more internal than external.”

  A block or so down the pier, a workman tossed a bag of trash into an open Dumpster. The seagulls came screaming down in a swoop of wings. They attacked the top of the bag with their beaks; a few flew off with tidbits. The rest duked it out over the Dumpster.

  “Survival of the fittest, I guess.”

  “It’s a strong urge.” Errol tossed a broken seashell onto the sand below the pier. “There’s an anthropologist named Lyall Watson who theorizes that behaviors we consider to be evil often have real survival value, in genetic terms. He explains it in the context of Darwinian evolution, that the disruption of order in the world—specifically in population—contributes to the rise in evil deeds we’ve seen in the last couple of centuries. And that the reason serial killers are primarily men is that they are in competition to pass on their genetic material. Eliminate rivals, your genes have a better chance.”

  “Sounds a little far-fetched to me.”

  “His theories go a long way toward explaining why some people do the crazy things they do when there are no other obvious reasons. I have to admit I don’t get a lot of it, and this is something I get paid to do.”

  “Well, I’m up a creek then.”

  “Maybe not. You’re a very smart woman. But I might be able to save you a little bit of time. It’s unlikely that he’s an actual employee of the museum.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s highly unusual for an organized killer to soil his own nest.”

  “Gacy buried all his victims in his basement. Dahmer put them in his freezer.”

  “But, believe it or not, those are more exceptions than rules. They really put themselves at risk of being caught, and both were caught, because of that. An employee of the museum would put himself at immediate risk by picking his victims there. I would concentrate on people with outside associations instead. The contractors. The service people. And another thing too—the way these crimes are being done, it requires some resources.”

  “I know, I’ve been thinking about that. He has to get ready somewhere, has to be able to take these kids somewhere pretty remote . . .”

  “And it costs money. He’s doing disguises, acquiring vehicles, creating all these illusions. This guy has either been saving up for this big bang for a long time, or he’s rich.”

  “The museum talked about one of the donors. Said the guy partially financed the security system because he wasn’t happy with the one that was in place originally.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Wilbur Durand.”

  Doc’s jaw dropped neatly. “The special-effects guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” he said. “I’ll be damned.”

  Before I had a chance to ask him what he meant by that, my pager went off. The vibration at my belt line startled me. “Hold that thought,” I said as I called in.

  He would have to hold it for a while. We had a body.

  seventeen

  The summer weather remained beautiful, as we had all hoped it would, and by virtue of this good fortune the apples and cherries began to form in great abundance. Frère Demien was strutting as pridefully as a rooster, while at the same time clucking like a protective mother hen over his pampered trees swollen with fruit. We did not see each other as much during this chaotic time as I would have liked; he was busy in the orchard and gardens, or so I told myself. But I came to believe eventually that even he was avoiding me at times because he did not wish to have his fine, light mood tainted by my ever-increasing darkness. He was as good and kind a friend to me as ever, but I could not help but notice the distance that had grown between us.

  By the end of July, the harvest was assured, barring the wrath of God in weather. Now it was time to watch and wait in all things, the matter of Gilles de Rais included. Waiting is abhorrent to me; all who know me understand this. His Eminence had wisely left me alone during the time between Milord’s departure from Josselin and the first official move against him. Though we spent as much time together as ever, most of it pleasant, our intimate conversations contained no mention of Gilles de Rais.

  In keeping myself occupied, I drove the young sisters to new heights of cleanliness, as if to mimic Sister Claire’s success in Bourgneuf. My bishop found me one afternoon in the courtyard engaged in a rare moment of leisure. Before me was a piece of fine linen stretched against a wood frame. I had sketched a floral spray on the woven fabric, which I was now embroidering in colorful silk threads. The late-afternoon summer light was perfect for this engrossing activity, one to which I often turned in times of trouble for the comfort it gave. My pleasure in it must have been quite obvious, for the Bishop commented on my absorption when he came upon me, almost apologetically.

  “I had thought to invite you to sup with me,” he said with a smile, “but you seem so taken by your work. . . . There is capon. Your favorite.”

  “You need not entice me,” I told him. I secured my needle in the fabric and rose up from my chair.

  The robes of the clergyman were upon him, but he behaved as the gallant diplomat he often was by offering his arm. The blush that rose up on my cheeks was maddening, but I was powerless to stop it. I put my hand upon him, and together we walked through the courtyard of the episcopal palace to his private dining room, wordless all the way.

  Capon and carp and steamed onions—my palate was well-contented. But of course I understood there was a reason for this occasion.

  “I have been ordered to prosecute him,” the Bishop finally said, “initially for his assault on Jean le Ferron. As that charge progresses, we will gather more evidence in support of a charge of murder.” He hesitated, as if it would soften the hard words that followed.

  “And there will be an Inquisition.”

  I sat back and contemplated for a moment the things that had come to pass. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut to ward off the swirling dark images that marched through my soul like an army of invaders. I had not dared tell anyone, but it was this onslaught of lunatic visions, ever increasing in their frequency and potency, that turned me into the dark brooding crone my young brother Demien seemed to want to shun. Were I to tell, they would shut me away, assured at last that I was no longer sane! Always it was the same: a dark and faceless monster, fully armored and wielding a bloody sword. He would ride in on a beast I could not name with his sword drawn high and charge forward to snatch an infant from my arms, carrying it off by the nape of the neck like a bird of prey. He would toss the infant into the air and, with one mighty swoop of the sword, lop off its head as it fell back to earth again.

  I knew who it was behind that iron mask. But how could he so viciously slay that infant, who must have been himself?

  I could barely whisper. “Can it not be avoided?”

  Jean de Malestroit’s hand came across the table. When our fingers interlocked, he said, “Even Christ could not avoid the cup that His Father presented to Him.”

  “What will happen now?”

  From somewhere below the table, the Bishop produced a folio of parchments and handed them to me.

  “This is a draft of what will be copied and published.”

  It was written in his own hand. He had been un avocat, after all, before he became a clergyman. Before me was the carefully crafted opening charge of the assault that would eventually bring Gilles de Rais to his knees. I had been offered the opportunity to read it before the requirement to make it public was fulfilled.

  A bittersweet honor, indeed.

  To those who may see the present letters, we, Jean, by divine permission and the grace of the Holy Apostolic See, Bishop of Nantes, give blessing in the name of Our Lord and require you to notice these present letters.

  Let it be known by these letters that on visiting the parish of Saint-Marie in Nantes, wherein Gilles de Rais, mentioned below, often resides in the house c
ommonly called La Suze and is a parishioner of the said church, and on visiting other church parishes, also mentioned below, frequent and public rumor first reached us, then complaints and declarations by good and discreet people.

  The list that followed was long and painful to read, for I had met some of these people myself in the course of bringing this to light: Agathe, wife of Denis de Lemion; the widow of Regnaud Donete; Jeanne, widow of Guibelet Delit; Jean Hubert and his wife; Marthe, widow of Yvon Kerguen; Jeanne, wife of Jean Darel; Tiphaine, wife of Eonnet le Charpentier. All were parishioners of churches in the areas surrounding properties owned or formerly owned by Gilles de Rais; the churches were listed alongside the names of the witnesses.

  We, visiting these same churches according to our office, have had the witnesses diligently examined and by their depositions have learned, among other things of which we have become certain, that the nobleman Milord Gilles de Rais, knight, lord and baron of the said place, our subject and under our jurisdiction, with certain accomplices, did cut the throats of, kill, and odiously massacre many young and innocent boys, that he did practice with these children unnatural lust and the vice of sodomy, often calls upon or causes others to practice the dreadful invocation of demons, did sacrifice to and make pacts with the latter and did perpetrate other enormous crimes within the limits of our jurisdiction; and we have learned by the investigations of our commissioners and procurators that the said Gilles had committed and perpetrated the abovementioned crimes and other debaucheries in our diocese as well as in several diverse outlying locations.

  On the subject of which offenses, the said Gilles de Rais was and is still defamed among serious and honorable persons. In order to dispel any doubts in the matter, we have prescribed the present letters and put our seal upon them.

  Given in Nantes, July 29, 1440 by mandate of the Lord Bishop of Nantes.

  “When will it be delivered to Milord?”