“Where are those studies?” Felder asked eagerly.
“Long gone. But in gratitude, my sister gave him a lock of my hair in return. Gifts of such locks were very common then. I recall the artist putting the snippet of hair into a small envelope and pasting it to the inside of his portfolio cover.”
She paused. “The name of the artist was Alexander Wintour. If you could find his portfolio, perhaps the lock might still be inside. It’s a long shot, I admit. But if you did, and the portfolio hadn’t been disturbed, a simple DNA test would prove what I say: that I am almost a century and a half old.”
“Yes,” Felder murmured, shaking his head. “Yes, it would.” He wrote down the artist’s name on the back of the picture, folded it up, and slipped it back into his wallet. “Thank you again for seeing me, Constance.” He stood up.
“Certainly, Doctor.”
He shook her hand and exited the library. For the first time in days, he felt a spring in his step, a feeling of renewed vigor in his limbs.
And then, on the front steps of Mount Mercy, he paused again.
Why was Constance doing this? She had always seemed supremely indifferent as to whether people believed her or not. Something had changed.
But what? And why?
13
D’AGOSTA CHECKED HIS CELL PHONE, SAW THAT IT WAS sixty seconds before one o’clock. If what he’d heard about Special Agent Conrad Gibbs was true, the man would be arriving on the dot.
D’Agosta felt uneasy. Most of his previous experience with the FBI had been through Pendergast, and he realized this was probably worse than no preparation at all. Pendergast’s methods, operation, and mentality were alien if not hostile to standard FBI culture.
He gave a once-over to the coffee from Starbucks and the dozen doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, laid out on the little sitting area in his office, and then a final glance at his watch.
“Lieutenant D’Agosta?”
And there he was, standing in the door. D’Agosta rose with a smile. His first impression was good. True, Special Agent Gibbs was a product of the mold: buttoned down and by the book, handsome, chiseled, an off-the-rack suit covering his trim physique, his brown hair cut close, his thin lips and narrow face tanned from his past assignment in the Florida Panhandle—D’Agosta had gone out of his way to check up. At the same time, he had an open, pleasant look about him, and the humorless demeanor was far better than a wiseass or better-than-thou attitude.
They shook hands and D’Agosta found Gibbs’s grasp firm, not crushing, brief and to the point. He walked around his desk and led the agent to the sitting area, where they both sat down.
They opened with some pleasant chitchat about the weather and the differences between New York and Florida. D’Agosta asked about the agent’s last case, which he had concluded with great success—a run-of-the-mill serial killer who scattered the pieces of his victims in the dunes. Gibbs was soft-spoken and clearly intelligent. D’Agosta appreciated the former quality a great deal. Aside from making him easier to work with, it would go a long way with his squad—although, to be sure, most of his squad members were loudmouthed in the typical New York sort of way.
The only problem was, as Gibbs went on about his case, he was starting to sound suspiciously long-winded. And he wasn’t eating anything… while D’Agosta was just about dying for a Caramel Kreme Crunch.
“As you probably know, Lieutenant,” Gibbs was saying, “down in Quantico we maintain a comprehensive database of serial killers as part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. We define a serial killer as follows: a perpetrator who targets strangers, who has killed three or more people, for motives of psychological gratification, usually with a consistent or evolving signature in each killing.”
D’Agosta nodded sagely.
“In this case we only have two killings, so it doesn’t meet the definition—yet. But I think we all agree there’s a high probability of more to come.”
“Absolutely.”
Gibbs removed a slender folder from his briefcase. “When we first heard from Captain Singleton yesterday morning, we did a quick-and-dirty run-through on our database.”
D’Agosta leaned forward. Now things were getting interesting.
“We wanted to find out if there were any other serial killers who left pieces of their own body at the scene, who had the right M.O., et cetera.” He laid the folder on the coffee table. “Granted, these are preliminary findings, but we can keep this between ourselves. I’ll summarize, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“We have an organized killer here. Very organized. He is educated, has money, and is comfortable in luxury surroundings. The dismemberment M.O. is not as uncommon as you might think—dozens of serials fit that profile—but usually such killers take away body parts. This one doesn’t. In fact, he leaves his own body parts at the scene—something completely unique.”
“Interesting,” said D’Agosta. “Any thoughts on that?”
“The head of our forensic psychology unit is working that angle. He believes the killer identifies with the victim. He’s essentially killing himself serially. He is someone full of self-loathing who was almost certainly abused sexually and psychologically as a child, told he was no good, better off dead or not born, that sort of thing.”
“That makes sense.”
“The aggressor appears normal on the surface. Since he has no inhibitions and will say anything to get what he wants, and very convincingly, he can be charming and even charismatic. Underneath, however, he is a deeply pathological individual, utterly lacking in empathy.”
“Why does he kill?”
“That’s the crux of the matter: he almost certainly has libidinous gratification.”
“Libidinous? But no semen was found and there doesn’t seem to be a sexual component. And his second victim was an older man.”
“Correct. Let me explain something. Our database is built on what we call aggregates and correlations. What I’m telling you about this killer is based on a high degree of correlation with dozens of others with a similar profile and M.O. It’s also based on interviews with over two thousand serial killers who answered questions about why and how they did what they did. It’s not infallible, but it’s pretty damn close. Everything points to this killer getting a sexual charge out of what he’s doing.”
Still doubtful, D’Agosta nodded anyway.
“To continue: The crimes had a sexual gratification component. That gratification comes from sexual excitement generated by two things: a feeling of control and power over the victim, and the presence of blood. The sex of the victim is less important. The lack of the presence of semen may only mean the killer did not climax or did so clothed. The latter is common.”
D’Agosta shifted in his chair. That doughnut wasn’t looking quite so appetizing now.
“Another commonality is that this type of serial homicide involves a large ritual component. The killer receives gratification from killing in the same way, in the same sequence, using the same knife, and inflicting the same mutilation to the corpse.”
D’Agosta nodded again.
“He has a job. Probably a good one. This type of killer only operates in an environment he knows well, and so we may find that he is either an ex-employee or, more likely, a former guest of both hotels.”
“We’re already running the guest lists and employee lists against each other, and against a description of the perp.”
“Excellent.” Gibbs took a deep breath. He certainly was a talker, but D’Agosta wasn’t about to stop him. “His expertise with a knife is high, which means he may use one in his profession or simply be a knife aficionado. He has a lot of self-confidence. He’s arrogant. This is another prime characteristic of this type of killer. He thinks nothing of being caught on security videos; he taunts the police and believes he can control the investigation. Hence the messages left behind.”
“I was wondering about those messages—if you had any specific th
eories, I mean.”
“As I said, they are taunting.”
“Any idea who they’re directed at?”
A smile spread over Gibbs’s face. “They aren’t directed at anyone in particular.”
“Happy Birthday? You don’t think that was directed at anyone?”
“No. This type of serial killer mocks the police, but doesn’t as a rule single out individual investigators, particularly in the beginning. We’re all the same to him—the faceless enemy. The birthday is probably generic or might refer to any anniversary—perhaps even that of the perp himself. Something you also might look into.”
“Good idea. But isn’t it possible these messages might be directed at someone who isn’t a cop?”
“Highly unlikely.” Gibbs patted the folder. “There are a few other things in here: the aggressor was probably abandoned by his mother; he lives alone; he has poor relationships with the opposite sex or, if he is homosexual, with his own sex. Finally, something happened very recently that set him off: rejection by a lover, loss of a job, or—this is most likely of all—the death of his mother.”
Gibbs sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.
“That’s your prelim?” D’Agosta asked.
“We’ll refine it considerably as we feed in more information. The database is extremely powerful.” Gibbs looked D’Agosta in the eye. “I have to say, Lieutenant, you certainly have done well bringing us this problem. The BSU is the best in the world at this. I promise, we’ll work closely with you, tread lightly, respect your people, and share everything on a real-time basis.”
D’Agosta nodded. You couldn’t ask for more than that.
After Gibbs had left, D’Agosta sat in the armchair for a long time. As he chewed thoughtfully on the Caramel Kreme Crunch, he thought about what Gibbs had said concerning the killer and his motive. It made sense. Maybe too much sense.
God, he could really use Pendergast right now.
He shook his head, polished off the doughnut, licked his fingers, and with a supreme act of will shut the box.
14
D’AGOSTA BLEW OFF THE DOOR MAN BY FLASHING HIS BADGE and walking right on past the pillbox, not even making eye contact, the man hurrying behind with a “Sir? Sir? Whom are you visiting?” D’Agosta called out Pendergast’s name and apartment number loudly and headed for the interior courtyard.
The elevator operator proved to be a little more stubborn, requiring an overt threat about obstruction of justice before he reluctantly closed the old-fashioned grillwork doors and ascended to Pendergast’s suite of apartments.
D’Agosta had been in the Dakota many times before, and he was usually struck by the scent, a mixture of beeswax polish, old wood, and a faint overlay of leather. Everything about the place was genteel and old-fashioned, from the polished brass of the elevator knobs and trim, to the hushed carpeting, to the lovely travertine walls with their nineteenth-century sconces. He noticed very little of this now. He was sick with worry about Pendergast. For days he’d been waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the pressure cooker to explode. Nothing. And that was probably worse than any explosion.
The doorman had called up, of course, so when D’Agosta pressed the buzzer the intercom came quickly to life.
“Vincent?”
“I need to talk to you. Please.”
A long, long silence.
“On what subject?”
There was a strange quality to Pendergast’s voice that gave D’Agosta the creeps. Maybe it was the electronic rasp of the intercom.
“Could you let me in?”
Another odd pause.
“No, thank you.”
D’Agosta took this in. No, thank you? He sounded bad. He recalled Hayward’s advice and decided to give it a try.
“Look, Pendergast, there’s been a couple of murders. A serial killer. I really need your advice.”
“I’m not interested.”
D’Agosta took a deep breath. “I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I’d like to see you. It’s been a while. We need to talk, catch up, I need to find out what’s been going on, how you’re doing. You’ve had a terrible shock—”
“Pray leave the premises and do not bother me again.”
His voice sounded even more cold, stilted, and formal than usual. D’Agosta waited a moment, and then said gently, “That’s what I’m not going to do. I’m going to stand here, annoying you, until you let me in. I’ll stay here all night, if necessary.”
That finally got through. After a long moment, the locks began turning, one after the other. The door opened slowly, and D’Agosta entered the foyer. Pendergast, dressed in a black dressing gown, had already turned his back and uttered no greeting. D’Agosta followed him into the reception room, the one with the bonsai trees and the wall of water.
Moving listlessly, Pendergast turned and seated himself, folding his hands in front, and raised his head to look at D’Agosta.
D’Agosta froze. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The man’s face was collapsed, gray, his normally silver eyes as dull and heavy as old lead. His clasped hands were shaking, ever so slightly.
He launched in gamely. “Pendergast, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about Helen’s death. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m one hundred percent behind you—however you want to go about nailing the bastards.”
There seemed to be no reaction whatsoever to this.
“We need to get a… ah, death certificate, determination of homicide. We’ll need to exhume the body, go through the legal crap with Mexico. I’m not sure what’s involved, but you can bet we’ll expedite the hell out of it. We will get her a decent burial in the States. And then we’ll launch an investigation hammer and tongs—FBI, of course, they’ll back up one of their own. There’s NYPD involvement, too, and I’ll make damn sure our resources are deployed, big-time. We will get those scumbags, I guarantee it.”
He stopped, breathing heavily. Pendergast’s eyes were lidded; he seemed to have gone to sleep. D’Agosta stared. This was even worse than he thought. As he looked at his old friend and partner, a terrible realization dawned on him, hitting him like a shock of high voltage.
“Jesus Christ. You’re using.”
“Using?” Pendergast murmured.
“On drugs.”
A drawn-out silence.
D’Agosta felt a sudden welling of anger. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. You’re on drugs.”
Pendergast made a small gesture with his hand. “And?”
“And? And?” D’Agosta rose from his chair. He flushed. He had seen so much bullshit, so much death and murder and ridiculously pointless suffering caused by drugs. He hated drugs.
He faced Pendergast. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were smarter than this. Where are they?”
No answer. Just a grimace.
D’Agosta couldn’t stand it. “Where are the drugs?” he asked, his voice louder. When Pendergast didn’t respond, he felt rage take over. He was standing by the bookshelves and pulled a book off a shelf, another. “Where are the drugs?” He knocked one of the bonsais with the back of his hand, sweeping it off its table. “Where are the drugs? I’m not leaving here until I have them. You fucking idiot!”
“Your working-class expletives have lost their charm.”
At least this was a flash of the old Pendergast. D’Agosta stood there, shaking, and realized he had better get a handle on his anger.
“This apartment is very large, and most of the doors are securely locked.”
D’Agosta felt crazy. He struggled to maintain control. “Listen, about Helen. I know what a horrible tragedy—”
At this Pendergast interrupted him, his voice cold. “Do not mention Helen’s name or what happened. Ever again.”
“Right. Okay. I won’t, but you can’t just… I mean…” He shook his head, truly at a loss for words.
“You mentioned you needed help with a murder case. I have told you I’m not interested. Now, if the
re’s nothing else, may I ask you to leave?”
Instead, D’Agosta sat down heavily, put his head in his hands. Maybe the murder investigation would be the thing Pendergast needed to snap him out of this, although he doubted it. He rubbed his face, raised his head. “Let me just tell you about the case—okay?”
“If you must.”
D’Agosta smoothed his hands down over his legs, took a couple of breaths. “Have you been following the papers?”
“No.”
“I have a summary of the case here.” D’Agosta removed the three-page brief he had printed out earlier and handed it to Pendergast. The agent took it and scanned it perfunctorily, his eyes dull, unresponsive. But he didn’t hand it back right away; he continued looking at it, flipping the pages. Then, after a moment, he started from the beginning and began reading again, this time more closely.
When he looked up, D’Agosta thought he caught a gleam of something in the agent’s eyes. But, no—it was his imagination.
“Um, I thought the case was sort of up your alley. We’ve got this special agent from the BSU assigned. A fellow named Gibbs. Conrad Gibbs. You know him?”
Pendergast slowly shook his head.
“He’s got a lot of theories. All very pat. But this case… well, it seemed custom-made for you. I’ve got a binder here with the preliminary crime-scene analysis, lab reports, autopsy, forensics, DNA—the works.” He slipped it out of his briefcase and held it up, questioningly. When there was no response, he laid it down on a table.
“Can I count on your help? Even if it’s just an informal opinion?”
“I regret I won’t have time to look through this material before I leave.”
“Leave? Where are you going?”
Pendergast rose, ponderously, his black dressing gown cloaking him like a figure of the grim reaper himself. That gleam D’Agosta imagined he saw had certainly been a figment of his hopes: the eyes were duller than ever.
Pendergast offered D’Agosta his hand. It was as cold as a dead mackerel. But then it unexpectedly tightened and, in a much warmer voice, if strained, Pendergast said: “Good-bye, my dear Vincent.”
Two Graves p-12 Page 12
