“You really did read all my articles.”
Arthur smiled. “I always do, Max. You were my best student.”
She laughed. She’d once teased him that he was her personal tutor in all things crazy.
“Adam went to college because it was expected of him. He left his second semester sophomore year. He was quiet and withdrawn—again, pleasant, but not social. He was considered anxious. I could see how living with someone else, in a dorm room setting, would interrupt his balance—his need for rigid order and cleanliness. Outside in the world, he can handle the mess, but in his own domain, he must have perfection. This isn’t a sociopathy—it’s borderline, but being meticulous and hyperclean isn’t necessarily a mental disorder. It’s to what extreme the individual goes, and how it affects his day-to-day functioning in society. And I would argue that Adam doesn’t have this type of sociopathy.”
Max was used to Arthur’s long explanations—he always came to his point—but she was getting antsy. “Arthur, I appreciate the history lesson, but nothing you say points to him killing those five people—and you already said he didn’t kill the Palazzolos.”
“Impatient, dear.”
“Yes, I am,” she admitted.
“Your theory is that Bachman went to see a therapist, possibly self-committing himself,” Arthur said.
“Yes.”
“I think you’re right. Because at home, his mother wouldn’t have seen his fastidious behavior as being odd. His best friend came from a long line of military, and his house was orderly and neat. That’s likely why the two were friends. They connected through order.”
David interrupted for the first time. “If Bachman likes order and rules, why didn’t he follow his friend into the army?”
Arthur smiled as if David was his new favorite student. “I thought the same thing. And the answer comes more from his actions of late than from his past. I would suggest that Bachman likes order, not rules. It’s why he left college for a semester. It’s why he works as a bartender in a club—where there is order to the bottles, the business—but few rules. Drinking in many ways breaks rules, or loosens them. He has his rules, but he doesn’t like other rules.
“Do you know what his father did for a living?”
“He worked for the City of Hartford, like his mother,” Max said.
“He was the city planner. He made rules. He left with his secretary—abandoning Adam and his mother for another woman.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Nor did I, until I saw the original interrogation. It was a flip comment by Adam, but I think telling. His stepfather was a high school vice-principal. Again, someone who makes rules for others to follow.
“The other key point is something that showed as a thread through all your articles and the notes you sent me last night. Bachman had no friends. None, except for the one childhood friend. He didn’t socialize or date. He had no girlfriends in high school or college or here in New York. He kept to himself, he functioned well, but he didn’t do what normal twenty-seven-year-old men do.
“But I’d argue that he did have one person he bonded with. Someone he shared secrets with. Someone who’s stronger and more aggressive, but without the social grace that Adam has. Someone who doesn’t have a regular job and—”
“Time out,” Max said. “You lost me. We know he doesn’t socialize, you agreed with me, then you say he does have a friend?”
Arthur smiled sheepishly. “Let me connect my thoughts. Growing up, Adam had his mother. Then he had his one friend. When his friend abandoned him for the army, Adam went to college but didn’t find anyone to fill that void in his life. But he needs someone. For all his oddities, what he’s been searching for—through college, through work, through how he communicates—is one person who understands him. Not sexual—this is more like a buddy, a kindred spirit. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Adam was asexual. Meaning, he doesn’t like men or women. But he needs a companion.”
“Okay,” Max said. She thought she understood what Arthur was getting at. “He lost his buddy, he wants a replacement.”
“Exactly. And it makes him vulnerable, because he doesn’t have the same moral compass others have. Based on his interrogation and how he spoke to you, he’s a sociopath in that he doesn’t empathize with others. If someone with a stronger personality, with a similar disorder—someone violent—befriended him, Adam would do anything for him. They likely share a fascination with death.”
“Him,” David said. “You’re sure his partner is male.”
“Oh, yes, I’m positive. To Adam, women are weaker, incidental humans.”
“But he killed two men.”
“Because he’s not a sexual killer. I can’t tell you why he picked those particular five victims without digging deeper into their lives and Bachman himself, but it wasn’t based on their gender or their appearance.”
“So his partner is a guy,” Max said.
“Yes, and this male unsub—unknown subject—will have a record, most likely assault or another violent crime. He’s the one who killed the Palazzolos. Probably with his hands, but possibly with a knife where he may have left behind DNA evidence. He’s concerned about that because he’s in the system; Adam Bachman was never concerned because he wasn’t in the system.”
“So if Bachman left evidence on the bodies, there was nothing for law enforcement to match it up with.”
“Exactly.” Arthur helped himself to a water bottle in the minifridge Max had in her bookshelf. “I suspect that the murder of the Palazzolos was Adam’s trigger. He helped his friend clean up—Adam is smart, above average intelligence. He majored in biology. He would know about the properties of sodium hydroxide. He would help his friend, because that’s what friends do. And he wouldn’t think there was anything strange about the request. But I agree with your assessment—he wouldn’t touch the dead bodies. It would repel him. Think of this is a quid pro quo arrangement. Adam helps his friend dispose of his victims; his friend helps Adam dispose of his own victims. It could well be that Adam had homicidal fantasies for years, but his fear of germs kept him from enacting them.”
Arthur’s analysis made sense. She didn’t quite see how he got to that conclusion, however, and by the expression on David’s face, he didn’t see the connection, either.
“You’re skeptical.” Arthur sat down. “Because Adam is smart and organized, his partner has learned to be more careful, but initially, they made mistakes. They were seen together many times before the Palazzolos disappeared, but not often thereafter. They didn’t use phones, but likely had a regularly meeting place.”
“Could he have worked in the bar?”
“Unlikely. The Palazzolos’ killer is antisocial, angry, doesn’t take orders well, and has a problem with authority. If he has a regular job, it would be where he didn’t interact with people, like working in a warehouse or in a stockroom or construction. Possibly skilled labor. I can pretty much guarantee that he was in that bar the Sunday night when the Palazzolos came in.” He frowned. “I’m extrapolating here a bit more than I feel comfortable with. Without the bodies, without knowing how they were killed, I can’t say for certain that the unsub has issues with one or both of his parents, but it’s rare for a killer to target an older couple. My gut, from my experience, suggests it was personal to him and the Palazzolos were stand-ins to satisfy his rage.”
David said, “Your theory sounds plausible, it makes a good story, but why is it a better theory than Max’s? They’re both just educated guesses.”
“Mine is an educated guess born after forty years of experience in criminal psychology and profiling hundreds of killers. I’m not pulling the profile out of my ass, so to speak.” He grinned. “Though, I would certainly need to refine it after meeting Mr. Bachman one-on-one. That recording, Max, tells me a lot. It tells me he’s been studying you.”
“He admitted to watching my show. I’m an open book.”
“Not as much as you think, but to someone
who studies human nature, yes. And because he’s an introvert and distances himself from people, he’s acutely observant. So be careful with him.”
Max asked, “Why would he commit himself in the first place?”
“He recognized he had dark impulses to kill and at first, those impulses disturbed him. He probably had them since puberty—which is when most male serial killers start fantasizing about murder. Because there is no overt sexual component—he likely gets a sexual-like release from watching his victims die, but it’s a chemical reaction of adrenaline and endorphins, not a physical ejaculation—he probably didn’t think he was mentally impaired. But something happened in college that made him question these impulses. I suspect he went into therapy under false pretenses, such as to get help with his OCD, and then he talked about these darker urges—which he would have explained away as dreams. He would never admit to thinking about killing anyone, so he would use benign language, maybe calling them nightmares. He may never have even acted on his impulses, until he met this unsub.
“And that is why he started to kill,” Arthur concluded.
David asked, “We’ve been digging into similar crimes to the Palazzolos and have found squat. If this unknown killer is out there, why hasn’t he killed before? Or since?”
“They weren’t his first, which is why he’s in the system—my guess, again. He may not have killed before, but he’s on record for a minimum of assault and battery. He may have done some time, but if the crime was in his youth it will have been juvenile hall or probation. After Bachman’s arrest, the unsub went into hiding. He’ll certainly kill again, but he may have a longer cooling-off period than his partner.”
“I need you to convince the D.A.,” Max said.
“Maxine, I love you dearly, but you know I won’t do that unless he calls me. I still consult with the FBI and local agencies; I’m not going anywhere I’m not invited. But if you can convince Mr. Milligan to call me, and he’s willing to share the rest of the case files and let me speak with Adam Bachman, then I will of course help.”
Max knew it was fruitless to push Arthur. He was professional, sometimes to a fault, but there was a reason people in law enforcement respected him.
“I’ll talk to Richard,” she said. It was certainly worth a shot. “Thank you, Arthur. I mean it. This insight is invaluable.”
“One bit of advice, Max—not that you’re going to take it, because you tend to be impatient—is that I think Richard Milligan would be far more open to the idea that Bachman didn’t work alone after the trial is over. There’s really no doubt in my mind that the police got the right man for these five murders.”
“What’s two more days?” Max asked.
Arthur smiled broadly. “You’ve really grown up since you were twenty-two.”
Max walked Arthur downstairs, and David followed. “The sad thing is,” Arthur said, “this type of sociopathy could have been cured if he went to the right psychiatrist and worked hard to end these impulses. As Adam himself said twice in your interview, and showed in some of his actions, he doesn’t consider himself physically violent. But the person he originally talked to was probably way over his head and didn’t realize what was at the core of Adam Bachman’s problems.”
“Which is?” David asked.
“His inability to bond with people. His entire life he wanted someone who loved him for who he was. Instead, he got a father who left, a stepfather who abused his mother, a mother, likely weak and timid, wrapped up in her own problems, and his best friend who left for the army. Even as a child, he never bonded with anyone. He felt one step removed from society. Lost, introverted, no one saw the signs. That’s why he kills without touching his victims. He’s removing himself from the process of dying, while observing it like he observes everything in his life—from a distance. And honestly? If he had never met the unsub, I don’t think he would have killed. It’s a truly sad twist of fate.”
When Arthur left, Max turned to David. “Let’s go out for drinks.”
“Let me guess. Fringe.”
She smiled. “You know me so well.”
Chapter Ten
David parked two blocks from Fringe and he and Max walked with the hordes of tourists and locals into the trendy restaurant and bar.
The restaurant was on the main floor with intimate booths along the back wall and big party tables in the center. The staff constantly moved, balancing drinks and trays with seeming fluidity. Neon lights, swirling and contemporary, decorated the walls and ceiling in waves of color, which could have been garish, but worked well against the white tablecloths and black wood floor.
Upstairs, the bar boasted first-come seating. People congregated at tables near the floor-to-ceiling windows because of the view looking down at Times Square. The bar itself took up two walls and boasted two dozen comfortable stools. High-top tables dotted the interior, comfortable armchairs were grouped in one corner. Max spotted Melinda Sanchez behind the bar and caught her eye, then crossed over to the armchairs. She took a seat where she could watch Melinda. David took a chair where he could watch the room.
A cocktail waitress approached. “What can I get you?”
“Your fruit and cheese plate appetizer,” Max said without looking at the menu, “and a glass of pinot grigio.”
“Sir?” she said to David.
“Bottled water.”
Max glanced at her name badge. “Shelly, I need to speak with Melinda. If you could please send her over?”
“Um, sure,” Shelly said. “I’ll see when her next break is.”
The girl left, and Max pulled out her iPad to review the notes from her original conversation with Melinda.
Melinda Sanchez had started working at Fringe six months before Bachman was arrested. What had struck Max at the time was that she hadn’t had to push Melinda or lead her into saying that Adam Bachman was creepy. Melinda flat out said she didn’t like him from the minute she met him. The young woman was rough around the edges, grew up in the Bronx, and currently lived in a small New Jersey apartment with her boyfriend, a sound tech for a major theater company. She clearly had people reading skills—she was sharp and street-smart.
While Melinda had stood out to Max as being both blunt and honest, Max had been so focused on the Palazzolos that she hadn’t thought to ask Melinda about Bachman’s friends.
Max recognized that one of the problems with the way her career had unfolded, particularly since she started hosting Maximum Exposure, was that she couldn’t spend as much time in the field working one investigation. Each of her books took her at least nine months to research: interviews, reading, reinterviews, exploring, pouring over forensic reports. Even the freelance work she did for newspapers and magazines took weeks or months to pull together. She used to devote all her time to one project, immersing herself in the crime and the lives of everyone involved.
She hadn’t been able to give the Palazzolos her undivided attention; likewise, she hadn’t been able to devote enough time to the Bachman trial, either. Every month she had new cases to review, letting the research staff give her information that she used to get for herself. The staff was good—but she relied on nuances that simply couldn’t find their way into a written report.
She should have followed up with Melinda. Once she had the idea that Bachman had a partner, she should have been here asking again about who he might have been seen with. Now? Nine months had passed since Bachman’s arrest and Melinda might not remember anything that would help. Max had covered a half-dozen big cases and many smaller investigations in between. The realization that she was spreading herself too thin began to suffocate her.
Melinda brought over their drinks. “I saw you come in,” she said and took a seat.
“This is my colleague, David Kane,” Max said. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“I got someone to cover for me. What’s going on? Is this about the trial? I’ve been following it. He’s not going to get off, is he?”
“I doubt it,” Max s
aid. “But I have some follow-up questions.”
“Whatever, but I don’t know that I’ll be of help.”
“I have my notes to refresh your memory.” Max sipped her wine, put it down, and waited until the waitress left the fruit and cheese platter. “You were the most emphatic that Adam Bachman was odd.”
“I called him a creep. And I was right.”
“Not everyone thought he was creepy. In fact, most people thought he was reserved, but pleasant. When I pressed, they pointed out his oddities—like he washed his hands repeatedly and that he never socialized with anyone from work.”
“That’s all true.”
“But you said right off you weren’t surprised when you heard he had been arrested for murder.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“I told you. He gave me the creeps.”
“You might not know why, but there’s a reason. You started working here six months before he was arrested. That would be about three months before his first known murder. Correct?”
She shivered visibly, but nodded. “Yes. We generally only worked two nights together, Saturday and Sunday. My schedule bounced around, but he insisted on having the same two days off a week. Because he’d been here two years, the manager just let him. He would never switch or cover for anyone.”
“Go back to the first day you met him. Why did you think he was a creep?”
She closed her eyes. “I thought he was preoccupied that day. Standoffish. It was something that happened a week later that made me think creep.”
She looked from David to Max. “We get busy and it’s steady even when we’re not superbusy. Management likes the interaction between the bartenders and customers, chatting, being friendly, that kind of stuff. It was a Friday afternoon, before the pretheater crowd. I was working on the floor, Adam was behind the bar. There was this couple sitting right here, where we are, a little too much PDA, but nothing that was off-limits. I went to Adam and said, ‘Romeo and Juliet want another round.’ He was staring at them, and anyone else would have made a crack, either about getting a room, or how hot they were, whatever. He just stared. Didn’t comment or smile. Didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken. But he heard me, because he filled their order. When they left, he called the bus-boy over and said someone spilled on the chairs and they needed to be cleaned. We have extras in the back, so the busboy swapped them out for two clean chairs. Thing was, they hadn’t spilled. They’d just been making out. And he had watched them the entire time. I thought maybe he was getting horny, but then I realized he was just disgusted.”
Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2) Page 11
