Dark Eye (22 page)

He’d almost fallen asleep waiting for the owners to shut off the power. It had been a sea of lights, a blazing neon panorama, garish and lovely all at once. And so much to choose from! What sort of message should he seek? The profound? The prophetic? The risible? Most of the older casinos had deposited signs here, as well as restaurants, hotels. Even theme parks. There were so many possibilities…

In the end, the choice was obvious. Puns might be the bailiwick of the insipid humorist, but this was irresistible. A huge, towering, crane-held sign. The front proclaimed FIRE SALE. While the back read HALF OFF.

That was where he left Lenore, the biggest part of her, anyway. Hanging beneath the HALF OFF.

Such a beau geste! How would dear Susan react? he wondered. It was amazing how completely the woman had come to dominate his thoughts in so short a time. It was impossible to resist thinking about her. Somehow, knowing that there was someone out there with the potential to appreciate his work made what he did so much more thrilling. The thought of carrying on without her was intolerable. But what if she was replaced? He had read in the paper that the FBI was sending the LVPD a federal expert in the same field. What if O’Bannon decided Susan’s services were no longer needed?

He couldn’t let that happen. He would have to do something to prevent it.

Oddly enough, Granger had not arranged high-speed Internet access for me, possibly because he hadn’t arranged a computer terminal for me, so I had to sneak into O’Bannon’s office while he convoked his top detectives in the conference room. Once I was in, I checked out Helen Collier’s Web site. She had obviously done it all herself. The signs of amateur webmastering were everywhere. The layout was functional but unadorned. A lot of hyperlinks led to nothing. But what was there was interesting.

Helen had scanned some of her own artwork, the same kind of drawings and collages I’d found stuffed in the bottom drawers of her desk. I wasn’t surprised. One look at the meticulous living room was sufficient to tell me that Mrs. Collier was never going to put her daughter’s art on display in the house. Not even on the refrigerator. So Helen had found another way to exhibit it. She’d kept a blog, too-a Web diary. It hadn’t been updated for two months, but what she had written was fascinating. Darcy was right-she’d been creeping out at night through the bedroom window for at least a year and a half.

All the photos of Helen were distorted, maybe for security reasons, maybe just because she thought it was cool. But using my imagination, I could get a pretty good idea what she had looked like when she hit the street in that outfit. False eyelashes, black fingernails, big hoop earrings. She would definitely attract attention. Even more clearly, she had a taste for the dark side. I could see this dodgy girl talking to a stranger, particularly if he gave her some reason to trust him. I could even see her getting into his car. Making the biggest mistake of her too short life.

I should’ve stopped reading the blog right then and there, but of course I didn’t. I kept moving backward in time until I got to an entry describing a family trip to Carlsbad Caverns. As soon as she was down in the cave, she’d freaked. Totally lost her head. Turns out that prissy mother of hers used to exact punishment by locking her in a small, dark closet and she’d been claustrophobic ever since.

So just imagine what happened when Helen found herself locked up in that coffin. No light, no air. Barely able to move. No one to hear her screams.

Small wonder her fingers were shredded, the lid of the coffin was so scarred.

I had to catch this killer. Soon.

“Seen this?”

Patrick tossed the morning paper on my desk. The double-sized headline was easy to read: KILLER INSPIRED BY POE!

I scanned the story by Jonathan Wooley, the reporter who had been covering the case. He knew about the quotes and he knew the murder methods re-created scenes from Poe’s fiction. “I thought we were keeping this to ourselves.”

“So did O’Bannon,” Patrick informed me. “He’s furious. Who do you think leaked it?”

“I have no idea. For his sake, I hope O’Bannon doesn’t find out.”

Patrick propped his feet up on the edge of my desk, leaning his chair back against the men’s room door. It was generous of him to stay out here with me. I knew perfectly well Granger had given him a nice private office.

“I read your preliminary profile. Good, solid work.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your-”

“So you won’t mind, I hope, if I say we should tear it into pieces and start from scratch.”

Slow burn. “You think I’m on the wrong track.”

“Not at all. I just prefer to build from the ground up. I’ve had previous cases where I came in late and tried to operate within the parameters of preexisting profiles. It doesn’t work. Even when I have full and free license to edit.”

“Okay.” I was not going to throw a fit. I was not going to act defensive. There would be no turf war, damn it. “Why don’t you work up your own profile, then we’ll compare-”

“No, no,” he said, looking at me with those baby-blue eyes that could probably persuade a chimney to give up smoking. “I want us to do it together.”

“Look, you don’t have to humor me-”

“Not at all. You’ve got the experience with this case, not me. And you’ve got a solid background in behavioral sciences. I might be able to contribute some of the latest thoughts and theories. We’ll work together.”

Like I said before, almost too perfect. “Okay, where do we start? What do we know?”

“Statistically speaking,” Patrick began, “our killer is most likely a white male between the ages of twenty and forty-five. Over ninety percent of all American serial killers are.”

“The cops already know that. What else can we give them?”

“Let’s start with preliminary classifications.”

“Organized and disorganized?”

“Essentially. But that terminology has fallen out of favor. Roy Hazelwood has modified Douglas’s work somewhat in this regard. He prefers to start by distinguishing between the impulsive offender and the ritualistic offender.”

“I’d say our guy is ritualistic.”

“Definitely. A thinking killer. Someone who has spent an enormous amount of time working out his fantasy and bringing it to life. He’s not taking the easy way, or the approach that would be most likely to avoid detection. He’s planning everything in accordance with some loony scheme.”

“The Poe fetish.”

“So it seems. Bringing those weird stories to life has become an idée fixe for our man. But what does he hope to accomplish?”

“Good question. Wish I had an equally good answer.”

He sat up to let one of the sergeants pass into the bathroom. “Hazelwood has delineated the five components of the ritualistic killer: relational, paraphilic, situational, victim demographics, and selfperceptional.”

“You’re going to have to explain.”

“Relational has to do with the relationship between the victim and the offender-or more accurately, what he fantasizes the relationship to be. Girlfriend? Wife? Slave?”

“And the answer is?”

“We don’t know. We need more information. Your coroner says the victims haven’t been sexually molested, at least not in the sense of penetration. Our man may be a kidnapper, but he’s no lothario.”

“Probably impotent.”

“A distinct possibility, but we both know there are still ways for a crazed man to inflict sexual damage and humiliation on a helpless woman. If we knew more about what he does with them before he kills them, that might yield some answers. Or if we knew how he selects them. How he lures them in.”

“Next component?”

“
Paraphilia
is the currently vogue term for sexual deviation. Voyeurism, pedophilia, necrophilia, transvestitism-you name it.”

“You think this guy can’t get it off the normal way, so he’s grabbing little girls off the street.”

“I’m not saying that. This could be a twisted form of sexual sadism. A way of asserting his power over them. He renders them powerless with the drug, then subjects them to some Poe-inspired horror. A form of slavery, I suppose.”

“But there’s no indication that he’s trying to break their will. Play with their minds. Turn them into true slaves.”

“Not yet, maybe. But this guy is just getting started.” A grim expression crossed his face. “Let’s hope we catch him before it gets to that.”

“Situational?”

“That’s key to understanding what our boy is up to. What’s the situation he’s trying to create? What setting is he trying to realize?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“For instance, when I’m giving lectures back at Quantico, the setting I’m trying to create is a classroom. The relationship is teacher-student.”

“I got you.”

“Or here, for instance, with us, the setting is master-servant.” His eyes sparkled. “The young protégé learns at the feet of the seasoned master.”

“Is that what this is? I thought it was more like the hopeful acolyte worships at the temple of the earth goddess.” Okay, maybe that was a little obvious, but he’d started it.

He cast his eyes about. “Not much of a temple.”

“I’m a rose-colored-glasses girl.”

He dragged the conversation back on track, darn it. “So I’m thinking the setting this guy wants to create must be a sort of torture chamber.”

“Like Robert Leroy Anderson?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Very good. You are up on the literature.”

“I do my best.”

“So he’s using Poe for inspiration but is basically serving his own sadomasochistic need to inflict pain on helpless victims.”

My face scrunched. “I don’t know.”

“You have a different theory?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I just sense there’s something more going on here. He’s had so many opportunities for cruelty, but actually there’s been little evidence of it. Kidnapping and murder, yes, but-I don’t know. Sadomasochistic lust just doesn’t explain everything.”

“Which leads us to our fourth component. Victim demographics.”

“Well, they were both young girls. Teens.”

“Both girls look young for their age.”

“That’s true. A baby-doll fetish?” I shrugged. “They came from very different backgrounds. One was solidly lower-middle-class. The other came from a super-wealthy background, daughter of a celebrity. Both appear to have been raised by their mothers.”

“But did the killer know that?”

“Seems unlikely.”

“So he was just going by appearance?”

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.”