Hush (16 page)

They moved on.

"Prison release records have been checked,
but we're having them rechecked," Irving stated. "We had a couple
of suspicious people, brought them in for statements, but they were
clean, at least as clean as a former drug dealer and sex offender
could be. We're rechecking everybody who is out on parole."

Irving had a straightforward, no-nonsense
attitude that went over well in a group of professionals. He was in
charge, and yet an equal. There was no room for inflated ego in
such a situation.

"There are three known reasons why killings
like this stop," he explained. "Number one is suicide. Two is that
the killer left the area to kill somewhere else. Three, he was
arrested for some other offense and was serving time. It's been
long speculated that the Madonna Murders stopped sixteen years ago
because the killer was arrested and incarcerated for another crime
altogether."

"And now he's out," Ramirez said.

"Right, but again this is speculation. Keep
in mind that all ideas are welcome and there is no such thing as a
stupid question."

"What about mental hospitals?" Spence
asked.

"We've got information brokers on that, but
so far they haven't uncovered anything interesting." The question
was answered quickly and succinctly, without distracting Irving
from his initial path.

"Ramirez and Hastings are to be in charge of
interviewing everyone within the grid zones, following up on those
interviews if they have to."

Ramirez leaned back in his chair, arms across
his chest. "Two people?"

"I said, In charge. We'll pull people from
other areas as we need them. We may be able to enlist the help of
some retired officers. We'll run television and newspaper
announcements asking for citizen involvement. Those announcements
will have the number of the direct line to this room. So far we've
been getting about twenty calls a day, but with the announcements
we can expect that to pick up. Unfortunately, you receive a lot of
revenge-driven stories when something like this happens. Relatives
and neighbors are quick to turn in somebody they don't like, even
if they haven't killed anybody."

"I'm afraid we're getting ahead of
ourselves." The words came from Abraham, who was sitting next to
Ivy at the long table. "You've both looked at the photos, looked at
the case file," he said to Agents Cantrell and Spence. "What's your
conclusion?"

"I think it's the same person," Spence said
immediately and with total conviction.

"I agree," Cantrell added. "I've based that
on these photos."

She spread out six eight-by-tens on the
table, two black-and-whites, four color. "These two," she
explained, pointing to the black-and-whites with the chewed end of
her pen, "were victims of the Madonna Murderer. These," she said,
indicating the more vivid color shots, "were taken at the last two
crime scenes. The posing is the same. Notice the way the hands are
resting on the hips, in what someone might think of as a
provocative pose. The knees bent and spread, in what could be
pornographic, but also the position taken for birth. The head is
tilted to the right. Mouth taped into a smile. Even the camera
angle is the same. There's the ritualistic nature of the scenes,
from the degrading pose of the mother, to the 'sleeping' infant
with the music box." The word sleeping was tagged with air
quotes.

"It has to be the same person," she went on
to say.

"Superintendent Sinclair assures me that the
public never had access to these photos. That leaves us with one
conclusion. The Madonna Murderer of sixteen years ago, and the man
who killed Tia Sheppard, Sachi Anderson, and their infant sons, is
without a doubt the same person."

A beat went by before Irving said, "We have
some additional information. That's why I've asked Dr. Glaser here
today."

The toxicologist opened a manila envelope and
pulled out copies of a toxicology report. He quickly dealt a sheet
to everyone.

"When the coroner was performing the
autopsies on the Andersons, she discovered what looked like an
injection site on the left side of the infant's head," Dr. Glaser
said. "The toxicology tests show that the child was injected with a
lethal dose of acepromazine, an animal tranquilizer. Acepromazine
was quantitated in blood and postmortem tissue, which led to the
discovery of concentrations in the liver and brain. Cause of death
was respiratory arrest."

"Put to sleep," Ivy said.

"In effect, yes."

"That doesn't fit his earlier MO," Abraham
stated.

"MOs can change," Spence said, taking the
opportunity to jump in before Cantrell did any more speaking for
him. "It's the signature that stays the same."

Ivy tapped her pen against her notebook. "I
think he's feeling guilty for killing the infants. He always
smothered them before. Now he's putting them to sleep."

"What a kindhearted guy," Ramirez said
sarcastically.

"I agree with Ivy," Cantrell said. "And this
isn't a game for him the way it is for some serial killers. This
guy is doing something he thinks is right. In his mind, he's
rescuing the children."

"How would he get the drugs?" Hastings
asked.

"A veterinarian would be the only person
licensed to handle such narcotics," the toxicologist stated. "My
guess is that the drugs were stolen."

"Or the killer is a veterinarian."

"Or works for a vet."

"There have been some clinic break-ins,"
Irving said, "but it always comes down to druggies planning to use
the stolen drugs themselves or sell them on the street."

"The question is, what does the killer want
out of the crime?" Agent Spence asked. "If we can understand that,
we can get a clearer picture of this guy."

"His overriding fantasy is to rid himself of
his abusive mother," Ivy said. "For that reason, I would guess that
his mother is still alive. He might even live with her."

"He might even take a trophy from his victim
and give it to his mother," Spence said. "Like a necklace, a
barrette. Something small."

"This guy is smooth," Cantrell said.
"Possibly quite charming. The normal, commonsense clues we use when
sizing people up don't apply when it comes to' sociopaths."

"A sociopath is willing to let someone die
for his own selfish purposes," Ivy said. "He doesn't value human
life."

"You know what I think is significant?" Agent
Scott said. "In most cases, there were no signs of struggle. Does
he take them so by surprise that they don't have a chance? Or are
they too terrified to move?"

"In many cases victims don't fight back
because they hope to be allowed to live if they behave," Cantrell
told the group. "It's actually rare to find a victim who does fight
back. Extremely rare. With the Madonna Murderer, it could partly be
due to the surprise factor. I think he attacks his victims and
kills them right away. Most serial killers like to toy with their
victims awhile, sometimes for days. And they still don't fight,
even when they have to know what is going to happen to them. The
fact that the Madonna Murderer kills his victims immediately gives
him a sort of conscience, for lack of a better word. He wants them
dead. There is still the violence of the act—the repeated
stabbing—but the goal is to kill, not to torture."

"What about this Reynolds woman?" Ramirez
asked, flipping through his papers, looking for something he'd read
earlier. "The one who lived for a while after the attack. Was she
ever able to tell the police anything?"

"Nothing substantial," Agent Scott said.

"Too bad."

"What else do we have?" Irving said,
directing the conversation in a more productive direction.

Ivy realized she'd been holding her breath.
Perspiration was running down her spine. She went through a
breathing exercise. Rising, rising. Falling, falling. Her muscles
relaxed. Her heart rate slowed.

"We've entered all the information in the
FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, but so far have come
up with nothing." Agent Scott was talking about a computer base
that allowed police officers all over the country to share
information.

"Sometimes serial killers travel, committing
similar crimes in other areas of the United States," Scott
continued. "When that happens, a case can appear isolated when in
fact it's not. It's important to stay connected not only within
Chicago and the surrounding areas, but with the whole country."

At that point, the toxicologist excused
himself. After a flurry of distracted good-byes, the discussion
continued with hardly a pause.

"Any possible evidence found on the scene?"
Cantrell asked.

"Bloodstains, prints, fibers, hair,
anything?" asked Spence.

"Nothing. The only thing he left was his
usual calling card—that damn snow-globe music box," Abraham said.
"They are mass-produced in some sweatshop in Bangladesh, and sold
at almost every discount store in the nation."

"We have someone following up on that to see
if any single store has sold an unusual amount," Irving said.

"Does it always play the same song?" Spence
asked.

" 'Hush Little Baby,' " Ivy murmured.

"When my granddaughter was born, somebody
gave her a stuffed bear that played that damn song," Abraham said.
"I took it out and burned it."

The discussion turned to other aspects of the
case: mode of entry. How did he get into a secure building? It was
agreed that anybody could get into a secure building if he waited
by the door long enough until a resident or visitor went in or out.
Then there were the knife wounds. He used to stab the women
thirteen times. Now he stabbed them twenty-two. The significance
was lost on everyone in the room.

For two more hours they tossed ideas back and
forth.

Ivy suggested they track down sales of
Polaroid film. Spence, the sale of used police cars. Sometimes
offenders were known to buy police cars so they could impersonate a
cop.

That led to a discussion about how he found
his victims to begin with. Someone pointed out that insurance
agents were privy to a client's personal history.

Insurance agents went on the list.

Another person noted that oftentimes
hospitals and even police didn't put private volunteers through a
background check.

Volunteers went on the list.

They would have a squad of plainclothes
officers watch hospitals, especially the delivery wings.

They would cross-reference released prisoners
and released mental patients with volunteer police and volunteer
hospital aides.

At that point, Hastings announced that her
bladder was going to bust and she needed to eat.

Everybody pretty much agreed with that
too.

When she returned from the bathroom, people
began bombarding her with food requests. "I'm not going to be the
designated gofer," she said.

"We'll take turns," Ramirez told her, tossing
a ten- dollar bill in her direction.

She grabbed it. "Damn right, we will." She
took off down the nearest flight of stairs to hit the McDonald's up
the street.

In the bathroom, Ivy and Mary Cantrell were
both washing their hands when Mary said, "Did you write Symbolic
Death?" She shut off the water and tore off a section of paper
towel. "Are you that Ivy Dunlap?"

Ivy turned the tiny bent metal crank on the
paper- towel machine, moving her arm like she was playing a
hurdy-gurdy. "Yes."

"I thought so."

Ivy was surprised she'd heard of the book.
She'd actually written it as a catharsis, a class project. Her
professor had urged her to publish it. "This could be huge," he'd
told her. At the time, her mind had fast- forwarded, creating a
future for herself as a top-selling author with whirlwind book
tours and guest spots on Good Morning America and The Today
Show.

Feeling overexposed just thinking about it,
she'd never sent the manuscript to New York. Instead, it had been
picked up by a rather obscure university press and was released
with a modest print run. It. seemed Ivy Dunlap lacked the
credentials to create any kind of a buzz. What a sad commentary on
the United States. The same book, written by Claudia Reynolds,
would have produced a media frenzy.

Mary tossed her wet towel in the wastebasket,
then leaned against the tiled wall, her arms crossed just beneath
her breasts. She was several years younger than Ivy, dark-haired
and pretty, but carrying an air of raw intensity that was more than
just her intentionally projected image of the strictly professional
career woman in her navy-blue tailored suit and crisp white
shirt.

Women hadn't been admitted to the FBI for all
that long, even less time in the Behavioral Science Unit. The year
the first woman came along was 1984 if Ivy remembered correctly. In
such a male-dominated field, women had to think twice as fast, work
twice as hard.

"When I was in high school," Mary said, "my
best friend was murdered."

Jesus. Soon it would be like breast cancer
where one in an ever-changing number of women would be touched by a
killer. "I'm sorry."

"Normally I don't tell anybody that. I'm
telling you because I was impressed by your insight. And I have to
admit that, as I read your book, I kept expecting you to come out
and say that your life had been touched by one of these madmen too.
But you didn't."

"No." Ivy was suddenly unable to look Mary in
the eye. "No, I didn't." She felt sick that her answer had to be so
evasive.

"That's why I went into this business."

"Because of your friend's death?"

Mary nodded.

"Did they catch the killer?"

"Yeah, but he was a juvenile and the jury
went easy on him." Mary dug around in her purse, pulled out a
cigarette, and lit it with a pink Bic. Smoke-free building, but
what the hell? "I've quit smoking three times, but I always start
again." She offered a drag of the cigarette to Ivy.