The Apprentice (6 page)

Then a new image comes on the TV, and all thoughts of the newscaster vanish. A male reporter stands in front of the Newton home of Dr. Richard Yeager. In a somber voice, he reveals that, two days after the doctor’s murder and the abduction of his wife, no arrests have been made. I am already acquainted with the case of Dr. Yeager and his wife. Now I lean forward, staring intently at the screen, waiting for a glimpse.

I finally see her.

The camera has swung toward the house, and it catches her in close-up as she walks out the front door. A heavyset man emerges right behind her. They stand talking in the front yard, unaware that at that moment the
TV
cameraman has zoomed in on them. The man looks coarse and piggish with his sagging jowls and sparse strands of hair combed over a bare scalp. Beside him, she looks small and insubstantial. It has been a long time since I last saw her, and much about her seems changed. Oh, her hair is still an unruly mane of black curls, and she wears yet another one of her navy-blue pantsuits, the jacket hanging too loose on her shoulders, the cut unflattering to her petite frame. But her face is different. Once it was square-jawed and confident, not particularly beautiful, but arresting nonetheless, because of the fierce intelligence of her eyes. Now she looks worn and troubled. She has lost weight. I see new shadows in her face, in the hollows of her cheeks
.

Suddenly she spots the TV camera and she stares, looking straight at me, her eyes seeming to see me, even as I see her, as though she stands before me in the flesh. We have a history together, she and I, a shared experience so intimate we are as forever bonded as lovers.

I rise from the couch and walk to the TV. Press my hand to the screen. I am not listening to the reporter’s voice-over; I am focused only on her face. My little Janie. Do your hands still trouble you? Do you still rub your palms, the way you did in the courtroom, as though worrying at a splinter trapped in your flesh? Do you think of the scars the way I do, as love tokens? Little reminders of my high regard for you?

“Get the fuck away from the TV! We can’t see!” someone yells.

I do not move. I stand in front of the screen, touching her face, remembering how her coal-dark eyes once stared up at me in submission. Remembering the slickness of her skin. Perfect skin, unadorned by even the lightest stroke of the makeup brush.

“Asshole, move!”

Suddenly she is gone, vanished from the screen. The female newscaster in the jade-green jacket is back. Only a moment ago, I had been content to settle for this well-groomed mannequin in my fantasies. Now she strikes me as vapid, just another pretty face, another slender throat. It took only one glimpse of Jane Rizzoli to remind me of what is truly worthy prey.

I return to the couch and sit through a commercial for Lexus automobiles. But I am no longer watching the TV. Instead, I am remembering what it was like to walk in freedom. To wander city streets, inhaling the scents of women who pass by me. Not the chemist’s busy florals that come from bottles, but the real perfume of a woman’s sweat, or a woman’s hair warmed by the sun. On summer days, I would join the other pedestrians waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. In the press of a crowded street corner, who would notice that the man behind you has leaned close to sniff your hair? Who would notice that the man beside you is staring at your neck, marking your pulse points, where he knows your skin smells sweetest?

But they don’t notice. The crosswalk light turns green. The crowd begins to move. And the woman walks on, never knowing, never suspecting, that the hunter has caught her scent.

“The folding of the nightgown does not in itself mean you’re dealing with a copycat,” said Dr. Lawrence Zucker. “This is merely a demonstration of control. The killer displaying his mastery over the victims. Over the crime scene.”

“The way Warren Hoyt used to do,” said Rizzoli.

“Other killers have done this as well. It’s not unique to the Surgeon.”

Dr. Zucker was watching her with a strange, almost feral glint in his eye. He was a criminal psychologist at Northeastern University and he frequently consulted for the Boston Police Department. He had worked with the homicide unit during the Surgeon investigation a year ago, and the criminal profile he’d compiled of the unknown subject at that time had turned out to be eerily accurate. Sometimes, Rizzoli wondered how normal Zucker himself could be. Only a man intimately familiar with the territory of evil could have insinuated himself so deeply into the mind of a man like Warren Hoyt. She had never been comfortable with this man, whose sly, whispery voice and intense stares made her feel invaded and vulnerable. But he was one of the few who had truly understood Hoyt; perhaps he would understand a copycat as well.

Rizzoli said, “It’s not just the folded nightclothes. There are other similarities. Duct tape was used to bind this victim.”

“Again, not unique. Did you ever watch the TV show
MacGyver
? He showed us a thousand and one uses for duct tape.”

“Nocturnal entry through a window. The victims surprised in bed—”

“When they’re most vulnerable. It’s a logical time to attack.”

“And the single slash, across the neck.”

Zucker shrugged. “A quiet and efficient way to kill.”

“But add it all together. The folded nightgown. The duct tape. The method of entry. The coup de grâce—”

“And what you get is an unknown subject who is choosing rather common strategies. Even the teacup on the victim’s lap—it’s a variation on what’s been done before, by serial rapists. They set a plate or other dishes on the husband. If he moves, the falling chinaware alerts the perp. These are common strategies because they work.”

In frustration, Rizzoli pulled out the Newton crime scene photos and laid them across his desk. “We’re trying to find a missing woman, Dr. Zucker. So far we have no leads. I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through right now—if she’s still alive. So you take a good long look at these. Tell me about this unsub. Tell me how we can find him. How we can find
her
.”

Dr. Zucker slipped on his glasses and picked up the first photo. He said nothing, just stared for a moment, then reached for the next in the series of images. The only sounds were the creak of his leather chair and his occasional murmur of interest. Through his office window Rizzoli could see the campus of Northeastern University, nearly deserted on this summer’s day. Only a few students were lolling on the grass outside, backpacks and books spread around them. She envied those students, envied their carefree days and their innocence. Their blind faith in the future. And their nights, uninterrupted by dark dreams.

“You said you found semen,” said Dr. Zucker.

Reluctantly she turned from the view of sunning students and looked at him. “Yes. On that oval rug in the photo. The lab confirms it’s a different blood type from the husband’s. The DNA’s been entered into the CODIS database.”

“Somehow, I doubt this unsub is careless enough to be identified by a national database match. No, I’m betting his DNA isn’t in CODIS.” Zucker looked up from the photo. “And I’ll bet he left no fingerprints.”

“Nothing that popped up on AFIS. Unfortunately, the Yeagers had at least fifty visitors at the house following the funeral for Mrs. Yeager’s mother. Which means we’re looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”

Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”

“Yes.”

“Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.

“I was asked by Detective Korsak—”

“Who is nominally in charge. Right?”

“Right. But—”

“Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”

She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”

“And you want to save her.”

“Don’t you?” she shot back.

“I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Have you received any counseling?”

“Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”

“It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened to you in that basement. Warren Hoyt did things to you that would haunt any cop. He left scars, both emotional and physical. Most people would have lingering trauma. Flashbacks, nightmares. Depression.”

“The memories aren’t any fun. But I can deal with them.”

“That’s always been your way, hasn’t it? To tough it out. Never complain.”

“I bitch about things like everyone else.”

“But never about anything that would make you look weak. Or vulnerable.”

“I can’t stand whiners. I refuse to be one myself.”

“I’m not talking about whining. I’m talking about being honest enough to acknowledge you’re having problems.”

“What problems?”

“You tell me, Detective.”

“No, you tell me. Since you seem to think I’m all fucked up.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think that.”

“You’re the one who used the term
fucked up
. Is that how you feel?”

“Look, I came about
that
.” She pointed to the Yeager crime scene photos. “Why are we talking about me?”

“Because when you look at these photos, all you see is Warren Hoyt. I’m just wondering why.”

“That case is closed. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you? Really?”

The question, asked so softly, made her fall silent. She resented his probing. Resented, most of all, that he’d recognized a truth she could not admit. Warren Hoyt
had
left scars. All she had to do was look down at her hands to be reminded of the damage he’d inflicted. But the worst damage was not physical. What she had lost, in that dark basement last summer, was her sense of invincibility. Her sense of confidence. Warren Hoyt had taught her how vulnerable she really was.

“I’m not here to talk about Warren Hoyt,” she said.

“Yet he’s the reason you’re here.”

“No. I’m here because I see parallels between these two killers. I’m not the only one who does. Detective Korsak sees it, too. So let’s stick to the subject, okay?”

He regarded her with a bland smile. “Okay.”

“So what about this unsub?” She tapped on the photos. “What can you tell me about him?”

Once again, Zucker focused on the image of Dr. Yeager. “Your unknown subject is obviously organized. But you already know that. He came to the scene fully prepared. The glass cutter, the stun gun, the duct tape. He managed to subdue this couple so quickly, it makes you wonder…” He glanced at her. “No chance there’s a second perp? A partner?”

“Only one set of footprints.”

“Then your boy is very efficient. And meticulous.”

“But he left his semen on the rug. He’s handed us the key to his identity. That’s one hell of a mistake.”

“Yes, it is. And he certainly knows it.”

“So why assault her right there, in the house? Why not do it later, in a safe place? If he’s organized enough to pull off a home invasion and control the husband—”

“Maybe that’s the real payoff.”

“What?”

“Think about it. Dr. Yeager sits there, bound and helpless. Forced to watch while another man takes possession of his property.”

“Property,” she repeated.

“In this unsub’s mind, that’s what the woman is. Another man’s property. Most sexual predators wouldn’t risk attacking a couple. They’d choose the lone woman, the easy target. Having a man in the picture makes it dangerous. Yet this unsub had to know there was a husband in the picture. And he came prepared to deal with him. Could it be that was part of the pleasure, part of the excitement? That he had an audience?”

An audience of one
. She looked down at the photo of Richard Yeager, slumped against the wall. Yes, that had been her immediate impression when she’d walked into the family room.

Zucker’s gaze shifted to the window. A moment passed. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sleepy, as though the words were drifting up in a dream state.

“It’s all about power. And control. About dominance over another human being. Not just the woman, but over the man as well. Maybe it’s really the man who excites him, who’s a vital part of this fantasy. Our unsub knows the risks, yet he’s compelled to carry out his impulses. His fantasies control him, and he, in turn, controls his victims. He’s all-powerful. The dominator. His enemy sits immobilized and helpless, and our unsub does what victorious armies have always done. He’s captured his prize. He rapes the woman. His pleasure is heightened by Dr. Yeager’s utter defeat. This attack is more than sexual aggression; it’s a display of masculine power. One man’s victory over another. The conqueror claiming his spoils.”

Outside, the students on the lawn were gathering up their backpacks, brushing grass from their clothes. The afternoon sun washed everything in hazy gold. And what would the day hold next for those students? Rizzoli wondered. Perhaps an evening of leisure and conversation, pizza and beer. And a sound sleep, without nightmares. The sleep of the innocent.

Something I’ll never again know.

Her cell phone chirped. “Excuse me,” she said, and flipped open the phone.

The call was from Erin Volchko, in the hair, fiber, and trace evidence lab. “I’ve examined those strips of duct tape taken off Dr. Yeager’s body,” said Erin. “I’ve already faxed the report to Detective Korsak. But I knew you’d want to know as well.”

“What have we got?”

“A number of short brown hairs caught in the adhesive. Limb hairs, pulled from the victim when the tape was peeled off.”

“Fibers?”

“Those as well. But here’s the really interesting thing. On the strip pulled from the victim’s ankles, there was a single dark-brown hair strand, twenty-one centimeters long.”