suggested that this guy was very, very good; we had no idea what he looked like; he’d see us; we wouldn’t see him-end of story.
“We sneak in,” Spinelli concluded.
“Fine.”
“We need an unmarked car and some sort of disguise.”
We batted that around awhile.
Plumbers or airconditioning repairmen were the normal routines, but on short notice were out of the question. Then I got an idea and off we went.
Thirty minutes later, Monsignors Sean Drummond and Daniel Spinelli parked the beat-up Honda Civic we borrowed from Father Brian Mullraney of St. Mary’s parish in front of Aunt Ethel’s town-home in Cambridge. Charitably, the place was a pit: a small, two-storied clapboard affair, seedy and ill-tended, no front yard, just a five-stepped stoop that rose from the cracked sidewalk.
Aunt Ethel answered our knock. She was somewhere in her eighties, shrunken to less than five feet, wispy, white-haired, with a bony, scowling face and hard eyes that regarded us harshly.
I nervously fingered my collar and explained, “I’m Drummond. I called earlier. This is Chief Warrant Spinelli, a military police officer. Please… invite us in.”
“Why are you dressed that way?”
I said, “Please. We’ll explain inside.”
She glowered at Spinelli and said, “I assume you have a badge or something.”
He flashed his shield and we were inside, being led down a short hallway to the kitchen. The whole place smelled musty and airless, like lots of old people’s homes, and was cluttered with old-lady junk; overstuffed chairs, doilies, figurines, and so forth. The kitchen was small and cramped, and looked like a mausoleum for ancient appliances. Aunt Ethel was a very strange duck.
Janet set down her teacup and calmly did the introduction thing, which, considering the circumstances, was sort of strained. The three sisters were huddled around the table, wrung out and glum.
There followed a moment of clumsy silence before Janet asked, “Why are you two dressed like priests?”
So I explained that, and what I had learned from Lisa’s computer file, ending with our suspicion that the killer might be, and, in our view, probably was, hanging around the neighborhood, and he wasn’t through.
My explanation came out a bit rushed, and understandably, the kitchen became very hushed and quiet. I mean, the Morrow sisters had just learned that their father’s incineration was no accident, that one sister might be marked for death, and that the grim reaper might be lurking behind the garbage cans in Aunt Ethel’s backyard. They were hardy women, and nobody got panicky or anything, but nobody looked drowsy anymore.
After a few moments, Janet asked, “Why burn down our house? Why try to kill my father?”
Spinelli replied, “To get you up here. Your old man’s the cheese in the trap.”
“Why? If he wanted to kill me, why not D. C.?”
Why indeed? Exactly the question I had been trying to piece together on the flight up. I wasn’t sure, but back at the hospital, Spinelli had given me an idea worth exploring and I said, “Spinelli still thinks this guy is a copycat.” I then asked, “Why do people copycat?”
Janet pondered this interesting question a moment, then replied, “The normal motives are envy, sympathy, or a perverted sense of brotherhood. Some want to feed off the fame and deeds of other killers, and some want to outdo famous killers, employing the same patterns and techniques, but excelling over the original. Emulation and ego enhancement.”
I nodded. Her Harvard Law professors would be proud of her. This was a textbook reply, almost verbatim. But I’d had a little more time to consider this thing, and it had struck me that part of the problem was that everybody was too wedded to their textbooks. I suggested, “How about as a cover-up? He wants somebody else blamed. Yes? No?”
“That could make sense,” Janet replied.
I continued, “And until now, nobody’s found a link between the victims, thus the prevailing opinion is that there is no link. Killing you would cause everybody to rethink their theories and assumptions.”
“Yes. But killing me up here engenders the same risk.”
“He might think otherwise. Boston’s outside of the scope and jurisdiction of the task force down in D. C. Also, the killer isn’t aware of your… relationship to the head of the FBI field team. Or your entanglement in the investigation.” This was obviously true, she nodded, and I continued, “So maybe he intends to kill you differently than he did Lisa and the others. Arrange your murder without any obvious parallels.”
Janet thought about this, then pointed out, “You’re making a lot of guesses.”
“Look, I know this sounds odd, but…” I thought about how to couch this: “I’m starting to understand how he operates.”
“You’re right. That’s completely off-the-wall.”
“Humor me. Now, let’s call the Boston PD and get out of here.”
“Out of here?” Janet asked.
“Right. Away from this guy.”
Janet exchanged looks with her sisters, then looked at me and Spinelli. She said, “Would you two step out of the kitchen? We need a moment to discuss this thing.”
I glanced at Spinelli, and said to her, “There’s nothing to discuss. Call the Boston PD.”
She pointed a finger. “I think you’d be comfortable in the living room.”
Well, what could we do? It was their house, so Spinelli and I shifted into the living room, where we began studying Aunt Ethel’s very extensive collection of porcelain and crystal figurines, which, if you’re into those things, was pretty interesting. There were several hand-painted ballerinas, and lots of tiny, delicate horses, and some unusual unicorns, and… who gives a shit.
“ We should’ve called the Boston PD,” I informed Spinelli.
“Maybe.”
No maybes about it, pal. The four women in that kitchen were grieving over the murder of their sister and the attempted murder of their father. The shock of those events was not likely to lead to clear thinking or logical conclusions. I felt uneasy, realizing I had misplayed this, hoping they weren’t convincing one another to do what I was sure they were trying to convince one another to do. After a time, Janet finally called us back into the kitchen. The four women were seated around the table, and I didn’t like the pissed-off, determined set of their faces.
“Have a seat,” said Janet.
Well, there were only four chairs, all of which were taken, so Spinelli and I brushed aside some clutter and hoisted ourselves up onto the linoleum counters, which earned us a really nasty glower from Aunt Ethel.
“We have a plan,” said Janet.
I replied, “There’s only one plan. Call the cops. Now. ”
Carol, who was next oldest behind Janet, said, “First, let’s talk about our plan.”
And Elizabeth, the youngest, said, “This man murdered our sister and put our father in the hospital. We’ve paid for the right to decide what to do next.”
I said, “That’s not-”
“Also,” Janet said, “he’s murdered three other women and a driver. And there’s every indication he intends to kill more. If you’re right
… if he’s here, we have a chance to take him off the streets.”
“So,” Elizabeth agreed, “he thinks he has Janet in a trap. That gives us a chance to turn the tables and put him in a trap.”
What they were thinking wasn’t news. But Spinelli was nodding. And all three sisters and Aunt Ethel were nodding.
I drew a deep breath and said, “Thank you. That’s a very noble gesture. It’s also clearly a stupid idea. The odds are completely in his favor.” I stared at Janet and added, “Don’t even think of using yourself as bait. This guy will swallow you whole.”
In retrospect, things might have gone better had I chosen a less provocative manner to state my objections.
Janet’s nostrils sort of flared. Sounding somewhat pissy, she said to me, “I… Damn it, don’t underestimate me. I can take care of myself. And don’t you dare call me stupid again.” She added, “Of course I plan to use the
