somehow leaped out of her pocket, and then flew through the air and slammed its own butt against the driver’s side window, which shattered inward. Well, what can you do?
Janet appeared shocked. “Damn it, Sean, I’m a city prosecutor and you just broke the law.” As she issued this warning she was eagerly unlocking the doors and scrambling into the backseat.
I clambered in behind her. She already had the valise open and carefully withdrew two manila folders, pinching them with her shirt sleeves to avoid fingerprints. She dropped the first folder on the seat and the contents spilled out.
“That’s me,” she said, pointing at a large black-and-white photo.
“Good picture, too,” I replied. And indeed it was, as were three more shots of her, taken from various angles, in different backgrounds and lighting, with her wearing a variety of outfits. Janet had obviously been under observation for a period of at least several days.
“Do you recall when you wore those clothes?”
She studied the photos and pointed at one. “Incredible. I wore that pantsuit before I went to D. C.” She paused. “The same day Lisa died.”
We jointly pondered that fact a moment.
Beneath the pictures were three or four printed sheets, and we spread them around using our elbows and shirt sleeves. The pages were neatly typed and paginated, with proper spelling, flawless punctuation, and so forth. The killer appeared to be one of those anal-retentive assholes who always did three more pages than the teacher asked for. I never trusted that type. Future serial killers-all of them.
Two pages were filled with carefully organized personal data about Janet: home address, phone number, automobile type and license number, family members, historical information, and so on. Nearly everything on these sheets could be obtained from public sources, though the sheer quantity of information indicated somebody who knew where to look and how much he could get.
But the next page did not appear to have been taken from public sources.
I pointed at a list of names and asked her, “Who are they?”
“Close friends.” She looked horrified. She pointed at a few entries on the bottom of the page. “My dry cleaner… my gym… my doctor… the deli where I usually get lunch.”
Janet swept her file sheets aside, then allowed the contents of the second folder to drop onto the seat.
The first item to spill out was a photograph of an extraordinarily good-looking man in a gray pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, climbing into a green Jaguar sedan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Along moment passed where Janet and I avoided verbal and eye contact. It was somewhat of a jolt to discover my name on this ass-hole’s to-do list. It was unexpected, for one thing. Also, I’d seen this guy in action, and while I’d like to say I handled this news with my normal aplomb, in fact I felt a rumble of fear in my chest.
But shock aside, all kinds of pieces suddenly began tumbling into place. We both needed a moment to think about this.
She rifled through two more pictures, graciously allowing me a moment to think about updating my life insurance. I was wearing the same gray pinstriped suit, so presumably all the photos were taken on the same day. There was a mere half sheet of personal data: address, phone number, car type, license number, place of employment, and so on. The information on me was notably skimpier than her sheets-nothing about family, personal habits, or favorite haunts.
“I wore that suit only two days ago,” I mentioned after I got my emotional sea legs back.
“You’re a starter project. He’s building his profile on you.”
“I see that, but why am I on his list?”
“Before we get to that, I’ll tell you what this confirms-he’s not the L. A. Killer. Nor a sex maniac. At least, not just a sex maniac.”
“Agreed. But why me?”
She correctly understood that my question wasn’t rhetorical, that we had stumbled onto something very important, if we only knew what. She leaned back against the seat and hypothesized, “Sean, I make my living convicting murderers. They come in all stripes, and are driven by countless motivations. Sometimes they don’t know why they’re killing. A voice inside their head tells them to, it’s a rite of passage into a gang, or the Mafia. Sometimes it’s a response to boredom or rage.”
“None of the above apply. You specialize in murder-now, what kind of killer compiles lists, creates files, methodically organizes his assaults, and makes sure someone else gets the credit for his handiwork?”
“I’ve noticed his… uniqueness.” Actually, I was sure she had noticed considerably more, and probably knew exactly what I was getting at. But like a good prosecutor she wanted to hear it from my lips. In fact, she asked, “Do you think you know his motivation?”
“I think I do.”
But Janet was putting the materials back into the briefcase, and she asked, referring to the contents, “What should we do about this?”
“Good question.” As lawyers, we were both aware that we had created a sticky problem here. All right, I had created the problem, but Janet charitably did not mention that. I hate I-told-you-so women, incidentally. She was really nice. We smiled at each other.
But evidence illegally obtained-for instance, by breaking into an automobile without a warrant-is impermissible in court. Ironic as it might sound, Janet and I could be charged with breaking and entering, and destruction of property, even as a key piece of evidence was ruled as too contaminated for use. Well, we couldn’t allow that to happen.
I said, “Slide it under the front seat. We’ll report the car as damaged, let the cops tow it to the impound, and at least our killer won’t be able to recover it. If we ever get this guy into a court, we’ll figure out some slick way to have it discovered and introduced as evidence.” That is, if we live through this, I failed to add.
She nodded. “I’ll call the Boston PD on my cell phone.” She added, “I won’t give them my name-just that I saw somebody break a car window, and I’ll tell them where to find it.”
“Good idea.”
She made the call and we then began walking back to Aunt Ethel’s. Back to the other matter, I said to Janet, “Look, this guy… Down by the river, I formed a few impressions.”
“I’m listening.”
“Before I became a JAG, I made my living in special operations. You develop an eye for the talent and the type.”
“What’s his type?”
I wasn’t ready to get into that yet, so I said, “Review what happened this morning. He selected a partner to jog with, a very attractive young lady who would draw the attention and make him less noticeable.”
“I already figured that one out.”
“Remember how he and the young lady first ran by you?”
“Yes… so?”
“Reconnaissance. He was sizing up his target, looking for surveillance, plotting where to take you, and where and how to make his escape. A mental rehearsal.”
“Okay.”
“He chose his approach to keep you between us and him. He’d seen us and he used your body as a screen, so we’d be lousy witnesses.”
She thought about this a moment, then asked, “You think he was that calculating?”
“There’s more.” I then asked her, “What was he doing when you fired at him?”
She thought back, then said, “I… yes, it was some kind of strange weaving motion.”
“He stepped closer to you?”
“Yes. He did. Then he started weaving.”
“Because you communicated that you had a gun. It was the look in your eye, maybe, but I’d bet you jammed
