There was silence on the other end for a moment.
He asked, “Is there a way I can confirm you were a witness?”
“I just spent the morning in the Federal Building with the FBI. Ask them.”
“I will. Now, Mr… I mean, Major…”
“Drummond.”
“Right. I’m required by law to inform you that I’m recording this conversation.”
“Fine.”
He started asking questions, all of which were pretty general in nature, and I answered truthfully, though not completely, as you might imagine. He wanted a little local color, a general description of the event, and so forth.
After a few minutes of this back-and-forth, he’d spent his nickel, and he said, “Anything else you wanted to add?”
“Well, you didn’t ask me to describe him.”
“You mean you saw him?”
“I got a great look at him.”
“Uh-huh. A short guy with a ponytail, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“About six foot four, maybe six-five, nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, and he didn’t have a ponytail.”
The line went silent for a moment. He finally said, “Uh… that conflicts with the FBI’s description of the L. A. Killer.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” I suggested, “Draw your own conclusion.”
“You mean… you mean, they’ve pinned the wrong guy?”
“Consider that a good conclusion.” I swiftly added, “And another thing…” I paused a moment, then said, “Well… ah, no, forget about it.”
“What? Come on.”
“A lot of people are terrified of this guy, right?”
“You could say that.”
“And I guess… well, what I’d say, having watched him in action, is his reputation’s way overblown.”
“How so?”
“It’s pretty stupid to attack that woman right there in the wide open, police everywhere. And Miss Morrow definitely outfoxed him. You had to see this big idiot running away from this tiny woman.”
Mr. Stynowitz was beginning to sound very excited, and he suggested, “You’re saying he’s not only not the L. A. Killer, but he’s also not competent?”
The string of double negatives aside, I replied, “That’s what I am saying.” I added, “Look, I know this sounds crass, but what I witnessed this morning was stunningly stupid. This is a really sick, perverted idiot who has managed to murder a few women because he sneaks up on them. But when it’s face-to-face, he runs like a jackass. Essentially, he’s a gutless coward.”
Well, we did a little more back-and-forth, but I’d gotten the quotes I wanted in, and he ended by making sure I didn’t mind being openly named, which was really ethical of him, because a lot of his colleagues don’t do that, and he promised he’d play me square, and then we signed off.
The Associated Press, you have to understand, are sort of the hacks of modern journalism, trained to compose and file their stories quickly, which are then distributed to multiple news services. Given Joe Q. Public’s prurient interest in this case, by evening, Sean Drummond’s commentary about America’s most famous killer would make it into a lot of news channels.
The files in the rental car placed Janet ahead of me in the killer’s queue. Had she obeyed Meany’s very sound advice and retreated into protective custody, her odds of living a long and fulfilling life would be excellent. But even the President’s security detail couldn’t protect her out in the open-against this guy, nobody could.
I had held back on the throttle a little in my talk with Janet. I mean, there’s what you see-what we all saw- but to really get inside his head, it helps when you once walked in his shoes.
So, back to what we all saw-his physique. A build like that is the product of thousands of hours in the weight room, careful dieting, probably steroids, and colossal willpower. He probably had a teeny weenie and was compensating, but the shrinks could nail the tail on that particular donkey. Also, nobody gets that expert at the killing game without abnormal drive, discipline, and a vicious competitive streak.
But psychotic minds are individualistic, distinguishable by their unique fetishes and idiosyncrasies. Thus, back to his signature style. It had been his intention to arrange Janet’s murder without drawing parallels to the other victims, right? So why not snuff her with a drive-by shot? Or whack her with sniper rifle from a distance? Atomize her with a bomb? All of these options offered less chance of witnesses and less risk of failure. Also, given her public profile as an ADA who messed around with mob cases, both the torching of her father’s home and her murder could easily be blamed on the goombahs. No-he used a knife and you have to ask, why? My guess was because he wanted her to see him, and he wanted to see the fear in her eyes. This guy drew sustenance and satisfaction from fear. For him, killing had to be personal, a contest where triumph depended on the victim having some chance of winning, but ultimately losing.
All of which suggested an outsized ego driven by a particularly twisted narcissistic complex.
Inside my head I could picture this guy jerking heavy iron bars over his head and gazing adoringly at his own sculpted image in the mirror. By extrapolation, I was betting he followed his own publicity compulsively. He fed on the public fear and outrage. It made him feel oh so fucking smart and superior to outsmart the FBI and the great American public. At risk of getting too wrapped around the twisted metaphysics of this thing, for him, the public image, the way he shaped that image, the way he manipulated that image, that was another mirror.
So, back to my motive. He would understand why I was shooting off my mouth. I was alerting him that I was aware I was on his list, and in a visceral, machismo, one-badass-to-another way, I was pissing on his mirror. Here he had gone to all this time, trouble, and effort to copycat, and I was tearing off his disguise, yanking down his drawers, and telling the world he had a teeny weenie. Metaphorically speaking. Three points on the board for Drummond. He would now feel the need to recoup those points. Also, he would assume I wasn’t guarded, whereas Janet was guarded, and every professional killer knows to go after the low-lying fruit first.
I truly didn’t really want this guy coming after me. I used to be quite good at this game, a long time, a few serious wounds, and too many cheeseburgers ago. He was clearly still at the top of his game, in tip-top shape, a creature honed and sharpened to a murderous edge. But I definitely didn’t want him coming after Janet. In fact, what I really wanted was to convey to George Meany that I had no hesitation about going into protective custody, especially if the FBI had a safe house in Bermuda. In the interest of the federal budget, I’d even agree to shack up with Janet.
But Janet wouldn’t go, so I couldn’t go. I was therefore telling myself that Janet’s odds of stopping this monster were less than mine. Also, I was developing a very deep crush on her, despite the fact that she was once actually engaged to George the Dork.
I withdrew my wallet and pulled out Lisa’s picture.
The calculus had just changed. This guy had snuffed out a beautiful life, actually, several beautiful lives, and when I thought that was the product of madness, I could live with the state meting out whatever penalty twelve of his peers thought he deserved. Now that I knew he had murdered my beautiful and talented friend for filthy lucre, I wanted to strangle him with his own guts.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Predictably, George Meany threw a monumental hissy fit when Janet informed Bob, and Bob then unhappily informed his boss, that she had insisted on returning to D. C. for business. After what sounded like a fairly good tongue-lashing, an ashen-faced Bob handed Janet his cell phone.
She said to Meany, “George, let’s not get into an argument about this.”
He said something, and she nodded, and replied, “That’s right. My mind is made up. I have work to do, and
