Dance Of Death

homicide: Professor Torrance Hamilton on January 19; Charles Duchamp on January 22; Special Agent Michael Decker on January 23; and Dr. Margo Green on January 26. There were micrographs of fibers and hair, photographs of knots and footprints, abstracts of the M.E. reports, blood splatter analyses, photographs of the murder scenes and weapons, fingerprint reports, diagrams showing ingress and egress where determined, along with an embarrassment of other evidence, relevant or not. Pushpins with colored strings drew red, yellow, green, and blue connections among the evidence. And there were a surprising number of connections: while the M.O.'s were all quite different, there was no doubt in Hayward's mind the same person had committed all four homicides.

No doubt.

Sitting on the middle of her desk was a thin report, just in, from the top guy in the forensic profiling division. He had confirmed that the homicides were psychologically consistent and could have been committed by the same perp. What's more, he had prepared a profile of the killer. It was startling, to say the least.

D.C. and New Orleans didn't know it yet; the FBI didn't know it yet; not even Singleton or Rocker knew it yet: but they were dealing with a serial killer. A meticulous, intelligent, methodical, cool, and utterly insane serial killer.

She spun, strode, spun again. As soon as she showed Rocker that she'd connected the cases, the shit would hit the fan. The FBI, already involved because of Decker's murder, would descend like a ton of bricks. There would be an earthquake of publicity-serial killers always garnered big headlines. But a serial killer like this was totally unheard of. She could almost see the screaming 72-point headline in the Post. The mayor would get involved, maybe even the governor. It was going to be a mess. A god-awful mess.

But she couldn't call Rocker until she had the last piece of evidence, the last piece of the puzzle. The smoking gun. She was going to get raked over the coals, no matter what. The political fallout would be terrible. It was important she had all her ducks in a row- that was the only thing that could save her ass.

A timid rap came on the door, and she halted midstride. 'Come in,' she said.

A man holding a manila envelope poked his head in.

'Where've you been? I was supposed to have this report two hours ago!'

'I'm sorry,' the man stammered, taking a few tentative steps inside the office. 'As I explained on the phone, we had to run the match three times because-'

'Never mind. Just give me the report, please.'

He held it out from a distance, almost as if fearful of being bitten.

'You got a DNA match?' she asked, taking the report.

'Yes. A pair of beautiful matches, blood from the box cutter and the spot on the floor. Both from the same individual, not the victim. But here's the problem: the DNA wasn't in any of the FBI criminal or juvenile databases, so we did like you asked and ran it against all the DNA databases. When we finally did get a match, it was in a federal database, and we had a major problem because of confidentiality issues and… well…' He hesitated.

'Go on,' Hayward said as gently as she could.

'The reason I had to run the program three times was to be absolutely sure about this match. This is explosive stuff, Captain. We can't afford to be wrong.'

'And?' Hayward could hardly breathe.

'You aren't going to believe this. The DNA matched one of the Bureau's top agents.'

Hayward breathed out. 'I believe it. God help us, I believe it.'

FORTY-ONE

ELI Glinn waited in his small private office on the fourth floor of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. It was a sober room, containing only a table, several computers, a small bookshelf, and a clock. The walls were painted gray, and there was nothing of a personal nature in the office, save for a small photograph of a stately blonde woman wearing the uniform of a ship's captain, waving from what appeared to be the bridge of a tanker. A line from a W. H. Auden poem was handwritten beneath.

The office lights had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a large flat-panel monitor, which carried a high-definition digital feed from an office in the basement of the EES building. The video feed showed two people: the subject, Pendergast, with EES's psychological specialist, Rolf Krasner, who was preparing the subject for questioning.

Glinn observed the slender figure of Pendergast with interest. The man's insight into Glinn's own psychology, his extraordinary ability to pick out and interpret a few details scattered about a room which itself was a very morass of detail, had nearly unnerved Glinn-and, in a curious way, deeply impressed him.

While still watching the proceedings on the monitor, the audio turned off, he turned again to the folder Pendergast had given him.

Although unimportant in the larger scheme of things, Pendergast's case was not without its points. For example, there was the near mythical Cain and Abel relationship between these two extraordinary brothers. For Pendergast was extraordinary-Glinn had never before met a man whose intellect he could respect as equal to his own. Glinn had always felt somewhat alienated from the mass of humanity-and yet here was a man he could, in the revolting parlance of the present age, identify with. That Pendergast's brother appeared to be even more intelligent, and yet utterly malevolent, Glinn found even more intriguing. This was a man so consumed by hatred that he had devoted his life to the object of his hatred, not unlike a man under the spell of obsessive love. Whatever lay at the bottom of that hatred was something perhaps unique in human experience.

Glinn glanced back at the monitor. The chitchat was over and Rolf Krasner was getting down to business. The EES psychologist combined a disarmingly friendly air with consummate professionalism. You could hardly believe that this cheerful, round-faced, unassuming man with the Viennese accent could be considered a threat. Indeed, at first glance, he seemed about the most unthreatening personality imaginable-until you saw him in action. Glinn knew just how effective that Jekyll and Hyde strategy could be with an unsuspecting subject.

On the other hand, Krasner had never had a subject like this one.

Glinn leaned over and switched on the audio feed.

'Mr. Pendergast,' Krasner was saying cheerily, 'is there anything I can get you before we begin? Water? A soft drink? A double martini?' A chuckle.

'Nothing, thank you.'

Pendergast appeared ill at ease, as well he should. EES had developed three different modes of interrogation, each for a particular personality type, along with an experimental fourth mode to be used only on the most difficult, resistant-and intelligent-subjects. After they had read through Pendergast's folder and discussed the situation, there was no argument over which mode would be used. Pendergast would be only the sixth person to undergo this fourth type of interrogation. It had never failed.

'We use some of the techniques of good, old-fashioned psychoanalysis,' Krasner said. 'And one of them is that we ask you to lie down on a couch, out of view of the questioner. Would you please make yourself comfortable?'

The figure lay down on the richly brocaded couch and folded his white hands on his chest. Except for the ragged clothes, he looked alarmingly like the corpse at a wake. What a fascinating creature this man is, Glinn thought as he moved his wheelchair closer to the monitor.

'Perhaps you recognize the office we're in, Mr. Pendergast?' Krasner said, bustling about, getting ready.

'I do. Number 19 Berggasse.'

'Exactly! Modeled after Freud's own office in Vienna. We even managed to acquire some of his African carvings. And that Persian carpet in the center also belonged to him. Freud called his office gemutlich, which is an almost untranslatable German word meaning agreeable, comfortable, cozy, friendly-and that is the atmosphere we have strived to create. Do you speak German, Mr. Pendergast?'

'German is not one of my languages, much to my regret. I should have liked to read Goethe's