“Do you know what Tommaso means in Italian?”
Taylor shook her head. “No, what?”
“Twin. Tommaso means twin.”
She spit out a laugh. “That’s precious.”
“You better believe it. Taylor, I don’t want to lose these guys. I want to nail them, and then I want to study them. Identical-twin serial killers. Identical twin necrosadists. Can you imagine?”
Baldwin’s voice had taken on that dreamy quality it always did when he was confronted by true evil. It was his calling, his purpose, to find out what made these men and women tick.
“No, I can’t. What in the world would drive this type of pathology?”
“That’s the fascinating thing about this. With identical twins, it’s like they are the same person, just in two bodies. It makes sense that if one has the pathological desire to commune with the dead, the other would as well. Of course, that drives a massive stake in the nature versus nurture theory.”
Taylor looked at him. “Are you assuming they were brought up in some sort of environment that made them this way?”
“I can’t assume anything, not until we find out who they really are. The background on Gavin Adler shows he was adopted. We’re trying to track down by whom. Hopefully, that will give us the name of the other brother. It’s going to be fascinating to see what their young lives were like. I’m telling you, Taylor, no matter what kind of environment a child is brought up in, there is a reasonable expectation that they’ll understand what’s right and what’s wrong, that they will receive the tools to form a positive moral compass. Serial killers aren’t made. They choose to be killers, they choose to take lives. A hidden desire for necrophilia is something that’s probably not learned. Of course, that’s another completely misunderstood pathology. Did you know that necrophilia is really just the desire to have sex with an unresisting partner, and the vast majority of necrophiliacs are stunted in the fantasy stage? Very few actually act on their desires, and when they do, they seek out role-playing partners who are willing to pretend with them. They’re looking for compliant sex, completely submissive. Some of the more disturbed ones will drug their prey-like roofies. Classic necro behavior.”
“You’re saying that men who give roofies to women and rape them are actually necrophiliacs?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They want power and control, and they don’t want to be told no. You should see the Web sites out there dedicated to this. They have what they call ‘Sleepy Sex,’ arranged for partners who are willing to be photographed during the role play, then share them.”
“That’s…disturbing. The thought of an undercurrent of men and women who are into this…well, everyone has their kink. From the instant messages it seems Adler didn’t know Tommaso was his brother until yesterday. Do you think Tommaso and Gavin met through one of these sites?”
“I don’t know. Here’s the problem, though. Our boys have moved on to something much more sinister. They are actually killing to have sex with the dead bodies. They are a highly evolved version of the classic necrophiliac. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a background that includes working at or near a morgue, or in the funeral business. As it is, they’re well beyond anything I’ve seen before. And the art, the painting? Leaving the postcards at the scenes? Think about it.”
She did. “Oh…Static women, posed and at the ready.”
“Exactly.”
He settled back in the seat, took her hand. “I’ll tell you one thing, Adler is panicked. You know when a suspect goes off his beaten path, does something that isn’t in his normal routine, he messes up. Our boy has messed up, royally. We’re going to catch him now, and we’re going to catch his brother, too. There are a lot of people in Italy who will sleep easier once we have II Macellaio off the streets.”
“Should we be calling them I Macellai now, instead?” she asked.
“The Butchers. Plural. Yes, I guess we should.”
“He left his cat behind.”
“Adler?”
“Yes. McKenzie is going to foster it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no, animal control might have destroyed the poor thing. But guess what the cat’s name is.”
“What?”
“Art.”
Baldwin just shook his head. “That’s just too much. Adler’s an artist of sorts. He’s listed as the designer on the Picasso monograph. We’re looking into anything that’s got a copyright with his name near it. Any idea where he worked?”
“No. McKenzie is handling that part back in Nashville. But now that I know all of this, I can have McKenzie look deeper. It didn’t seem like he worked out of the house. Granted, once we get into his computer all the way, we can find out all of this.”
“It’s like Son of Sam.”
“Huh?”
“Remember, he got caught because of a parking ticket. Adler got caught because one of your patrol officers was sharp enough to spot that he was acting weird.”
“He wasn’t wearing his safety belt. Such a stupid little mistake. But we’d have found him anyway. I think that’s what made him run, getting pulled over. I think he would have stuck it out with Kendra Kelley otherwise, and we might have actually gotten our hands on him in the act.”
“How is the Kelley girl?”
“She’ll live. She’d been drugged, they had to pump her full of Narcan to stop the overdose. I don’t know what kind of emotional scars she might have. He glued the eyes of his last victim open. Imagine, being locked in a Plexiglas box, able to see your killer, feeling your life draining away inch by inch. You can imagine where he may go next. We saved her from a nasty fate.”
“We’re here,” Baldwin said.
Taylor looked out the window. They were parked in front of a restaurant called the Globe and Laurel. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. Taylor was starving, her mouth watering at the mere thought of sustenance. Baldwin heard her stomach growl, looked sheepishly at her. “Everyone’s already here. Thought we might eat before we worked.”
“That, my dear, sounds wonderful.”
Thirty-Five
T he table ordered a round, and Wills Appleby suggested Memphis try the lager. Memphis had drunk beer at university, one of those things you do to fit in with the boys, but he’d never truly enjoyed it. He didn’t have the heart to mention he’d much rather have a nice glass of cabernet.
The waitress brought their drinks and he took a sip of the lager. There was a surprise. He had to admit, it wasn’t too bad. His cell rang, and he saw it was Pen calling. He put the phone to his ear, had just greeted her when Taylor Jackson walked into the room. His breath caught in his throat.
She was smiling, shaking hands, her full lips moving as she moved about the table greeting the team. She shook his in acknowledgment, and then she was gone, being introduced to that infernally tall Kevin Salt, who Memphis liked despite the fact that he had to look up at him. He had to look up to Baldwin, as well. But he and Taylor were exactly eye to eye. He couldn’t help but think what that would mean if they were horizontal.
“Memphis? Memphis!”
“Oh, Pen, sorry. Sorry. Got distracted for a moment.”
“A bit of skirt wandered by, no doubt.”
“You could say that. So, where were we?”
Pen had been feverishly tracing down the latest London movements of the man called Tommaso. He listened to her rant with half an ear-so far no one could recall renting to the artist; they were combing the hotels for his name. There were inquiries being made at the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Saatchi, the Tate Modern, the Tate Britain, anywhere the man might have been working. The witness had fallen through. It would take a little bit of time, she was saying. Just a bit more time.
“Okay then, Pen. Call me when you have something.”
