The stalk before and the reenactment afterward can be a big part of the turn-on.?
?If they?re so good at avoiding detection, why would they keep that stuff? Isn?t it risky??
?Most of them think they?re superior to the cops. Too smart to get caught.?
?What about body parts??
?What
?Do they keep them??
Pause. ?Not common, but sometimes.?
?So what do you think about the M #233;tro and want ad idea??
?The fantasies these guys act out can be incredibly elaborate and very specific. Some need special locations, exact sequences of events. Some sexual sadists need specific victim responses, so they script the whole thing, force the victim to say certain things, perform certain acts, wear certain clothes. But, Tempe, these behaviors aren?t just typical of sexual sadists. They characterize a lot of personality disorders. Don?t get hung up on the sexual sadist angle. What you want to look for is that signature, that calling card that only your killer leaves. That?s how you?ll nail him, regardless of how psychiatrists classify him. Using the M #233;tro and newspaper could figure into your boy?s fantasy.?
?J.S., based on what I?ve told you, what do you think??
There was a long pause, a slow expulsion of breath.
?I think you?ve got a real nasty one up there, Tempe. Tremendous anger. Extreme violence. If it is this St. Jacques character, his using the victim?s bank card bothers me. Either he?s incredibly stupid, and it doesn?t look that way, or he?s getting sloppy for some reason. Maybe sudden financial pressure. Or he?s getting bolder. The skull in your garden is a flag. He was sending a message. Maybe a taunt. Or, it?s possible that at some level he wants to be caught. I don?t like what you?re telling me about how you figure in. And it looks like you
I told him about the night at the monastery and the car that had tailed me.
?Christ, Tempe, if this guy?s refocusing on you, don?t play games. He?s dangerous.?
?J.S., if it was him on the monastery grounds, why didn?t he just kill me then??
?It goes back to what I was saying before. You probably surprised him out there, so he wasn?t prepared to kill in the way he likes. He wasn?t in control. Maybe he didn?t have his kit. Maybe the fact that you were unconscious robbed him of the rush he gets at seeing his victim?s fear.?
?No death ritual.?
?Exactly.?
We chatted for a while, other places, old friends, the time before murder became part of our lives. When we hung up it was after eight.
I leaned back, stretched my arms and legs, and went limp. For some time I lay there, a rag doll recalling its past. Eventually, hunger roused me, and I went to the kitchen, warmed a tray of frozen lasagna and forced myself to eat it. Then I spent an hour reconstructing from my notes what J.S. had said. His parting words kept coming back to me.
?The intervals are getting shorter.?
Yes, I knew that.
?He?s upping the stakes.?
I knew that too.
?He may now have his sights trained on you.?
At ten I went to bed. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling alone and sorry for myself. Why did I carry the burden of these women?s deaths? Did someone have me in the crosshairs of his psychopathic fantasy? Why wouldn?t anyone take me seriously? Why was I getting old, eating frozen dinners in front of a television I didn?t watch? When Birdie nestled at my knee, that tiny bit of contact triggered the tears I?d been holding back since talking to J.S. I cried into the pillowcase Pete and I had bought in Charlotte. Or, rather, I had bought while he stood around looking impatient.
Why had my marriage failed? Why was I sleeping alone? Why was Katy so discontented? Why had my best friend been inconsiderate of me again? Where was she? No. I wouldn?t think about that. I don?t know how long I lay there, feeling the emptiness of my life, listening for Gabby?s key.
29
THE NEXT MORNING I GAVE RYAN A SUMMARY OF MY DISCUSSION with J.S. A week crept by. Nothing.
The weather stayed hot. Days, I worked through bones. Remains found in a septic tank in Canc #250;n had been a tourist missing for nine years. Bones scavenged by dogs had been a teenage girl before homicide by a blunt instrument. A cadaver in a box, hands severed, face mutilated beyond recognition, revealed only that it had been a white male, skeletal age thirty-five to forty.
Nights, I visited the jazz festival, milling with the sticky crowds that clogged Ste. Catherine and Jeanne-Mance. I heard Peruvians, their music a blend of woodwind and rain forest. I wandered from Place des Arts to Complexe Desjardins, enjoying the saxophones and guitars and summer nights. Dixieland. Fusion. RB. Calypso. I willed myself not to look for Gabby. I refused to fear for the women about me. I listened to the music of Senegal, Cape Verde, Rio, and New York, and, for a while, I forgot. The five.
Then, on Thursday, a call came. LaManche. Meeting on Tuesday. Important. Please be there.
I arrived not knowing what to expect, most certainly not what greeted me. Seated with LaManche were Ryan, Bertrand, Claudel, Charbonneau, and two detectives from St. Lambert. The director of the lab, Stefan Patineau, sat at the far end of the table, a crown prosecutor on his right.
They rose as one when I arrived, sending my anxiety level into the cheap seats. I shook hands with Patineau and the attorney. The others nodded, their faces neutral. I tried to read Ryan?s eyes, but they would not meet mine. As I took the one remaining chair, my palms felt sweaty and the familiar knot had hold of my gut. Had this meeting been called to discuss me? To review allegations made against me by Claudel?
Patineau wasted no time. A task force was being formed. The possibility of a serial killer would be examined from every angle, all suspect cases investigated, every lead aggressively pursued. Known sex offenders would be pulled in and questioned. The six detectives would be assigned full time, Ryan would coordinate. I would continue my normal casework, but serve as an ex-officio member of the team. Space had been set aside downstairs, all dossiers and relevant materials were being moved to that location. Seven cases were under consideration. The task force would hold its first meeting that afternoon. We would keep Monsieur Gauvreau and the prosecutor?s office informed of all progress.
Just like that. Done. I returned to my office, more stunned than relieved. Why? Who? I?d been arguing the serial killer theory for almost a month. What had happened to suddenly give it credence? Seven cases? Who were the other two?
Why ask, Brennan? You?ll find out.
And I did. At one-thirty I entered a large room on the second floor. Four tables formed an island in the middle, portable chalk and bulletin boards lined the walls. The detectives were clumped at the back of the room, like buyers at a trade show booth. The board they were viewing held the familiar Montreal and M #233;tro maps, colored pins jutting from each. Seven more boards stood side by side, each topped by a woman?s name and picture. Five were as familiar as my own family, the others I didn?t know.
Claudel favored me with a half second of eye contact, the others greeted me cordially. We exchanged comments about the weather, then moved to the table. Ryan distributed legal pads from a stack in the center, then launched right in.
?You all know why you?re here, and you all know how to do your jobs. I just want to make sure of a few things at this point.?
He looked from face to face, then gestured at a stack of folders.
?I want everyone to study these files. Go through them carefully. Digest everything in them. We?re getting the information on computer, but it?s slow. For now we?ll use the old-fashioned way. If there?s anything you think is
