focused on how the criminal mind works. Actually I'd planned to be a Profiler, but I couldn't live what they do every day. So here I am. Thank God for Savich's new unit.'
'You even learn about blood-spattering patterns?'
'Yeah, some of the examples of that were pretty gruesome. I'm not an expert, but at least I learned enough so that I'd know what to do, where to find out more, who to contact.'
Captain Dougherty said, 'Everyone thinks profiling is so sexy. Remember that show on TV about a Profiler?'
'Yeah, the one with ESP. Now that was something, wasn't it? Why bother with profiling? A waste of time. Just tune in to the guy and you've got him.'
He grinned and she distracted him with another question about one of the men they'd hauled in for questioning.
It was at midnight when Savich sat up in bed, drew a very deep breath, and said softly, 'I've got you, you son of a bitch.'
He worked at the computer until three o'clock in the morning. He called Ralph Budnack at seven A.M. and told him what he needed.
'You got something, Savich?'
'I just might,' he said slowly. 'I just might. On the other hand, I might be off plucking daisies in that big flower market in the sky. Keep doing what you're doing.' He then called Lacey's room.
'I need you,' he said. 'Come to my room and we'll order room service.'
The fax was humming out page after page from Budnack. 'Yeah,' Savich was saying, 'this will help.'
'You won't tell me what you're homing in on?'
'Nope, not until I know there's a slight chance I'm on the right track.'
'I was thinking far into the night,' she said, and although it wasn't at all cold in the room, she was rubbing her hands over her arms. She looked tired, pinched. 'I couldn't get this seven business out of my mind.' She drew a deep breath. 'We banked everything on seven, and so we got the Pleiades and all that numerology stuff. But what if it doesn't have anything to do with seven at all? What if there was just the one instance of seven and that was merely the time lag before he started killing again? What if he killed more than seven women? Eight women or even nine?' She looked nearly desperate, standing there, rubbing her arms. 'Not much of a big lead there. I think you're right, it's just too pat, and too confining. But if there's nothing there, then what else is there?'
'You're perfectly right. You've got a good brain, Sherlock. My brain was working in tandem with yours-'
She laughed, some of the tension easing out of her. ''Which means that you've got a good brain too.'
'Me and MAX together have a top-drawer brain. All right, let me tell you where I'm heading and if you think I'm off the wall, then you can haul me back. I've been thinking that we've gotten too fancy here, exactly what you said-it's too complicated out there. It assumes our killer is a really deep profound fellow with lots of esoteric literary or astrological underpinnings. That he probably builds designer furniture on the side. I woke up at midnight and thought: Give me a break. This is nothing but a headache theory. It's time to get back to basics.
'I knew then that our guy isn't any of those things. I think the answer just might lie with the obvious. I've been asking MAX to come up with other alternatives or new options based on new factoring data I've put in.' He drew a deep breath. 'Remember, Sherlock, this still might not lead anywhere.'
'What's obvious?'
'A psychopath who knows how to build props, make them fold up small, and make them portable. I know that they checked into this in San Francisco-they went to all the theaters, interviewed a dozen prop designers and builders. I went back in to see exactly what they did find-and where they'd looked, what kind of suspects they'd turned up.
'Not much, as it turns out. So, I'm having MAX look where they didn't look. I've inputted just about everything I can think of into the program so we've got a prayer of turning up something helpful.'
She didn't say anything, just looked at him. She felt hope well up, but she was afraid to nourish it. She saw that he was rubbing his neck.
'What's wrong with you?'
'I worked out too hard last night after you left and then spent too much time hunched over MAX. No big deal.'
'If you're not too macho, you might consider some aspirin. On the other hand, I hesitate to say anything at all now, given that you and MAX together are such a great team and MAX has got the bit between his teeth.'
'Yeah, he's got a great byte.'
'That was funny, Dillon, if you spelled it right.'
'Trust me. I did.'
'You look like you're ready to burst out of your skin and you can still be funny.'
'You're not laughing.'
'I'm too scared.' And it was the truth. She was terrified he would kill again, terrified that he would escape and there would never be justice.
He watched her walk away from him across to the far windows that looked down eight floors to the street below.
'You want to tell me what else happened seven years ago?'
She actually flinched as if he'd struck her. He rose slowly and walked to her. He reached out his hand, looked at it, then dropped his arm back to his side. He said only, 'Sherlock.'
She didn't turn, just shook her head.
MAX beeped. Savich pressed the PRINT button. After a moment, he picked out one sheet of paper from the printer. He began to laugh. 'MAX says our person may be in building supplies.'
She whipped around so fast she nearly fell. 'As in a lumberyard?'
'Yes. He says that odds are good that with all the building materials the killer left behind, the type of hardware the killer used, the type of nails, the wood, the kinds of corkboard, the brackets, etcetera, that our guy works in lumber. Of course, the cops in the SFPD looked at every prop he left behind at every murder. It turns out that the wood wasn't traceable, that all the brackets, hinges, and screws were common and sold everywhere. They came up dry. Now, they never specifically went after men who worked in lumberyards. MAX thinks we should look again.'
Her eyes were sparkling. 'MAX is the greatest. It's brilliant.'
'We'll see. Now in addition to a guy who works in lumber, we've also got a psychopath who hates women and cuts out their tongues. Why? Because he himself has taken grief from them or seen other men take the grief?'
She said slowly, not meeting his eyes, 'Just maybe he cuts out their tongues because he knows they bad- mouth their husbands and curse a whole lot. Maybe he doesn't believe women should curse. Maybe that's how he picks out the women to kill.'
She'd known that all along, he thought, but how? It was driving him crazy, but he let it go for now. He knew she was right on the money. It felt right to his gut-no, perfect. He said easily, 'That sounds really possible. Weren't there some profiles drawing that conclusion?'
'Yes, certainly there were. The guy's not in the theater or anything sexy like that?'
'Nope. I'll called Ralph. He can check to see who's arrived during the past year in Boston who works for a lumberyard.' Now that he thought about it, perhaps he had seen some speculation about that in some of the reports and profiles he'd read. Still, there was a whole lot more to all this. He looked at her. She looked away. Trust was a funny thing. It took time.
Marlin Jones was the assistant manager at the Appletree Home Supplies and Mill Yard in Newton Center. He was in conversation with his manager, Dude Crosby, when a pretty young woman with thick, curly auburn hair came up to him, a piece of plywood in her hand. There was something familiar about her.
He smiled at her, his eyes on that foot-long piece of plywood. He said before she could explain, 'The problem is that the plywood's too cheap. You tried to put a nail through it and it shredded the plywood. If you'll come over here, I'll show you some better pieces that won't fall apart on you. Have we met before?'
'Thank you, er, Mr. Jones,' she said, looking at his name tag. 'No, we haven't met before.'
'I'm not very good at remembering faces, but well, you're so pretty, maybe that's why I thought I'd met you before.' She followed him out into the lumberyard. 'What are you doing with the plywood, ma'am?'
