kids, a boy and a girl. With families of their own.”
“Electrical cords?” Vail asked.
“All here. In fact, this crime scene is a near copy of the other one.” He turned to face them. “So what’s the deal? Why these people? Another husband and wife. Any significance to that?”
“For now, it’s still possible the UNSUB wants something from the man, so he tortures the woman until he gives it up. But…”
“But what?”
“But I’m not sure that’s right, or maybe it’s not all that’s going on. There are a lot of behaviors left at the scene. This guy is a psychopath, that much is clear. It might not be about information or material things that he wants.”
“How do we find out what he wants?”
“The answer may be in what he left behind at the crime scene. But we may not know enough yet to interpret it.”
Burden’s phone buzzed. He lifted it to his ear and said, “Talk to me.” He listened a moment, then nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”
“Well?” Vail asked.
“Our male vic, Russell Ilg, was an IRS auditor. He retired several years ago and had been working for a consulting company giving lectures to groups on avoiding tax pitfalls.”
“Auditors aren’t well-liked individuals,” Friedberg said.
“What do a white-collar attorney and an IRS auditor have in common?” Vail asked. “Besides brutally murdered spouses and a reservation at the county morgue.”
“Irene worked as a librarian,” Burden said. “She still goes in-went in- twice a week.”
“So did she come into contact with our offender through the library?” Vail asked. “Not sure how we’d track it, but we should see if we can get a list of people who were in the library on the days she worked. Let’s go back a few months.”
“I’ll get on it,” Friedberg said, “though I doubt they have any records like that. But who wouldn’t like a librarian?”
They fell quiet. Vail used the time to think through what she had seen. “You know…it might not be a personal thing. I’m starting to think these victims are conduits.”
“Come again?” Friedberg asked.
“A conduit. It looks personal. The violence, the umbrella, the torture with the electrical shocks. But we’ve now got four vics and two women brutally murdered. His violence is mostly instrumental. It’s cold-blooded, predatory, and mission oriented. I don’t think it’s a personal thing. The vics-the wives, or the husbands, or both-represent someone who wronged him at some point in his life.”
“Great,” Burden said. “Now we gotta figure out what these people are supposed to represent. Back to that symbolism bullshit. That’s fucking great. Where the hell do you go with that?”
“Small steps, Burden. Otherwise it’ll overwhelm us.” Vail gestured with her head. “Did you look around down here?”
Burden waved a hand. “Nothing of interest. They look like an average old couple. Just like the Andersons. No unusual letters. No computer. Did you find one upstairs?”
“No. It’s possible the PC age passed them by. How old are they?”
“Russell was eighty-four. Irene was seventy-nine.”
Vail looked around the kitchen. Appliances were used but not original; they had been replaced at some point in the past decade. She moved into the living room. Family photos stared back at her from the walls. The Ilgs had two children and five grandchildren, from what she could ascertain. Everyone looked happy. It wasn’t just that they were smiling; it was more than that. Their faces and demeanor looked like they weren’t burdened by stress. That’ll change when they find out what happened to their loved ones.
They remained in the apartment another twenty minutes, then walked outside. Leaning against his car was Clay Allman. He pushed off his Toyota and headed toward Vail, Burden, and Friedberg.
“Okay?”
“You’ve got three minutes,” Burden said. “And leave your bag and phone here.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I’d rather not have to answer for missing evidence or unauthorized photos in court.”
Allman shoved his phone in the satchel, then slipped his arm through the strap and dropped the bag at his feet.
Vail watched him sprint down the street, then point back at them while talking with the SFPD officer manning the door.
Burden gave the man a signal, and he admitted the reporter.
Vail said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Years ago he had complete access. These days, it’s a no-no. But I’ve known Clay a long time. He’s covered dozens of murders in this city, and I’ve never had a problem with him screwing us over.”
“Then give him a medal,” Vail said. “But it’s got nothing to do with anything. We need to control the release of information.”
“I’m with Karen,” Friedberg said. “I don’t think it’s smart.”
Burden turned to face them and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Look. He’s got integrity and he’s been a friend of SFPD for-what? Thirty years?”
Friedberg grumbled. “I don’t like people going through my crime scenes. You know that. Never have.”
“It gives us leverage when we need things in return from him.” Burden checked his watch. “This is the guy I mentioned before, Karen. Back at the Cliff House. The one I thought can help us.”
“What are the dangers?” Friedberg asked.
Vail cocked her head. “We certainly don’t want to say anything in the media that could encourage the offender to continue his killing-or escalate and accelerate. If I’m right about our guy being a psychopath, he’s a narcissist. Not acknowledging all he’s done, how great and unusual a killer he is, it could piss him off-and even challenge him. Incite him. Years ago, I interviewed Joseph Paul Franklin, a serial sniper back in the late 70s. As he continued to murder, he was aggravated that his ‘peers’-Bundy and the Unabomber-were getting all the attention. So he decided to kill two young black boys, figuring that would ratchet things up for him, that he’d get more attention-which is what he wanted. And he was right.
“So back to your question about the press, and the dangers. From what I’ve seen, the offender’s content with the public knowing about him. He seeks it out, like Franklin did. Other than the symbolism, that could be the reason why our offender leaves his male vics in high profile places.”
“So what if we just have Clay report the facts and leave out the
