they get one and can’t relate to people and they get into trouble, get fired-and then have no money and no way to get another job. So they turn to what they know, or what they learned in the joint, and that’s robbery, or theft, or drugs. And they get caught and tossed back in prison again.” Vail slid closer to the letter, took another look at it, and said, “There’s more here, but that’s a start.”
“So what do we do with this?” Friedberg asked. “He didn’t give us a way of responding.”
“But he did,” Vail said. “He wants the attention. So if we want to reply, and we do, we have to do it publicly.”
“And what reply do we ‘want’ to send?” Burden asked.
“Appeal to his grandiosity. We should make it all about him. He’s the ultimate, super important. All our efforts are focused on him. We’re blown away by his intelligence. But at the same time, we have to challenge him so he doesn’t get bored with us.”
“Bored with us?” Burden asked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Psychopaths get bored. It’s a part of who they are, their personalities. We’re finding they’ll even vary their crimes just to keep it interesting and different. That could explain why the new crime scenes are slightly different.”
“But if he gets bored with us,” Friedberg said, “and stops communicating, then what?”
“Nothing good from our perspective. Unless we handle it right, he could quickly lose interest in me. I have to let him think he’s in control. Some detectives who had a dialogue with a serial killer want to talk to them after they’re caught. They think they’ve got some kind of ‘special’ relationship with this killer, but the killer doesn’t give a shit about them. It’s all about how the serial killer thinks he can manipulate and use the detective. And then he spits them out.
“If I go to visit an offender in prison, someone I’ve spoken with a number of times in the past, he won’t have warm, fuzzy memories of talking with me-even if we did have productive chats. These assholes don’t form a bond with me or anyone else. There’s just no loyalty there because they’re not capable of it. Our UNSUB’s contacting us-me-because it’s exciting to contact ‘his’ profiler. But I could lose him really fast if I don’t handle it right.”
“I say we just tell him to fuck off,” Burden said.
“First of all,” Friedberg said, “other than quotes in an article that we plant, we have no way of reaching him.”
Vail said, “He’s set this up as a one-way conversation, which fits-his opinion is all that matters.”
“What about TV? Would that be better than a newspaper or website post?” Dixon asked.
Vail cringed. “TV’s bigger, more grandiose. We definitely don’t want to go there unless he forces us to. So far that hasn’t been an issue.”
“So we build up his ego,” Dixon said. “How would we simultaneously challenge him to keep his interest?”
Vail rose from her chair and walked over to the murder board where the photos were displayed. “We ask him to help us out, because we’re not getting what he’s trying to tell us. We understand he had a tough time in prison, but we sense there’s a bigger picture, that there’s a message here we’re not capable of seeing without his help.”
Burden slapped a hand on the table; the pencil jumped. “So you’re saying we should play dumb and ask this fuckwad, who’s murdered several people, to help us out because we’re incompetent and we can’t catch him?”
Vail tilted her head. “Do you see him behind bars, Burden? Because I sure don’t. So check your ego at the goddamn door so we can do what we need to do to keep this guy contacting us. Sooner or later, if we play it right, he’s gonna tell us something that will give us a direct line to him. Get it?”
Burden tightened his jaw. “Whatever.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”
“Karen,” Dixon said, then gave her a slight shake of her head.
Cut it out. Vail took a deep breath. You’re letting the offender get to you. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. When she opened them, she realized her team was looking at her. “All right. I don’t see where we have a choice. This asshole wants to play.” She shrugged. “Let’s play.”
AT VAIL’S URGING, BURDEN CALLED Allman and told him to meet them at the Tadich Grill, a four minute ride from the station. They hadn’t eaten in several hours, and with Burden looking to avoid his lieutenant’s overtime budgetary wrath, they decided to extend their day by meeting, unofficially, offsite.
“Tadich is the oldest restaurant in the city,” Friedberg said. “It may even be the oldest business, period. Dates all the way back to the Gold Rush days, 1849.”
The neon sign that protruded perpendicularly from the emerald-toned building front confirmed Friedberg’s information. Apparently, the establishment was proud of their heritage, as it was also emblazoned across the transom over the doorway. And on the glass storefront.
Vail pointed to the text. “Actually, it says they’re the oldest in the state, not just the city.”
Friedberg hiked his brow. “Whaddya know. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Please do,” Vail said. She leaned back and looked accusingly at Friedberg. “Is the rest of your info that faulty?”
“Did you notice the name of this building?” Burden asked. He pointed to the sign above the Tadich entrance. “The Bitch Building. Guess it’s only fitting that you’re eating here.”
“It’s B-u-i-c-h,” Friedberg said, spelling it out. “I’m not sure I’d pronounce it ‘bitch.’”
“Karen might,” Burden said.
Vail jutted her chin back and looked admiringly at Burden. “Good one.”
Dixon pulled open the polished copper door and they filed in. Ahead of them stood an expansive bar that dominated the right side of the long and narrow restaurant. A silver-haired man in a white jacket and black pants greeted them and led them across the white tile and paneled walls to a series of private booths that lined the left side of the interior. Quarter loaves of round sourdough bread sat on a plate on each empty table, along with a bowl of sliced lemons.
“In a few minutes this place is gonna be packed,” Burden said.
“Food’s that good?” Vail asked.
Burden bobbed his head from side to side. “It’s more…the experience of eating here.”
“The experience,” Vail repeated. She turned to Dixon. “I think we’re in trouble.”
The waiter gave Vail an unsavory twist of his face, set down the cardstock menus, and pushed his way toward the front of the restaurant, where more diners were entering.
Their table was separated by a tall wood divider that gave them a
