The Face of Death

Killers are human, and humans are complex. But over the years, we've learned that there are patterns to look for. All serial killers are driven by the compulsion to kill. The how and why of it can be worlds apart.

Organized killers, the Ted Bundys of the world, tend to follow a plan. They are the icemen, the ones with clarity. They're careful and cold-blooded until the moment of the act itself. They don't necessarily have a need to depersonalize their victims, and they can be consummate actors, blending in with the rest of us, their sickness undetectable.

Disorganized killers are different. They are the Jeffrey Dahmers, the Son of Sams. They have difficulty assimilating with others. They often trouble their neighbors or coworkers with odd behavior. It's hard for them to control their compulsions and they thus find it difficult to stick to any long-term plan. In the methodology of the disorganized killer you find victims of opportunity and over-the-top mutilations. This is the realm of on-site cannibalism, of women with their breasts or genitals ripped away.

Of a husband and a wife, gutted like deer.

Full-blown disembowelment represents a frenzy. It would be very unusual for a killer in that state to be able to make the choice to keep Sarah alive. And yet he did.

'He seems to have a plan,' Callie says. 'Perhaps things aren't as they seem.'

'What Sarah said would seem to indicate that she was his intended victim. So why so much violence to the others? Things don't add up.'

'They will.'

Callie is right. They will, they always do. Serial killers may not always get caught, but they are never--ever-- original, not when you get down to the basics of what makes them tick. They might be cleverer than we're used to, or more horrifying, but in the end, they are all driven by compulsion. A pattern is inevitable. This is an absolute and they can't escape it, no matter how sane or smart they are.

'I know. So what's up with the pain and the pain pills?' I ask, blurting it out before really thinking about it.

Callie glances at me, eyebrow raised. 'There's an abrupt change of subject.' I make a right turn, following Barry. 'The doctors think it's a result of some minor nerve damage. They say it could heal, but they're not as hopeful as they had been. It's been almost six months, after all.'

'How bad is the pain?'

'It has sharp moments. That's not the real problem. It's the constancy of it. Low-key pain that never goes away is worse, in my humble opinion, than occasional agony.'

'And the Vicodin helps?'

I see her smile in profile. 'Smoky, we're friends for many reasons. One of them is that we only speak the truth to each other. Ask what you really want to ask.'

I sigh. 'You're right. I'm worried about the addiction end of things, obviously. Worried for you.'

'Understandable. So here's the truth: Addiction is inevitable. I imagine if I stopped taking them now, it would be difficult. In another three months, it'll probably be worse. The truth is, if this never resolves, I'll be on some form of pain medication forever, which will mean the end of my career. So, Smoky my friend, you're right to be worried, and you're not alone in worrying. I give you permission to ask me about it once a month, and I promise to be honest about where things stand so you can make the right decisions. Beyond that, I don't want to discuss it, agreed?'

'Jesus, Callie. Are you doing everything the docs are telling you to?'

'Of course I am.' She sounds tired. 'Physical therapy is the main thing. I want to lick this, Smoky. I have five things in my life: my job, my friends, my daughter, my grandson, and my frequent, very satisfying sexual encounters. I'm fairly happy with that. Losing this job?'

She shakes her head. 'That would leave a rather large hole. And that's about as much 'me talk' as I can stand for now.'

I stare at her, sigh. 'Fair enough.'

I let it go, but file it under 'urgent.' Just another thing that'll never be far from my mind. I should report her and put her on desk duty, but I won't and she knows it. Callie is as ruthless with herself as she is with the truth of evidence. If she feels she's become a liability, I won't have to sideline her. She'll do it herself.

Of course, if I go to Quantico, the professional end of it won't be my problem. . . .

Barry turns left onto another one of those quieter, residential streets. I follow him for a block, we turn left at a stop sign, and make an immediate right into an apartment parking lot.

'I see what he means about this place,' Callie remarks, looking through the windshield.

This is an old apartment complex of a type raised in the seventies, a two-story built around a courtyard with perhaps forty units. It's trimmed in brown wood, and the stucco over the concrete is dirty and cracking. The pavement in the parking lot is cracked, and there are no paint-lines to delineate the boundaries of the parking spaces. Two large blue trash Dumpsters are pushed up against the building. Both are close to overflowing.

We get out of the car and meet Barry.

'Nice, huh?' he says, indicating things.

'I've seen worse,' I reply, 'but I wouldn't want to live here.'

'Yeah, well, the courtyard used to be okay. What's the apartment number?'

'Twenty.'

'Second floor. Let's go.'

Barry's right; the courtyard is okay. Not great, but better than the exterior. It has a centerpiece of trees and grass, well kept up. All of the apartment doors face into the courtyard, two floors of them, forming one big square. You can hear the city here, but there's a degree of insulation. It was meant to be an oasis of privacy, but it was designed on too small and too cloistered a scale. It feels like a trap now, or a cage. Wagons circled against the coming, inevitable siege of the city.

'Apartment twenty is on the upper left corner,' Barry says.

'Take the lead,' I reply.

We un-holster our weapons and make our way up the stairs. I can see lights on in most windows. Everyone keeps their drapes drawn here; there's no other way to achieve any privacy. We reach the top of the stairs. The door to apartment twenty is two doors to our right. Barry hugs the wall as he makes his way to the door, moving fast. We follow. He reaches out with his free hand and knocks, loud. Copknocking.

'LAPD. Open the door please.'

Silence.

Silence, in fact, all the way around. TVs had been on, radios had been playing. Now everything has gone quiet. I can sense the other residents, listening. Circling those wagons. Barry knocks again, louder.

'Open up, please. This is the Los Angeles Police Department. If you don't open the door, we'll be forced to enter the premises.'

We wait.

Again, no response.

'Phone call gives us probable cause.' He shrugs. 'Let's see if the door is unlocked. If not, we'll have to dig up the manager.'

'Go ahead,' I tell him.

He reaches over and tries the knob. It turns in his hand. He looks back at us.

'Ready?'

We nod.

He flings the door wide with a single motion, moving to the right of it as he does so. His gun comes up in a two-handed grip. I fill the space on the left and do the same.

We're looking into a living room butted up next to a kitchen. The carpet is a medium weave, old and dirty, an unattractive brown. A black leather sofa sits against a wall in the small space, facing a cheap entertainment center housing a thirty-inch television. The TV is on, the volume down. An infomercial for some kind of business opportunity murmurs.

'Hello?' Barry calls.

No reply.

A cheap and battered wooden coffee table sits in front of the leather couch. I see various adult magazines