The Suspect

“I don’t know. I’m just one of the partners.”

Ruiz scratches his chin and then fumbles in his coat pocket for a stick of chewing gum. He unwraps it slowly.

“What exactly does a psychologist do?”

“We help people who are damaged by events in their lives. People with personality disorders, or sexual problems, or phobias.”

“Do you know what I think? A man gets attacked and he’s lying bleeding on the road. Two psychologists pass by and one says to the other, ‘Let’s go and find the person who did this— he needs help.’?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I help more victims than I do perpetrators.”

Ruiz shrugs and tosses the gum wrapper into the wastebasket.

“Start talking. How did you know about the red dress?”

I glance down at the file and undo the ribbon. “In a few minutes from now, I’m going to get a phone call. I will have to leave the office, but you are quite welcome to stay. I think you’ll find my chair is more comfortable than yours.” I open Bobby’s file.

“When you’re finished, if you wish to talk about anything, I’ll be across the road having a drink. I can’t talk about any specific patient or case.” I tap Bobby’s folder to stress the point. “I can only talk in general terms about personality disorders and how psychotics and psychopaths function. It will be much easier if you remember this.”

Ruiz presses the palms of his hands together as if in prayer and taps his forefingers against his lips. “I don’t like playing games.”

“This isn’t a game. We do it this way, or I can’t help you.”

The phone rings. Meena starts her spiel but doesn’t finish. I’m already on my way.

The sun is shining and the sky is blue. It feels more like May than mid-December. London does this occasionally— puts on a glorious day to remind people that it isn’t such a bad place to live.

This is why the English are among the world’s greatest optimists. We get one magnificent hot dry week and the memory will give us succor for an entire summer. It happens every time. Come spring we buy shorts, T-shirts, bikinis and sarongs in glorious expectation of a season that never arrives.

Ruiz finds me standing at the bar nursing a mineral water.

“It’s your round,” he says. “I’ll have a pint of bitter.”

The place is busy with a lunchtime crowd. Ruiz wanders over to four men sitting in the corner by the front window. They look like office boys but are wearing well-cut suits and silk ties.

Ruiz flashes his police badge under the level of the table.

“Sorry to trouble you, gents, but I need to commandeer this table for a surveillance operation on that bank over there.”

He motions out the window and they all turn in unison to look.

“Try to make it a little less obvious!”

They quickly turn back.

“We have reason to believe it is being targeted for an armed hold-up. You see that guy on the corner, wearing the orange vest?”

“The street sweeper?” one of them asks.

“Yeah. Well he’s one of my best. So is the shopgirl in that lingerie shop, next door to the bank. I need this table.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely.”

“Is there anything else we can do?”

I see a twinkle in Ruiz’s eye. “Well, I don’t normally do this— use civilians undercover— but I am short of manpower. You could split up and take a corner each. Try to blend in. Look for a group of men traveling four-up in a car.”

“How do we contact you?”

“You tell the street sweeper.”

“Is there some sort of password?” one of them asks.

Ruiz rolls his eyes. “It’s a police operation not a fucking Bond movie.”

Once they’ve gone, he takes the chair nearest the window and sets his glass on a coaster. I sit opposite him and leave my glass untouched.

“They would have given you the table anyway,” I say, unable to decide if he likes practical jokes or dislikes people.

“Did this Bobby Moran kill Catherine McBride?” He wipes foam from his top lip with the back of his hand.

The question has all the subtlety of a well-thrown brick.

“I can’t talk about individual patients.”

“Did he admit to killing her?”

“I can’t talk about what he may or may not have told me.”

Ruiz’s eyes disappear into a narrow maze of wrinkles and his body tenses. Just as suddenly he exhales and gives me what I suspect is a smile. He’s out of practice.

“Tell me about the man who killed Catherine McBride.”

The message seems to have reached him. Pushing Bobby out of my head, I try to reflect on Catherine’s killer, based on what I know of the crime. I’ve had a week of sleepless nights thinking of little else.

“You are dealing with a sexual psychopath,” I begin, unable to recognize my own voice. “Catherine’s murder was a manifestation of corrupt lust.”

“But there were no signs of sexual assault.”

“You can’t think in terms of normal rape or sex crime. This is a far more extreme example of deviant sexuality. This man is consumed by a desire to dominate and inflict pain. He fantasizes about taking, restraining, dominating, torturing and killing. At least some of these fantasies will mirror almost exactly what happened.

“Think about what he did to her. He took her off the street or enticed her to go with him. He didn’t seek a quick and violent sexual coupling in a dark alley and then silence his victim so she couldn’t identify him. Instead he aimed to break her— to systematically destroy her willpower until she became a compliant, terrified plaything. Even that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted the ultimate in control, to bend someone so completely to his will that she would torture herself…”

I’m watching Ruiz— waiting to lose him. “He almost succeeded, but in the end Catherine wasn’t entirely broken. She still had a spark of defiance left. She was a nurse. Even with a short blade she knew where to cut if she wanted to die quickly. When she could take no more she cut the carotid artery in her neck. That’s what caused the embolism. She was dead within minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Three years at medical school.”

Ruiz is staring at his pint glass, as though checking to see if it is centered properly on the coaster. The chimes of a church bell are ringing in the distance.

“The man you’re looking for is lonely, socially inept and sexually immature.”

“Sounds like your basic teenager.”

“No. He isn’t a teenager. He’s older. A lot of young men start out like this, but every so often one emerges who blames someone else for his loneliness and his sexual frustration. This bitterness and anger grow with each rejection. Sometimes he’ll blame a particular person. Other times he will hate an entire group of people.”

“He hates all women.”

“Possibly, but I think it’s more likely he hates a particular sort of woman. He wants to punish her. He fantasizes about it and it gives him pleasure.”

“Why did he choose Catherine McBride?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she looked like someone he wanted to punish. He may have been driven by opportunity. Catherine was available so he changed his fantasy to incorporate her looks and the clothes she wore.”