If death could come for you at any time, why save the good stuff?
The room ready, I stood in front of the fireplace with Clyde, shifting edgily from foot to foot. Clyde watched me a moment, then stretched out on the carpet with a sigh.
“That’s right, buddy,” I said. “Rest while you can.”
He closed his eyes.
In the flickering shadows from the fire, I took in the room, my favorite in the house.
The library would be the envy of any bibliophile, with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases stuffed with leather-bound tomes and a vast assortment of more modern hardbacks. A ten-foot wood-and-brass ladder moved along a track, allowing access to the highest books. On one wall, large windows overlooked the back gardens, illuminated by lights along a flagstone path. The only other interruption to the books was the occasional piece of art. I moved to stand in front of an engraving of Egyptian ruins.
“Ramses the second,” Evan said from the doorway. “André Dutertre. He traveled to Egypt with Napoleon as part of his Commission des Sciences et des Arts d’Egypte. Napoleon wanted conquest. Instead he found beauty and history. And tragedy.”
I took in the engraving. “It’s haunting.”
“It’s rumored to be the inspiration for Shelley’s poem ‘Ozymandias.’”
I nodded. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”
“Indeed. Is that whiskey I see? Shall we drink?”
“God, yes.” I returned to the table. “Your accent. You’re not American?”
“I am. But we can’t escape our childhood.” Evan chose an armchair near the fire. “My father’s a bit of a toff. My mother—Michael’s aunt—is firmly a Yank. When my parents’ marriage failed, she took my brother and fled back across the pond shortly after my birth. I followed some years later.”
A note of pain underlaid Evan’s words.
I took a seat catty-corner to his and splashed whiskey into our glasses. “A pleasant childhood.”
“Oh, it was pleasant enough. I had good nannies.”
We lifted the tumblers and clinked.
After a cautious sip, Evan downed the contents of his glass. “That is magnificent.”
I poured more.
“You are a saint.” He took a long swallow.
I forced myself to nurse the alcohol. “How did you come to be an expert on the writings of murderers?”
He set down his empty glass. “I stumbled into my line of work in much the way many of us do. An impulsive decision coupled with a modicum of talent.”
“I suspect you have more than a little talent. Cohen describes your range of knowledge as . . . I believe at some point he used the word breathtaking.”
Evan laughed. “That’s generous. But the impulsive decision did come when I was six. I spotted a Rongorongo board from Easter Island and learned that their language had never been deciphered. I was hooked.”
“And you deciphered it?”
“Now you are being generous. I spent the tender years of six to eleven turning sallow skinned and weak-eyed under the lights of the British Museum’s book room, trying with the desperation of youth to crack the code. I returned to it in college but, alas, I remain stumped to this day. It’s simply too small a database. Or perhaps the genius who will solve it hasn’t been born. Anyway, once I grew up—in a manner of speaking—I turned to crime to pay the bills. It is my great fortune that so many murderers feel compelled to capture their thoughts on paper.”
“Why do they?”
“It depends. Ego for some. For others, a craving to create some kind of order out of the chaos of their minds.”
A light patter of rain struck the windows. Cohen came into the room with a wooden cutting board stacked with cheese, cold cuts, nuts, and fruit. He was trailed by Bandoni, who set plates and napkins on the table and dropped into a chair next to Evan. For a few minutes we put aside the case and ate. Clyde pattered over to see if there was anything interesting. I slipped him a piece of prosciutto.
“So,” Bandoni said, reaching for the whiskey. “Ready to explain, Dr. Wilding, how your brilliant fucking mind figures that we ain’t got a serial killer? Like that’s not bad enough for you?”
Evan glanced at me. “Don’t let Bandoni’s penchant for crudity mislead you. He’s actually rather fond of me.”
Bandoni rolled his eyes and slopped whiskey into his glass and Cohen’s.
I looked back and forth between Evan and Bandoni. “I’ve heard you two know each other.”
“The way a dog knows its own ass,” Bandoni said.
“With Bandoni, I presume, being the ass,” Evan said. “We worked two difficult cases together back in the day. After that, we were practically brothers.”
Bandoni raised his tumbler. “Twins separated at birth.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“And so you see the man I could have become.” Evan tipped his whiskey toward Bandoni’s hulking form. “If not for a small problem with my zygote.”
“To family,” Cohen said. “Regardless of blood.”
We clinked glasses. Drank.
“Okay.” Bandoni wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We all love each other. Now let’s get hammered or get focused. I vote focused, since we have killers running around.” He tipped his glass toward Evan. “Start talking.”
“I can tell you what the research says.” Evan refilled his glass and settled back in his chair. “The writings of serial killers are different from those of mass murderers. Both types of killers are concerned with entitlement—their rights over those of their victims. But in general, a serial killer’s writing focuses on his target. He documents what he did or plans to do. He might, like the Zodiac Killer, taunt the police with his success by sharing details only he would know. Also, a serial killer often recognizes that his acts are evil and defends
