orgasm.”
“Sick bastard,” growled Barrello.
“The spermicidal gel and tissue tears in the vagina and anus attest to some type of penetration,” Berns went on, referring to one of the forensic findings covered earlier. “Possibly penile. But if so, it was most likely postmortem, with repeated episodes possible. The absence of sperm can be explained by the use of a prophylactic. Given the planning evident in other aspects of the crimes, I feel that if your man used a rubber, it was motivated by a desire to avoid leaving evidence and isn’t indicative of any squeamishness on his part. Once again, it’s a sign of the premeditation typical in the work of an organized killer, differing from the spontaneous markers usually left by a spree-type murderer. Placing the husbands’ bodies back in their beds and then covering his victims with a blanket might ordinarily suggest some sort of regret on the killer’s part. In our case, I think it’s simply another part of his ritual.”
“Any significance to his murdering the children first?” asked Huff.
“I’m not certain,” Berns answered. “We’ll know more when we’ve seen him kill again. For now, we have a predatory, sexually motivated killer who’s presumably choosing his victims based on common physical or psychological characteristics. Both women were attractive brunettes, married, and had children. He finds them, stalks them, personalizes them, and plans the act. Then, at a time of his choosing, he kills them.”
Again, the room fell silent.
“As Detective Kane observed earlier,” Berns concluded somberly, “the man for whom you’re searching enjoys watching people die. He enjoys it a lot, and he will definitely do it again.”
14
Mom! Brian’s looking at me!”
Julie Welsh found her daughter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Heather,” she sighed, “if all he’s doing is looking at you…”
“He’s staring, Mom.”
“Am not,” said Brian in a taunting singsong seemingly indigenous to all younger siblings. “Besides, it’s a free country.”
Julie slowed to enter the Spyglass Hill community of Las Palmas, speeding up again as a security guard spotted her windshield sticker and raised the gate barrier. “Brian, do me a favor and quit staring at your sister.”
“But Mom…”
“Please, Brian. And Heather, don’t be so sensitive. I have a lot on my mind right now without listening to you two squabbling in the backseat.”
“It’s not me, Mom. It’s Brian. He’s-”
“Heather, stop right now. You, too, Brian. Your father will be home in less than an hour, and you know how he’s been lately. If you don’t have your chores and homework done by then…”
“If you don’t have dinner ready by then…” mimicked Brian.
“One more word out of you, young man, and you’re grounded,” said Julie harshly, fighting a surge of irritation she had felt building all afternoon. There just didn’t seem to be enough time in a day to get things done, and she didn’t even have a steady job, as Wes so regularly pointed out.
Well, I’d like to see him get two kids off to school, clean the house, shuttle Heather to the doctor for allergy shots, take Brian and his sister to the orthodontist, and do all the other so-called little things it takes to keep a family going, Julie thought angrily. All he does is go to work. With a flash of guilt, she abruptly remembered that she still hadn’t taken the BMW in for a bodywork estimate. It would undoubtedly be the first thing Wes asked when he got home.
After turning on Cambria and hanging a right on Montecito, Julie pulled into her driveway, stopping to push the garage-door remote. As the garage door lumbered open, she checked the clock on the dashboard, deciding that if she hurried, she could get dinner going and still have time for a cocktail before Wes arrived. And tonight, she thought, I need one. Maybe a couple.
Fifty yards down the street, a white van marked “McMurphy Electric” idled at the curb. Inside, Victor Carns lowered a curiously shaped antenna resembling a fish backbone, with short aluminum tubes fastened like ribs to a central connecting spine. A cable ran from the antenna to a piece of electronic equipment sitting beside him.
After setting the antenna on the floor, Carns turned his attention to the electronic instrument. He made several adjustments to the controls. His brow furrowed as a train of flat-topped pulses marched across the screen. Another adjustment, and the blocky pattern slid right, stabilized… and held.
Carns covered the apparatus with a beach towel. Smiling, he dropped the van into gear and drove slowly down the street, glancing at the Welsh residence as he passed. With an effort of will he forced his eyes back to the road, remembering the softness of the woman’s skin as he had taken the pen from her fingers.
Next week, he promised himself. At the latest, the week after.
Soon.
15
Tell me something, Kane. Your wife ever talk dirty in bed?”
I eased into the right lane of the Santa Monica Freeway, then glanced at Deluca. “You don’t actually expect me to answer that, do you?”
Deluca grinned. “Why not?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business.”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I just heard that some guys get turned on by women talking dirty when they’re having sex. Personally, I don’t see it. My ex-wife did it a lot. Definitely turned me off.”
I exited on Lincoln Boulevard, ran a yellow light at the first intersection, and took the freeway overpass south. “What kind of things did she say?”
“Mostly stuff like ‘Get off me, you turd!’”
I chuckled. “There’s just no pleasing some women.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Deluca scanned the sprawl of car lots and taco stands slipping past his window. “What was the name of the repair shop? Sam’s Auto Body?”
“Pete’s. There it is.” I swerved into the right lane. Ignoring a digital salute from a driver behind us, I parked in front of a one-story cinderblock building with a perimeter of razor wire topping the roof and enclosing fences. Despite the defensive coils, almost every surface of the building-like most of the walls, billboards, and freeway signs in the area-displayed an indecipherable spray-can chaos of gang names and ghetto scrawl.
As I stepped from the car, I checked the lot adjoining the repair shop. Several German imports, a Volvo, and a number of American vehicles sat behind the fence-some still dented, some repaired. A moment later I spotted a rust-colored Infiniti. “That look like persimmon to you?” I asked, pointing out the vehicle to Deluca.
Deluca rubbed his chin. “I’d say closer to magenta. Maybe a fuchsia.
“Thanks, Paul,” I said, starting for the entrance. “When you retire, I predict a great future for you as an interior decorator.”
Inside, after passing several repair bays and a paint station enclosed in plastic drapes, Deluca and I arrived at a dingy office in the rear. As we entered, a balding man glanced up from a well thumbed Penthouse magazine. “Is this about the Larson murder?” he asked as I flipped out my shield.
I nodded, noting the name sewn on the man’s coveralls. “You the owner here, Al?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s Pete?” asked Deluca.
“Sold out a long time back. Moved someplace in Idaho.”
I glanced around the fly-bespeckled office. “Can’t say as I blame him. Is that the Larsons’ Infiniti out by the
