real. In the instance you’re describing, he might also view his interrupted reconnaissance as a failure, something to be rectified.”
“On the other hand,” I interjected, anticipating Berns’s train of thought, “the more time goes by, the more likely he’ll be to select a new target. So what’s the bottom line? Is he coming back?”
Berns crushed out his cigarette. “Bottom line, I don’t know. It could go either way. I do know that the guy you’re looking for is smart, and as I said previously, I believe he’s done this before-maybe in different places and operating under different rules, but he’s done it before. Given that, I suspect that as he feels more pressure from the police, he’ll eventually disappear and resurface someplace else, possibly with a new method of finding and killing victims.”
“Putting us back to square one.”
“Correct. Let’s see, it’s been, what-three weeks since the Welsh murders?”
“Twenty-two days.”
“The interim between the first and second murders was twenty-five days; the period between the second and third lessened to fifteen. Assuming the killer’s calendar is decreasing, he’s overdue.”
I nodded. “Which brings me to my second question. At the first task force meeting you mentioned there might be triggers that set him off. Could you expand on that?”
“For one, other cases of violence can act as stressors to push these types of individuals over the edge. A particularly brutal murder reported in the media often spawns a series of repeats across the country.”
“Like worms surfacing after a rain,” I noted. “What else? Anything specific that applies to our guy?”
“The murder of the Welsh family followed almost immediately after the arrest of that auto repairman,” Berns said thoughtfully. “As I said, it’s possible someone else being credited with the killer’s crimes enraged him, causing him to accelerate his schedule.”
I leaned forward. “What else would piss him off?”
“Anything that conflicts with the elaborate self-image he’s erected for himself,” answered Berns. “Typically someone like him cannot tolerate ridicule, especially if it’s directed at his psychological weak points.”
“Which are?”
Berns regarded me curiously. “Aside from feeling rage toward families in general and women in particular, your killer probably has an unconscious desire to prove his masculinity,” he answered. “Based on his treatment of the husbands, I suspect he’s confused concerning his sexual identity and may have repressed homosexual tendencies. In addition, he prides himself on commitment, views himself as infallible, and has an overwhelming compulsion to be in control. He would find anything contradicting these things extremely threatening.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, rising from my chair. “I appreciate your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You’re going to attempt to goad him into action, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re going to try to force him to move up his timetable. You hope he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake.”
I didn’t respond.
“Be careful, Kane. Be very careful.”
I walked to the door, then turned. “No matter what I do, he’ll kill again anyway, right?”
Berns nodded. “You said it earlier. He’ll keep killing until he’s caught.”
I did some last minute Christmas shopping that evening, including a visit to the Jewelry Mart downtown. Afterward I stopped at the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin, one of my West Los Angeles drinking haunts from years past. A throwback to earlier days of deep-red carpets, navigational charts laminated onto tabletops, and photos of sailing schooners with colorful jibs decorating the walls, the restaurant had prospered over the years by offering clientele reasonably priced steaks, chops, and seafood, as well as providing an honest drink and a friendly ambiance for any thirsty patron happening to wander in.
Taking a spot in the back, I peered around the dimly lit bar. With the exception of restaurant staff, I failed to see anyone I knew. Minutes later a young waitress wearing a short white apron and even shorter plaid skirt approached. I ordered a Coke and nursed it for the next quarter hour, wondering whether there had been some miscommunication. By the time I’d finished my drink, chewed the ice, and nearly decided to leave, I saw Lauren Van Owen standing by the hostess station.
I waited until her eyes swept my way, then raised a hand. Lauren hurried over. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, slipping into a chair across from mine. “I’m surprised you called. Are you sure you want to be seen with me in public?”
“This place is safe. Nobody from the Force ever comes in anymore,” I replied, once again thinking that the newscaster looked even better in person than she did on television. Evidently the same thought had occurred to several other male patrons, a number of whom were now openly eye-humping her from across the room.
“So why’d you call?”
“I’ve seen you on the tube lately,” I said evasively. “National coverage. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Getting an exclusive on that composite drawing helped. On the downside, I had another meeting with Sid Gilmore, our CBS bureau chief. He again requested that I hand over any future scoops to the network.”
“You said that would be cutting your own throat. What’d you tell him?”
“That network could have my material as long as I got to give the report. You know, Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News.”
“Smart.”
Lauren shrugged. “He’s talking about bringing me onboard full-time, but I’m not where I want to be yet,” she said, glancing around the room. “I’ve never been here before. Seems nice.”
“The food’s great if you like steak and seafood.”
“I love meat. I’m a regular carnivore.”
“They have a terrific jazz band on weekends, too,” I added.
“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll check it out sometime. Listen, I have a neighbor watching my daughter, and I know you didn’t ask me here to give restaurant tips. What’s up?”
“Drink?” I asked, avoiding her question a second time.
“What’re you having?”
“Coke.”
“In that case, no. C’mon, Kane. Give.”
“Maybe I do have something for you.”
Lauren eyed me inquiringly. “Is this official?”
“Hell, no. I want total anonymity, like before.”
“Okay. ‘Sources inside the LAPD’ it is,” Lauren agreed. “Why are you doing this?”
I spread my hands. “You delayed breaking the composite drawing story till we finished our canvass, as agreed. I’m just trying to show my appreciation.”
“That’s a crock if I’ve ever heard one. What’s the real reason?”
“Christmas is a week away. Consider it a present.”
“Why do I feel the need for a shovel?”
“You want to hear this or not?”
Lauren reached into her purse and withdrew a pad and pen. “I want to hear it. Go ahead.”
I leaned forward and for the next five minutes spoke in a low monotone. When I finished, I sat back, gauging Lauren’s reaction.
Lauren, who had been writing steadily since I began, set down her pen and gazed at me levelly. “You have another suspect.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, trying to cover my surprise.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. If I’m not mistaken, the material you just gave me is part of a psychological workup on the killer. Not too complimentary, either. I’d say if you wanted to make the guy angry, you couldn’t come up with anything better if you tried. You’re attempting to force his hand. And the only reason you would do that is if you were watching him.”
