Becker muttered something unintelligible and then, with an effort, gave her a wan smile. “Sorry,” he said.
Karen straightened the file so that it was directly parallel to the edge of the table. “We seem to have drifted a bit from the point.”
Folding his hands on the table in a parody of a well-mannered schoolboy, Becker relieved himself of a shuddering sigh.
“Ready.”
“The sixth victim… ” Karen said, pausing until Becker dropped his overly attentive act. She knew that when it came to work, Becker was serious and unemotional, but he was seldom detached when it came to her. The trick was to keep herself out of the work while still directing and controlling it.
“Number six,” she continued, “was Craig Masoon, who vanished from a school trip to the natural history museum in Quincy, Massachusetts.”
“How soon after the previous victim?”
“Two and a half months.”
“Christ. He’s not just hungry anymore. He’s ravenous. How long did he keep this one?”
“A month.”
“And how long ago did you find the body?”
“A week.”
“He’s about due to strike again.”
“That’s another reason I’m here.”
“You expect me to stop him before he takes another kid? You don’t need me, you need a miracle. Try prayer.”
“I have,” she said. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“Glad to hear He helps someone.” Becker said. “What kind of profile do you have on the kids?”
“All boys, nine or ten years old. Caucasian, brown hair, eyes either blue or brown-four brown, two blue. All boys next door.”
“Next door to whom, though? You’ve seen their pictures, I mean the ones from home, not the morgue shots. What do they look like, Karen? Are they ethnic-looking? Beautiful, male model types? Tall, short for their age; do they all wear glasses, were they all wearing baseball caps? Give me something to work with.”
“They’re white-bread,” she said. “Norman Rockwell kids, snub-nosed, freckle-faced-without the actual freckles, if you know what I mean. Nice-looking, nothing extraordinary. None of these kids were living in a slum, they weren’t runners for drug dealers, they weren’t gang members.” A bitterness had crept into her tone. “They look wholesome, if you remember what that’s like. Hell, John, they look sweet. They look innocent.”
There were tears in her eyes, but Becker heard no trace of them in her voice.
“They look the way you probably looked as a kid,” she said.
“At that age, I looked scared,” Becker said.
Karen paused. Then, gently, “I know, John. I remember you told me. These kids must all have looked awfully scared for the last weeks of their lives, too.”
Becker nodded, looking at the table, his vision turned inwards.
“You survived it,“ Karen said, her voice still low and gentle. “They didn’t. In a couple of weeks another one won’t.”
“Cause of death?” Karen thought his voice sounded brittle, as if it might crack at any moment, and he with it. He was still looking at the table.
“Asphyxiation.”
Becker came to himself abruptly. “Asphyxiation? Not the beatings?”
Karen shook her head. “Medical thinks the prolonged and repeated trauma must have brought them pretty close to death, but at the end he smothered them.”
“Smothered, not strangled?”
“Medical thinks it was probably a pillow, blanket, something like that. There was no real sign of struggle at the end. But then there wouldn’t have been any hair or skin or blood under the nails, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“They were washed thoroughly after death. ‘Cleansed’ is how Medical put it. Nails cleaned, hair combed, bodies scrubbed. Not a fingerprint on them, not a trace of anything.”
“Hair combed?”
Karen nodded. “Parted and combed… And cut.”
“Cut? He gave them a haircut after he killed them?”
“It looks that way.”
Becker thought for a moment. “He may be saving the hair. We may be looking for someone with a bag full of trimmings.”
“What does he want with them?”
“How the hell do I know. They were sexually abused, I assume.”
Karen shook her head. “It puzzled all of us, but no. No sign of sexual abuse.”
Becker was silent for a long time. Karen watched his face but could read little there.
“I assume the Investigative Support Unit is involved? Have they given you a profile of the guy?” he asked finally.
“Sort of. It isn’t much help yet. They don’t have a lot to work on and they seem to be thrown by the lack of sexual abuse.”
“Did Gold have anything to offer?”
“Gold was a bit confused.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“He is a good man, Becker.”
“I know, I know.”
“What do you expect from a shrink, after all?”
“Miracles, mostly. If he’s your own.”
“He’s helped you, you’ve said so.”
“Allow me my own twisted response to my shrink, if you don’t mind. What was he confused about?”
“He thought it was very unclear, he was getting conflicting signals from this guy. At least Gold was frank enough to admit it.”
“He’s as honest as his profession will allow,” Becker conceded. “So the psychological profile isn’t much use?”
“As usual. You can give us a better one.”
Becker looked at her, smiled ruefully.
“We know why that is, don’t we?”
She chose to ignore his remark. “I’ll let you see Gold’s profile, of course. I can put everything we have in your hands in less than a day.”
“How much do you have on the man himself?”
Karen cleared her throat. She glanced at the pilot and owner, then back to the file on the table in front of her.
“Nothing,” she said finally.
“Partial description?”
“No one has ever seen him.”
“He took six kids away from public places, once from a schoolyard, once from a school outing at a museum-and no one saw him?”
“No.”
“He just walked off with them? No protests from the kids, no foot dragging, no struggles, no tears. Nothing to make anyone notice? Nothing to even make someone imagine they saw something peculiar? There’s always someone around who’s willing to make up something in exchange for attention from us. No lonely clerk who likes having the FBI talk to him as long as he can fantasize what he thinks we want to hear?”
“Nobody, John.”
