nothing with her when she left her foster parents’ home. Neither her foster parents nor her boyfriend Greg noticed anything missing from her belongings. In other words, we’re not sure if he’s collecting trophies.’’
Lydia, sitting in a darkened corner in the back of the room, had been listening intently to the facts though she was more than familiar with them at this point, hoping that there was something that she missed. But when Jeffrey mentioned trophies, the image of her mother’s garnet earring occupied Lydia’s mind again for a moment. She remembered it glittering in the palm of Jeffrey’s hand as he’d returned it to her, and she shivered.
“Chief Morrow,’’ said Jeffrey, “this is the plan of attack I suggest. First, you need several stakeouts. One at each site where we found bodies because killers often return to the scene to relive their kill. And one at the Church of the Holy Name because all the victims were parishioners there. And one at the home of Lydia Strong. He has likely developed an obsession with her, and we can expect to see him there again.
“All officers are advised to be on the lookout for someone fitting the profile driving a green or other dark- colored minivan. You can always find a good excuse to pull someone over if you look hard enough.
“Rental-car companies have been advised to alert us if someone using the name Vince A. Gemiennes tries to rent a car. This was the name, obviously a fake, someone used yesterday to rent a 2000 Jeep Grand Cherokee, which has since been impounded. The address that was left led Lydia to Christine and Harold Wallace’s bodies today. This could have been a huge break for us but apparently it was a very busy day at Avis yesterday and none of the three women working the counter remember this person enough to give a description. We have them here at the station now, looking over airport security tapes, hoping they will see someone that jogs their memory. Unfortunately, there is no camera directly on the Avis rental desk.’’
“How did he rent a car? He had a fake credit card and driver’s license?’’ asked one uniformed officer.
“Well, we’re not a hundred percent positive. In the file, there is neither the imprint of the card or a copy of the license as there should be. All the girls insist that no one could have rented a car without those things. But the records have disappeared.’’
“But it’s possible that he could be walking around making purchases with a fake credit card.’’
“Yes, and area merchants are being notified via fax and e-mail to be on the lookout for someone using that name.’’
Lydia wrote down the name again in her notebook, Jeffrey’s voice fading to background noise. It was an odd name, clearly fake since there was no record of it at any of the government offices. She traced the letters. Had she heard it before? Did she somehow know this person? She had the sense she was missing something.
Jeffrey paused and looked down at his notes. “Also, someone should start going through records of local arrests over the last two years. We are looking for sex crimes, domestic violence, pedophilia, animal mutilation. Keep the profile in mind, though. And remember also that we are looking for someone with a medical background.
“One of your people should get online with VICAP and plug in the elements of this case, see if anyone turns up. Though it’s highly unlikely, we could have a traveler. Remember Johansen?’’
“Yeah,’’ Lydia replied, shaking her head and speaking up for the first time. “The traveling salesman who liked to pick up women in bars. He was an attractive guy. When a woman checked him out, he took her back to her apartment, strangled her, gouged her eyes out, and cut off her breasts. Seven victims, all found in different poses across the country. We finally figured out that he was positioning the bodies in the shape of letters. By the end, he’d spelled out ‘FUCK YOU.’’’
“That’s the one,’’ Jeffrey said, and the local officers groaned.
“Someone else,’’ Jeffrey continued, “needs to start going over the crime-scene notes and photographs. Go back to the locations and poke around, get the feel of them, make sure nothing was missed. Then start going to places like the bar, the restaurant where Maria worked, the church. Observe, ask questions, start making people uncomfortable.
“Does anybody have any questions?’’
When no one spoke, Morrow stood up. “Okay. Let’s get to work,’’ he said, as he starting handing out assignments to different officers at the table. In pairs the officers filed out, each with their tasks before them, looking a little overwhelmed, Lydia thought.
“Is there anything else you think I should do, Jeff?’’ Morrow asked when he was finished.
“Chief, you are the hub of this whole operation. You probably have a better overall picture of this community and its crime activity than anyone does. Spend time thinking back on anything over the last few months or even as long as a year that has struck a chord with you.’’
“You got it,’’ Morrow said, with alacrity. He walked away feeling like the clumsy kid finally chosen to play on the softball team.
Jeffrey looked around the room for Lydia, then caught sight of her through the window, leaning against her car, smoking and staring off into space. She was waiting for him. He walked out of the station house and approached the car. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is over. And don’t even think of pulling another stunt like you pulled this afternoon.’’
“Yes sir,’’ she answered sarcastically.
“Lydia, I’m serious. There’s no reason for you to be a renegade. What were you hoping to prove by going there alone?’’
“Nothing,’’ she said, shrugging. “I just didn’t want to wait for you to get back.’’
“But you’re not going to do anything like that again, right?’’
“Right.’’
“I want to drive,’’ he said, nudging her aside playfully with his shoulder and reaching for the driver’s-side door.
Seventeen
It was late evening before Jeffrey and Lydia returned to her house. They stopped at the bottom of the drive and picked up the mail, which Lydia sorted through as they pulled into her garage.
“Any letters from the president?’’ asked Jeffrey, after noticing a prison seal on one of the envelopes.
“The president?’’
“The president of your fan club?’’
Most of the letters that arrived from her fan club of the world’s most sick and twisted Lydia threw away unopened, the way they had been forwarded from her publisher’s office, particularly those that came from correctional facilities across the country. Initially she had been interested enough in what these people had to say to her to open them. A lot of them were the incoherent ramblings of damaged minds; some were from families of murder victims. Some were from people who claimed to be serial killers on the loose and she forwarded those to the FBI. But there was a person who had written to her every month since the publication of With a Vengeance.
When she received the first letter, in a way, she wasn’t even surprised.
Dear Bitch,
I fucked your mother and then I killed her. She was very satisfying.
I liked your book. You really put your finger on it. You really got into my head. But you know that, don’t you.
You like being inside my head? It makes you feel like you understand? Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. Maybe I can make you understand a whole lot better one day.
I take great satisfaction in you, too. I made you what you are today. Don’t forget it.
Fuck you,
Jed McIntyre
After the first letter, Jeffrey called the publisher’s office and insisted that her mail be screened from that point forward. Lydia’s editor, appalled by the incident, agreed. But Lydia called her back and asked that they continue to forward her mail unopened.
She wanted his letters. She needed them.
She never opened them. They just sat in a locked drawer in her desk, whispering profanity. But as long as she
