'And did you buy anything there?'
'Uh, the wife bought some dish towels.'
'Did she need dish towels?'
Butts frowned. 'Actually, come to think of it, she's got dozens of 'em. She always buys one when we go somewhere.'
'Right. So why buy what you don't need?'
Butts snorted. 'Look, Doc, I learned a long time ago that when it comes to women, it's better not to ask certain questions, know what I'm sayin'?'
'But there is an answer to this one.'
Butts jabbed the toe of his shoe into the dirt, kicking up the soft black soil.
'She says it reminds her of the trip.'
'Exactly. That's why sexual murderers often take something from their victims: to remind them. It's like hunting trophies-they serve no purpose, other than to bring the killer memories of the crime itself. The souvenirs help them relive the whole thing over and over.'
Butts tore off a piece of a jagged fingernail with his teeth and spit it out. 'Man, this is twisted stuff. Mostly I just handle homicides, you know? Drug deals gone bad, abusive boyfriends, family fights that escalate-run-of-the- mill stuff. This is a whole new kinda weird.'
'Yes, it is.'
Butts looked at Lee suspiciously. 'Doesn't this stuff keep you up at night?'
'Sometimes. But knowing those people are still out there keeps me up even more.'
'Don't take this the wrong way, Doc, but you don't seem like the type… I mean, how did you get into this kind of thing?'
'It's kind of personal.'
'Sure, sure,' the detective answered, his homely face crinkled in sympathy. 'No problem-I get it. Didn't mean to pry.'
Lee looked away-he didn't trust his reactions around other people. He wasn't entirely in control of himself yet, not quite recovered from his breakdown.
The two men stood side by side, looking southward, watching the thin gray mist of smoke snaking upward from the ruined earth.
Butts shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Well, then, I'm gonna move along now. I'll, uh, catch you later. I'll call you when we find the boyfriend.'
'Sure. See you later.'
He watched as the detective trundled off after the forensic team, his rumpled gray trench coat flapping in the wind.
Lee closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He could hear bagpipes, faraway and sad-their thin, plaintive tones carrying across the East River to where he stood on this melancholy bluff. He often imagined he heard bagpipes in times of stress and sorrow, and he had come to welcome the sound rather than taking it as a sign of deepening mental illness. It comforted him, bringing him back to the hills of his Celtic ancestors, where mountains rose sharp and bare from rushing riverbeds below, a mysterious and stark landscape that ran through his veins as strongly as his own blood.
He gazed up at the sky, where a lone crow scraped its way north, black and solitary against the creeping dawn.
Chapter Two
As it turned out, the boyfriend wasn't difficult to locate. Within an hour Lee was standing outside a grimy interrogation room inside a Bronx precinct house, watching through the one-way mirror as he waited for Butts to question the young man. The interrogation room was small and stuffy, its pale green walls scarred with stains and scuff marks. Lee imagined the scenes that had taken place in this room-the outbursts of rage, poundings by fists or boots or both. Some of the black smudge marks on the walls did appear to come from kicks-they were the right height and size. But others-coffee splotches, the occasional streak of blue ink, even a few ominous red patches, dried to a dark rust color-were more mysterious.
The young man inside the room sat quietly, hands folded on his lap. He was slight of build, with narrow, bony shoulders-a boy who wouldn't stand out in any crowd. Lee took an inventory of his regular but unremarkable features: straight brown hair over a thin, sensitive mouth and sad brown eyes. Under the harsh fluorescent lights his face had an unhealthy gray pallor, the circles under his eyes pronounced. He looked young-even younger than poor Marie-and very, very frightened. Not in a guilty way, Lee thought, just plain scared. He would bet that this boy had never seen the inside of a police station before, and certainly never as a suspect.
Ever since he could remember, Lee had an unusual ability to 'read' people. He used to think that everyone could do this, and it wasn't until after his training in psychology that he had realized how uncommon his gift was. He studied aspects of human behavior in textbooks explaining things he had always known instinctively. He could see into people-into their souls, so to speak.
Now, looking at the scared young man sitting in front of him, Lee was quite certain that the boy was not guilty of his girlfriend's murder.
Detective Butts entered the room with two paper cups of coffee and slid one across the scarred Formica table to the boy.
'Thought maybe you could use one too,' he said, sitting down across from him. 'Hope you take it regular.'
In western New Jersey, where Lee grew up, 'regular' meant milk, no sugar, but in New York City, regular coffee always included a liberal amount of sugar.
'Thank you,' the boy replied in a small voice, but he didn't touch the coffee. Butts flipped back the plastic lid of his own cup with a well-practiced gesture and slurped it noisily.
'That's better,' he said, leaning back in his chair. He appeared to be enjoying himself. 'I hate to start the day without it, y'know?'
The young man stared at Butts, his face still frozen in fear. He reminded Lee of a fox he had once seen cornered-the animal had the same expression of wariness and creeping panic. This interrogation was going to be a waste of time; he knew Butts was showing off for him, trying to impress him with interrogative skills. First soften him up, become his friend, then close in for the kill. This technique seemed so obvious to Lee that he couldn't imagine any criminal-even the simplest shoplifter-not seeing right through it. This kid was no criminal, though, and he figured that Butts knew this-but procedure was procedure. You had to jump through the right hoops.
'Okay,' the detective said, setting his coffee down and glancing at a file on the table, 'Mr… Winters. Rough luck, by the way-sorry about what happened to your girlfriend.'
'Yeah,' Winters responded softly.
'Can I call you Ralph?'
'Okay,' the boy answered, his voice still barely above a whisper. Lee had the impulse to intervene, but that was out of the question. This was Butts's investigation, and the last thing he wanted was to alienate the burly detective.
Ralph sat staring at the untouched coffee in front of him, as a thin ribbon of steam spiraled upward through a tiny hole in the lid.
'Okay, Ralph,' Butts said, 'why don't you tell me anything you can think of that might help?'
Ralph gulped twice, his Adam's apple rising and falling sharply in his thin throat. He appeared to be on the verge of tears.
'Says here you're a chem major,' Butts continued, maybe to save Ralph the embarrassment of tears. Whatever his motive was, it apparently worked. The boy leaned forward, and his eyes seemed to focus on Butts for the first time. He reached for the coffee, his hand trembling.
'Yeah. Organic chemistry. I'm studying to be a pathologist.' He took a sip of coffee.
'Oh, really?' Butts's tone was friendly, jocular. 'You interested in forensics?'
