Skin Deep

“Yes, and hundreds like him.”

“What else do you see?”

“As you know, profiling isn’t an exact science. That being said, I’d say he’s a white male between thirty-five and fifty-five, physically strong, smart, college-educated. He probably lives alone, is alienated from family and friends. But given the lack of evidence at the crime scenes, he’s very clever and has a strong sense of control and the ability to fabricate a good image.”

“A good liar.”

“Yes. Given how he probably knew the victims, I’d say he’s a charmer, maybe good-looking and a good talker—enough to lure women to bed then strangle them. And that suggests someone with good standing in the community since some of his victims were upper-middle-class, fashionable women.”

Steve nodded and let her go on.

“He’s not particularly mobile. Unlike the common myth of someone who travels the country looking for victims, most serial murderers kill close to home. In this case eastern Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire. So he probably lives and works within a hundred miles of Boston.”

“That’s our thought, too.”

“Another thing, you might want to look into the medical history of the suspects. Some researchers argue that many serial killers suffered some form of brain damage when young, usually to the right hemisphere, which accounts for lack of empathy. So if you can get access to early medical records, look for any brain trauma—blows to the head, repeated concussions—or neurological abnormalities.”

Steve nodded. “Back to his MO shifts. On the third killing the guy gets cagey and decides to set a stage for suicide, maybe because of the Novak protest. It’s possible he knows something about police procedures.”

“Hard not to. Serial killers today know about crime scene forensics. They’re C.S.I.-savvy. They’ve seen the shows and movies. They’ve read books. They know police work. They know how to cover their trail and disguise the scene.”

“As opposed to the killer who leaves his signature to taunt the cops, to say, ‘It’s me.’”

“Yes. This one isn’t playing hide-and-seek with police. He just can’t help but leave his signature behind.”

“Yet he stages a suicide—intentional or accidental—to cover that the deaths are serial murders. And that’s what I keep circling back to—what I don’t get.”

“I’m not sure. Unless there are other elements he didn’t want discovered.”

“Like a telltale signature—something that is all his and he doesn’t want found.”

“Possibly. And maybe that’s what you’ll have to figure out to stop him.”

“So I’m looking for someone whose mother had red hair, wore black stockings, and who knocked him on his head a lot.”

She laughed. “Now, aren’t you glad you stopped by?”

He gave Jackie a hug. “Thanks never comes close.”

“It’ll do.” She squeezed him back.

Steve closed the door behind him. The evening was warm and a crescent moon made a crooked smile over the trees. He headed for his car, thinking that under that moon was a killer who hunted women who looked like his wife.

As he pulled away, Jackie’s words reverberated in his head: “Maybe the question is what brings them to him.”

82

It was around ten the next morning when Steve reached Cynthia Farina-Morgan.

He said he had a few questions to ask her about her sister. In front of him were four photos of Terry—the backyard shot and three taken off the Mermaid Lounge Web site. “I hate to bring it up again, but the investigation is ongoing and we have some a few more questions.”

“Certainly, Lieutenant.”

“Your brother positively identified Terry at the Medical Examiner’s office. Understandably he said that it didn’t look like her.”

“It was Terry, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. But I’m just wondering if I could e-mail you some recent photos of Terry. After you’ve taken a good look, I’d like to call you back and hear what you have to say.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Please just take a look then let’s talk.”

She agreed and he e-mailed her the photos. While he waited for her to call back, he dialed Dana on his office phone. There was no answer. She had caller ID and had decided not to take his calls. Shit.

Five minutes later his phone rang. “Are you sure these recent photos weren’t doctored?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. “Then she had cosmetic surgery.”

“Based on what exactly?”

“Based on the fact that her face is different.”

“What specific changes do you see?”

“Well, it’s obvious. Her cheekbones are more prominent and her eyes are more open and her brows are slanted upward. But I don’t believe it, because she never told me, which wasn’t like her. This is a major change, yet she never asked my opinion.”

He heard hurt in her voice. “Did she ever mention going to a resort spa called Pine Lake Resort in Muskoka, Ontario? It would have been early May. She was up there for a week.”

“No, she never told me. Why was she up there?”

“We’re not sure. She apparently went alone and without telling anybody. She also paid in cash so there was no paper trail. Some of the staff remembered her and identified her, but they say she kept a low profile because her face was bruised and swollen.”

“What?”

“Our first thought was that she had been in a car accident, but that didn’t check out. Then there was speculation that she had been abused by someone.”

“Was she?”

“Not that we know of. And that raised the possibility that she had had significant facial surgery and went there to recover.”

A long silence filled the line. Then Mrs. Morgan said, “All I know is that three months ago she told me she had decided to get breast implants. But she said nothing about facial reconstruction, and that’s what these photos look like.”

They did, and that thought had crossed his mind when he first saw the Mermaid Lounge photos.

“Also, that kind of work would have cost thousands of dollars. And she said nothing.”

“That’s unfortunate, but she clearly wanted to keep it secret.”

“So what does that mean? How does that relate to her death?”

“I’m not sure that it does.” But his gut was telling him otherwise.

83

They were all wrong. Every one of them.

The Hewson woman had the proper eye structure and cheekbone width, but the brow was too wide and the