share one extremely formidable deficit that’s not easily overcome . . . they can’t read body language. It’s a serious roadblock, but one which may be overcome by intensive conditioning and supervised social interaction.”
“Ever meet the mother?” Mallory asked.
“Never. I’ve seen her on TV a couple of times.”
“What do you make of her?”
“Bright woman. Sincere. Articulate.”
“She claims to have a psychic link with her son.”
“I suppose that’s understandable.”
“You remember the case, Dominick?” Mallory asked.
“Which one?”
“The Stallings kidnapping. Twelve-year-old boy in North Dakota, eight years ago,” Mallory informed him.
“Yes, yes; the Compton woman on Tunnel Vision. Yes, I remember. No, the boy is dead. Morte. Who’s gonna kidnap a twelve-year-old boy? He do what he wanna do and that’s that.”
“What about the father?” Mallory asked, turning back to Berg.
“Fair haired, tall, thin Viking . . . an intellectual of sorts and a bit of an eccentric. They say he didn’t relate well to the boy, but that had nothing to do with it in my opinion. How many fathers don’t get along with their sons? He’d brought the family out there just two years earlier to establish his practice.”
“What kind of practice?” Mallory wanted to know.
“Ob-gyn, if memory serves me correctly.”
“Family man?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Dr. Stallings admitted to several extramarital affairs.”
“With patients?”
“Yeah. With patients,” Berg affirmed.
“Fucking doctors,” Mallory cursed.
“Rick, you can no talk while I shave. I’ll end up cutting your throat. Very messy,” Dominick said, piping in.
“Anyway, he was very forthcoming,” Berg continued. “Gave the names of all his liaisons to the FBI. They beat the bushes on it. Broke up quite a few marriages. But none of the husbands had the faintest idea what their wives were up to; that is until after the kidnapping.”
“Can I join the party?” A voice called out from behind the half-open bathroom door.
“Pincus, you pariah. How are things at the asylum?” Berg asked, with a finely measured degree of impudence.
“I should think you’d be an expert, Berg,” Pincus responded. “How’s your analyst treating you?
Berg rolled his eyes.
Pincus was shorter than average height. He sported long straight black hair that was fairly thick, combed back diagonally with a liberal coating of greasy hair tonic, had a fair complexion and a frail build. He wore an olive-drab sweater and jeans. Generally serene, stolid by nature, and on the surface, easy going, he had a disarming manner. However, when put under the slightest pressure, his eyes danced around like Mexican jumping beans, as if he were processing a thousand thoughts a second. He always wore a gold and white knit yarmulke that looked like it was tattooed to his scalp.
Mallory respected Pincus for a number of reasons. On the top of the list was the diminutive professor’s ability to analyze human behavior. His knowledge of his field was formidable. And Pincus applied his knowledge with painstaking precision. He mulled over his ideas for hours at a time, often revising them to get a fresh perspective. His capacity to predict human behavior was uncanny. At a critical juncture, his predictions could be depended upon.
But mainly, Mallory liked him for personal reasons. Despite his rugged facade, the Super Sleuth had a closet full of deeply seeded insecurities. Pincus helped him overcome his fear of flying in commercial airliners and despite his unusual mental prowess Mallory had difficulty concentrating on any one activity for more than thirty minutes at a time. And then, of course, there were his never-ending problems with Esther.
Pincus was more than happy to act as his personal psychologist, even though it was never an openly stated paradigm. Not to mention the fact that Pincus was genuinely interested in sorting out the irreverent lifestyles of Mallory and Esther. Especially Esther. Pincus, like most men, was drawn to her beauty. It wasn’t that he coveted her necessarily. He was a married man with a large family. Nor did he possess the physical attributes required of a viable suitor for the likes of Esther. But Pincus nonetheless fantasized that he could get inside of Esther’s head and win her over. It wasn’t exactly uncharted territory; it had been done before. All he needed to do was to learn enough about her psychological deficits, worm his way into her confidence and engineer a transference: a Rasputin thing. It was a fantasy that rode him to sleep on many a dreamless night.
“Give me your impressions, Irving,” Mallory entreated. “In the first place, do you think that the boy is still alive?”
“Not a chance, Rick. I’m in agreement with the FBI psychologists; the boy was abused and murdered within the first 24 hours of his abduction. The killer fits snugly into the power-assertive category. He stalked them like a hunter does his prey. There was never any doubt that he was after Robbie Stallings from the start, the youngest of the group. The killer was likely the recipient of some kind of trauma in his youth—probably a member of a large family who had been abused by either his father or older brother. The magnitude of degradation was so great his subconscious could never successfully repress the episode. His conscious mind assisted by imposing a psychopathic pattern of behavior; an extremely prototypical pattern, I’m afraid. The initial trauma is re-enacted, a phenomenon known as imprinting, followed by a series of ritualistic acts that sublimate the guilt⎯often the victim is tortured. The killer then returns to his normal routine until the trauma re-emerges.”
“More murders,” Berg interjected.
“Precisely,” Pincus affirmed. “ Sooner or later the storm clouds gather again and the process repeats itself.”
“So you’re saying that Robbie Stallings was the victim of a serial killer?” Mallory asked.
“Yes. That is my opinion.”
“Then I shouldn’t pursue the case. It would only serve to strengthen Mrs. Stallings hope that her son is still alive. Not to mention the public perception that I would be taking advantage of her for the sake of publicity.”
“No, quite the contrary. I think you should pursue it,” Pincus responded.
“Why’s that, Irving?” Mallory wanted to know.
“A couple of reasons. The first is that I am willing to wager against long odds that your perusal of the situation will at least shed some new light on how it went down. I don’t know how you’ll do it, but I know you will. There’s a psychopathic killer at large; who knows how many unsolved murders he may be responsible for. Unfettered, he will likely strike again and again. Perhaps you might succeed in bringing him to justice.”
“And what’s the second reason?”
“From
