9
The present
Renz had shot off his mouth about a profiler, so he figured he’d better have a profile. He was with Quinn and his team in the Seventy-ninth Street office he’d gotten for them at city expense. It was a ground-floor apartment, really, in a building that was being renovated. This unit hadn’t been touched yet, but it wasn’t in bad condition, with cream-colored walls and blinds still on the windows. There were light rectangles where wall hangings had been removed, and an outline on the hardwood floor where the carpet had been taken up. But the paint was clean. Renz had ordered three desks and four chairs, a four-drawer steel file cabinet, a printer and fax machine, and a used desk computer. He knew they all had laptops, except maybe Fedderman. As far as a coffee machine or other niceties, the detectives were on their own.
Pearl had bought a Braun brewer and dragged in an old table the workmen upstairs were going to throw away. An NYPD computer whiz had set up a broadband wireless system for their computers, with a router over near the coffee machine. The door had a good lock, the workmen upstairs usually didn’t make too much noise, and there was an old air conditioner that no one would bother stealing in one of the windows.
Quinn was within walking distance of the place but would sometimes drive his old Lincoln, and Renz had gotten them an unmarked city Chevy.
They had a home. They had wheels. It was an efficient setup.
Quinn and Fedderman sat in the identical wood swivel chairs behind their identical gray steel desks, while Pearl perched on her desk’s front edge. Renz had pulled her desk chair out and was seated on it. So there was a chair for the profiler when she arrived, as long as Pearl was content without one. Quinn made a mental note to scare up another extra chair. He’d have asked Pearl to do it, but she’d let him know she’d done enough, donating the coffeemaker.
There was a knock on the door. Then it opened and the profiler, Helen Iman, cautiously stuck her head in. “Morning, all,” she said, smiling as she entered all the way. She was a very tall woman with a bony but not unattractive face and carelessly styled red hair, as if she cut it herself with dull scissors. Seeing her, Quinn thought, as he often did, that with her long, muscular frame, she’d make a hell of a basketball or volleyball player. But Helen wasn’t into sports. She was into killers. A few years ago she’d quit the NYPD to go into private practice as a corporate psychologist in New Jersey, but she’d soon returned. For her it was no contest between the corporate and the criminal mind. They weren’t exactly the same, and the criminal mind was so much more interesting.
Renz had requested her presence here so Quinn and his team could hear what she had to say.
Pearl offered her coffee, but she declined and sat in the uncomfortable extra chair. It was stained oak with a straight back and had a sturdy but crude look about it, as if it might have been made by one of those religious sects that thrived on discomfort. She was wearing a green business suit and white blouse with a man’s green and black tie. She placed the large brown purse she was carrying on the floor so it leaned against a chair leg.
“Did you read the material I gave you?” Renz asked her.
Helen nodded. “It wasn’t very enlightening.”
Renz looked disappointed.
Helen calmly gave each of them a look, her eyes lingering on Pearl. “There really isn’t much to surmise, since we know nothing about the victims.”
“I need something to feed the media,” Renz said. “Something for my people”—he nodded toward Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman—“in case they get cornered by some smart-ass journalist.”
Helen crossed her long legs. It was quite a show. “I understand, and I can give you the usual, even though I’m sure you already know most of it. Our killer’s probably between twenty and forty and had a horrible childhood during which he developed a hatred for women. He might be married—”
“Married?” Renz interrupted.
“I said might. And he probably has a history of sadistic behavior.”
“The thing with the sharpened stake,” Quinn said.
Helen nodded. “Not to mention the dismemberment. Usually people don’t unaccountably start doing such things all at once.” She reached into the big purse and pulled out a buff file folder, took a few moments to check its contents. “The insertion of the stake occurred after death. That’s interesting. Necrophilia with a substitute penis.”
“You think?” Pearl asked, glancing at Fedderman.
“Looks that way,” Helen said. “The dismemberments were neatly done, but apparently not by someone with a medical background. He might have practiced on animals. Possibly on family pets.”
“Jesus!” Fedderman said. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth. “Will I never get used to these assholes?”
Helen smiled at him. “It’s good that you don’t.” She sat back as best she could in the rigid chair.
“That’s all you can give us?” Renz asked.
“I’m afraid so, at this point. It would be good to have entire bodies, maybe a witness or two. Oh, there is one other thing. He wants you to know both women were killed by him—that’s why he used the same gun.”
“And the stake?”
“I don’t know about the stake. Especially after death. Some of this doesn’t yet add up. There’s something especially creepy about this killer.”
“They’re all sickos,” Pearl said.
“That’s not the medical term I’d use, but it’s fairly accurate,” Helen said. “This guy, though—and we all know the killer’s almost certainly a guy—promises to be particularly interesting. His mental processes might be unfathomable, even after he’s caught and studied. For instance, he hides the torsos, but not so well that he doesn’t want them found.”
“Trophies,” Fedderman said.
“No. More like his calling card. But trophies aren’t uncommon. Maybe he’s keeping the heads as his trophies.”
Pearl took a noisy gulp of her coffee, burning her tongue.
“This guy” Helen crossed her legs tighter—“one thing’s for sure about him, he’s a very special case.”
Tonight he’d just arrived home after a weekend of doing business in London. Whenever Shellie asked David about his business, she got the same vague answers, but she was less and less concerned. She was convinced now that David was a good man. Whatever he was involved in was sure to be benign and legal. He was simply one of those men who wanted a firewall between home life and business. Between love and the real and ugly world outside of love. Shellie understood that. She felt the same way herself.
Her wardrobe had grown and improved since she had moved in with David. She had on the navy blue dress she knew he liked, bone high-heeled pumps, a double strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair was artfully mussed, the way he liked it. The top button of her dress was undone to reveal a glimpse of cleavage, the way he liked it. Later they would make love, the way he liked it. She was the way he liked her, and she was happy. She was sure David was happy, too.
