I returned to my desk, tried to block off the outside world, and mentally constructed a rough draft of what everyone in the department was clamoring for-a profile of the killer. It was hard going, and I couldn't exactly put my finger on why. Top notch FBI behaviorists had been known to construct a profile based on the evidence found at the scene of a single murder. I had two to work with, but somehow, that made it harder, not easier. There was very little I knew for certain about this killer. Narcissistic personality? Probably. Antisocial personality disorder-the current jargon replacing psychopath-almost certainly. According to the standard outline for profiling developed first by Roy Hazelwood at the FBI, my approach should be to, first, identify what noteworthy actions had occurred, second, construct a theory about why they occurred, third, retrace and understand the events that led to and occurred during the crime, and finally, determine what kind of person would do such a thing. I had a problem even getting started. What was important about what this killer had done? Or even consistent? Despite the similarities between the manner in which the crimes were committed, on a psychological level, there were contradictory indications regarding this brutal maniac we were chasing.
For instance, in the old school profiling technique, the threshold question was supposed to be: Is the killer organized or disorganized, or to use the current terminology, is he impulsive or ritualistic? Usually the answer was simple-but in this case, there were indications of both, which is supposed to be impossible. Certainly there were signs of organization-the consistent modus operandi regarding the branding, the transportation of the body, the absence of trace evidence, the selection of the murder site, the mysterious formula left behind to tantalize his pursuers. On the other hand, there was significant evidence indicating a disorganized mind at work-having mud on his shoes, a rip in his jeans. You wouldn't've caught Ted Bundy running around with a hole in his pants.
Any profiling analysis that stumbled on the threshold question was inherently flawed, but just for the sake of trying, I mentally assumed that despite indicators to the contrary, the killer was essentially ritualistic and attempted to soldier on to the next question. There are five distinct components common to all ritualistic murderers, or more specifically, to the fantasies that drive them to commit their crimes: relational, paraphilic, situational, victim demographics, and self-perceptional.
The relational component addressed the question of what the murderer imagines or fantasizes the relationship between his victim and himself to be. And in this case-I had no idea. I had to eliminate all the usual sexual fantasies, since we had victims of both genders and no signs of sexual assault. The paraphilic component assumes some sort of sexual deviancy. I couldn't absolutely rule that out-a bisexual serial killer?-but it didn't seem likely. The situational dimension explores what setting or environment the killer is trying to create. Bundy was trying to create a fantasy family domestic home life-a sharp contrast to his own real one. John Wayne Gacy was trying to create a torture chamber. And this killer…
Again, I just couldn't answer the question. True, both victims had been killed in their place of work, but what did that tell me? Nothing-except that it was probably the simplest place to find them. Victim demographics were even more confusing. Here I could detect no pattern at all. The first victim had been male, the second, female. The first victim had been young and poor, the second, more mature and considerably more wealthy. They looked nothing alike; they were in totally different lines of work. What was the connection?
The last building block in the profile related to the killer's self-perception-How does he see himself? What role or function does he fantasize that he is performing or fulfilling? Did he dominate them? There was no evidence that he saw himself as a sexual master, or that he was attempting sexual gratification, or domination, or bondage. I really had no business even addressing this question, given my inability to answer All of the Above. And yet, at the same time…
Both times I stepped onto the crime scenes and closed my eyes and tried to dead reckon myself into the killer's head, I got a sense that he…he…
My mind groped for words. It wasn't exactly that he was deluding himself about his actions. He knew he was a killer. Maybe even knew he was a brute, a monster. But at the same time…
I didn't get the impression that the killer perceived himself as a bad person. Just the opposite, in fact. I think there was a reason that he did what he did, a reason so strong that in his mind it justified the maiming, the decapitating, the murder.
And how twisted was that?
Never was any woman on earth more pleased to see another than I was when Amelia pulled up to the curb to pick me up.
"You caught me by surprise," she said, as I hopped into her convertible. "Knocking off early? By your standards, anyway."
I shrugged. "I wasn't getting anywhere. I've hit a brick wall. It's pathetic."
"Sorry to hear that. But the good news is-I've been shopping. For you."
"Really? What did I get?"
"Not telling till we're back at your apartment."
"Amelia!"
"It's for the apartment, Suze. Besides, I want to build up a little suspense. You like that, right?"
Sure I do. She was good as her word, too. Didn't give me so much as a hint all the way back to my place. She strategically took the crosstown expressway, theorizing that the usual congestion might be reduced this time of night. She wasn't right, but she still managed to make good time.
She parked on the street, walked around back, then popped open the trunk. "Ta-da!"
I stared into the trunk. "You bought me a coffee table?"
"For the living room. I couldn't help but notice that you're still using that ratty old thing you've had since the dawn of creation."
"I like that coffee table."
"It's got, like, teeth marks or something. All up and down the legs."
"I like the teeth marks-"
She held up a finger. "Susan, I've been to the Venetian. You know, where Michael Jackson bought all his crap. This isn't just a table. It's a Brancusi knockoff."
"Is that a good thing?"
"It is. I'm moving you up in the world."
"If you say so."
I reached down to get it, but she stopped me. "You've been working all day, and this was my idea. I'll get it. You just carry my stuff."
So I did. While she struggled to maneuver the table up the stairway to my second-story apartment, I got her purse and her sunglasses and her iPod.
And when I was absolutely certain she wasn't looking, I dipped into the purse and retrieved the Valium. The entire bottle. Shoved it in my coat pocket before she noticed.
The strange thing was, just having it in my pocket made me feel better. Help was on its way.