“Actually, I think my spleen is over on Marquette somewhere. Maybe we can pick it up on the way.”
“He's been here a day and already he's got your number, Sam,” Liska joked.
“Yeah, like you should talk, Tinks,” someone else countered.
“I drive like Kovac only when I've got PMS.”
Kovac held up a hand. “Okay, okay, back to business. Back to the bite marks. We ran that feature through the database back when we were looking at the first murder, searching for any known offenders in the metro—murderers or sex offenders—who had bitten or cannibalized victims, and came up with a list. We also ran it through VICAP and came up with another list.” He lifted a sheaf of computer printouts.
“How long before we can confirm or deny this body is Bondurant's?”
Gary “Charm” Yurek of the PD had been designated media spokesman for the task force, giving the line of official bullshit to the press every day. He had a face worthy of a soap star. People tended to become distracted by the utter perfection of his smile and miss that he hadn't really told them anything.
Kovac looked now to Walsh. “Vince, any word on the girl's health records?”
Walsh hacked a phlegm-rattling cough, shaking his head. “The Paris office is tracking them down. They've been trying to contact the stepfather, but he's somewhere between construction sites in Hungary and Slovakia.”
“Apparently, she's been the picture of health since her return to the States,” Liska said. “She's had no serious injuries or illness, nothing to warrant X rays—except her teeth.”
“He screwed us up but good taking her head,” Elwood complained.
“You come up with any ideas on that, John?” Kovac asked.
“Could be he meant to jam up the investigation. Could be that the body isn't Jillian Bondurant and he's sending some kind of message or playing a game,” Quinn suggested. “Maybe he knew the victim—whoever she was—and decapitated her to depersonalize her. Or the decapitation could be the new step in the escalation of his violent fantasies and how he plays them out. He could be keeping the head as a trophy. He could be using it to further act out his sexual fantasies.”
“Judas,” Chunk muttered.
Tippen, another of the sheriff's detectives, scowled. “You're not exactly narrowing it down.”
“I don't know enough about him yet,” Quinn said evenly.
“What do you know?”
“Basics.”
“Such as?”
He looked to Kovac, who motioned him to the head of the table.
“This is not by any means the completed analysis. I want that made clear. I did a quick read-through of the reports last night, but it takes more than a couple of hours to build a solid, accurate profile.”
“Okay, you've covered your ass,” Tippen said impatiently. “So who do you think we're looking for?”
Quinn held his temper in check. It was nothing new to have a skeptic in the crowd. He had learned long ago how to play them, how to pull them around a little at a time with logic and practicality. He leveled his gaze on Tippen, a lean, homely man with a face like an Irish wolfhound—all nose and mustache and shaggy brows over sharp, dark eyes.
“Your UNSUB is a white male, probably between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. Sadistic sexual serial killers hunt within their own ethnic group as a rule.” Pointing to the close-ups of wounds from the crime scene photos, he said, “You've got a very specific pattern of wounds, carefully repeated on each victim. He's spent a long time perfecting this fantasy. When you find him you'll find a collection of S&M pornography. He's been into it for a long while. The sophistication of the crimes, the care taken to leave no usable physical evidence, suggests maturity and experience. He may have an old record as a sex offender. But record or no, he's been on this course from when he was in his late teens or early twenties.
“He likely started with window peeping or fetish burglaries—stealing women's underwear and so forth. That may still be a part of his fantasy. We don't know what he's doing with the victims' clothing. The clothes he dresses them in after he's killed them are clothes he's chosen for them from his own source.”
“You suppose he played with Barbie dolls as a kid?” Tippen said to Adler.
“If he did, you can bet they ended up with limbs missing,” Quinn said.
“Jesus, I was kidding.”
“No joke, Detective. Aberrant fantasies can begin as young as five or six. Particularly in a home with sexual abuse or open sexual promiscuity going on—which is almost a sure bet in this case.
“He's likely murdered long before your first victim and gotten away with it. Escaping detection will make him feel bold, invulnerable. His presentation of the bodies in a public area where he could have been seen and where the bodies would certainly be found is risky and suggests arrogance. It also suggests the type of killer who can be drawn to the investigation. He wants attention, he's watching the news, clipping articles from the paper.”
“So Chief Greer was right yesterday when he said we should make a statement to this creep,” Kovac said.
“He'll be just as right today or tomorrow, when we're ready to make a move.”
“And it looks like your idea,” Tippen muttered.
“I'll be happy to let you suggest it to the brass, Detective,” Quinn said. “I don't give a rat's ass who gets credit. I don't want my name in the paper. I don't want to see myself on TV. Hell, I'd just as soon be doing this job in my office sixty feet underground back in Quantico. I have one objective here: helping you nail this son of a bitch and take him out of society forever and ever, amen. That's all this is about for me.”
Tippen dropped his gaze to his notepad, a nonbeliever still.
Kovac huffed a little sigh. “You know, we got no time for fence pissing. I'm sure no one in the general public gives a rip which one of us has the biggest dick.”
“I have,” Liska chirped, snatching the giant ceramic penis away from Elwood, who had set it on the table as a centerpiece. She held it up as proof of her claim.
Laughter broke the tension.
“Anyway,” Quinn went on, sliding his hands into his pants pockets and cocking a leg, settling in, subtly letting Tippen know he wasn't going anywhere and wasn't bothered by his opinions. “We have to be careful about how we draw him in. I'd suggest starting with a heavily publicized community meeting held in a location central between the dumping sites. You're asking for help, for community participation. It's nonaggressive, nonthreatening. He can come into that scenario feeling anonymous and safe.
“It won't be easy to trick him unless his arrogance gets out of hand. He's organized. He's of above-average intelligence. He's got a job, but it may be beneath his capabilities. He knows the city parks system, so if you haven't done so already, you'll want to get a parks service employee roster, see if anyone has a criminal record.”
“Already happening,” Kovac said.
“How do you know he has a job at all?” Tippen challenged. “How do you know he's not some drifter, familiar with the parks because that's where he hangs out?”
“He's no drifter,” Quinn said with certainty. “He's got a house. The crime scenes are not the death scenes. The women were abducted, taken someplace, and held there. He needs privacy, a place where he can torture his victims without having to worry about anyone hearing.
“Also, he may have more than one vehicle. He probably has access to a Suburban-type truck or a pickup. A basic package, older, dark in color, fairly well kept. Something to transport the bodies in, a vehicle that wouldn't seem out of place pulling into the service lot of a city park. But this may not be what he's picking them up in, because a big vehicle would be conspicuous and memorable to witnesses.”