And yet, in the back of his mind he hears her voice berating him, criticizing him, taunting him. And the anger, ever banked, begins to heat. Goddamn Quinn and his Freudian bullshit. He doesn't know anything about the power and euphoria in taking a life. He has never considered the exquisite music of pain and fear, or how that music elevates the musician. The killing has nothing to do with any feelings of inadequacy of his common self, and everything to do with power.
On one far side of the room, the contingent from the Phoenix House take up their chant: “Our lives matter too!”
Toni Urskine introduces herself and starts in. “Lila White and Fawn Pierce were forced by circumstance into prostitution. Are you saying they deserved what happened to them?”
“I would never suggest that,” Quinn says. “It's simply a fact that prostitution is a high-risk profession compared to being an attorney or an elementary-school teacher.”
“And so they're considered expendable? Lila White's murder didn't rate a task force. Lila White had been a resident of the Phoenix House at one time. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has come to reinvestigate her death. The FBI didn't send anyone to Minneapolis for Fawn Pierce. One of our current residents was a close friend of Ms. Pierce. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has ever interviewed her. But Peter Bondurant's daughter goes missing and suddenly we have network news coverage and community action meetings.
“Chief Greer, in view of these facts, can you honestly say the city of Minneapolis gives a damn about women in difficult circumstances?”
Greer steps up to the podium, looking stern and strong. “Mrs. Urskine, I assure you every possible measure was taken to solve the murders of the first two victims. We are redoubling our efforts to seek out and find this monster. And we will not rest until the monster is caught!”
“I want to point out that Chief Greer isn't using the term monster literally,” Quinn says. “We're not looking for a raving lunatic, foaming at the mouth. For all appearances, he's an ordinary man. The monster is in his mind.”
Monster. A word ordinary people misapply to creatures they don't understand. The shark is labeled a monster when in fact it is simply efficient and purposeful, pure in its thought and in its power. So, too, the Cremator. He is efficient and purposeful, pure in thought and in power. He doesn't waver in action. He doesn't question the compulsion. He gives himself over wholly to the needs of his Dark Self, and in that complete surrender rises above his common self.
“At this instant, when the victims were dying at their hands, many serial killers report an insight so intense that it is like an emotional quasar, blinding in its revelation of truth.” —Joel Norris, Serial Killers.
SPECIAL AGENT QUINN, what are your theories regarding the burning of the bodies?”
The question came from a reporter. The danger with these open community meetings was having them turn into press conferences, and a press conference was the last thing Quinn wanted. He needed a controlled situation—for the purpose of the case, and for himself. He needed to give out just enough information, not too much. A little speculation, but nothing that could be construed by the killer as arrogance. He needed to condemn the killer, but be certain to weave into that condemnation a certain kind of respect.
A direct challenge could result in more bodies. Play it too soft and Smokey Joe might feel he needed to make a statement. More bodies. A wrong word, a careless inflection—another death. The weight of that responsibility pressed against his chest like a huge stone.
“Agent Quinn?”
The voice hit him like a prod, jarring him back to the moment. “The burning is this killer's signature,” he answered, rubbing a hand against his forehead. He was hot. There wasn't enough air in the room. His head was pounding like a hammer against an anvil. The hole in his stomach lining was burning bigger. “Something he feels compelled to perform to satisfy some inner need. What that need might be, only he knows.”
Pick a face, any face, he thought as he looked out at the crowd. After all the years and all the cases and all the killers, he sometimes thought he should have been able to recognize the compulsion to kill, to see it like an unholy aura, but it didn't work that way. People made much of the eyes of serial killers—the stark, flat emptiness that was like looking down a long, black tunnel where a soul should have been. But a killer like this one was smart and adaptable, and no one except his victims would see that look in his eyes until he stood for his mug shot.
Any face in the crowd could be the mask of a killer. One person in this group might listen to the descriptions of the crimes, smell the fear in this room, and feel elated, aroused. He had actually seen killers get erections as their monstrous exploits were related to a stunned and sickened jury.
The killer would be here with his own agenda. To gauge, to judge, to plan his next move. To enjoy the fuss being made over him. Maybe he would come forward as a concerned citizen. Maybe he would want the thrill of knowing he could stand within their grasp, then walk away. Or maybe he would choose his next victim from the women in this room.
Quinn's gaze went automatically to Kate as she slipped in the door at the back of the room. He scanned her face, careful not to linger, even though he wanted to. He wanted it too much, and she wanted nothing to do with him. He'd taken that hint once. He sure as hell should have been smart enough to take it now. He had a case to focus on.
“What about the religious overtones?”
“There may not be any as far as he's concerned. We can only speculate. He could be saying ‘sinners burn in hell.' Or it could be a cleansing ceremony to save their souls. Or it could be that he deems burning the bodies the ultimate disrespect and degradation.”
“Isn't it your job to narrow down the possibilities?” another reporter called out. Quinn almost looked for Tippen in the crowd.
“The profile isn't complete,” he said. Don't tell me my job. I know my job, asshole.
“Is it true you were pulled off the Bennet child abduction in Virginia to work this case?”
“What about the South Beach gay murders?”
“I have a number of ongoing cases at any given time.”
“But you're here because of Peter Bondurant,” another stated. “Doesn't that reek of elitism?”
“I go where I'm sent,” he said flatly. “My focus is on the case, not where the orders came from or why.”
“Why hasn't Peter Bondurant been formally questioned?”
Chief Greer stepped up to the podium to put the official shut-down on that line of inquiry, to expound on Peter Bondurant's virtues in front of Edwyn Noble and the Paragon PR person who had attended on Bondurant's behalf.
Quinn stepped back beside Kovac and tried to breathe again. Kovac had his cop face on, the eyes hooded and flat, taking in far more than anyone in the audience would have imagined.
“You see Liska's mutt sitting next to her?” he said under his breath. “He came in uniform, for chrissake.”
“That would be handy for getting his victims to go with him,” Quinn said. “He's got a petty record that might be something more.”
“He's connected to Jillian Bondurant,” Kovac said.
“Have Liska ask him in for a sit-down.” Quinn wished for that rush of gut instinct that this might be the guy, but that sense had abandoned him, and he felt nothing. “Let it sound like a consultation. We're asking for his assistance, we want his take on things, his opinion as a trained observer. Like that.”