“Like what?”
“I can’t imagine. You think our guy has a personality disorder?”
“Duh.”
“Psychopath?”
“Actually, we don’t use that term anymore.”
“Oh, spare me.”
“The currently preferred mental health term is antisocial personality disorder. APD for short.”
“Whatever. You think that’s our guy?”
“Not if you’re right that he thinks he’s doing a good thing. That would be more like… I don’t know. Schizoid personality disorder.”
“Or a narcissist.”
Patrick batted a finger against his lips. “That’s not bad. Delusions of grandeur. Belief that he’s special and his actions can’t be comprehended by ordinary people. Feeling of divine entitlement.”
“If I’m right, what does it tell us?”
“That he needs constant admiration. That he won’t hesitate to take advantage of others in order to achieve his plan, whatever it is. That he will be indifferent to or unaware of the needs or feelings of others. Basically, the world is his stage, and the rest of us are just props at his disposal.”
“How does that help us catch him?”
“Well, he’ll be seeking attention. Praise, even.”
“He’s going to try to contact us, isn’t he?”
“Almost certainly. He already has, with those coded notes that were bound to lead us to the Poe connection. But he’ll do more. He’ll talk to us.”
“Good. That would help me understand him, what he wants. Empathize.”
“With a serial killer? Is that a good idea?”
I stood up and stretched, wondering whom I’d have to sleep with to get a fresh cup of coffee. “ ‘Is that a good idea?’ hasn’t really been the touchstone question of my life.”
We were well on our way to a solid and surprisingly useful profile when we were interrupted by O’Bannon’s secretary, Madeline. She looked put out, probably because she’d had to walk across the station to deliver the message herself-Granger hadn’t given me a phone.
“O’Bannon wants to see you. Right now.”
As if she thought I might keep the man waiting for an hour or so. Maybe stroll down to the pub and have a few drinks first. Whatever-I didn’t have to look at the woman to see that she had it in for me. So I obediently pushed myself off the Naugahyde and headed for O’Bannon’s office. I was almost there when I was accosted by an attractive middle-aged woman with large red spectacles and a neatly tailored suit. I didn’t have to look at the label to know it hadn’t come off the rack. And I didn’t need an introduction to know who she was.
“Are you Susan Pulaski?” she asked.
Moments like this, one has to wonder about the wisdom of the saying “Honesty is the best policy.” “I am.”
“I’m Fara Spencer. The mother of Annabel Spencer. She was-”
“I know who she was,” I said, sparing her the explanation. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, but that really isn’t good enough. I want to catch the bastard who did this.”
“We all do, ma’am.”
“That’s what I keep hearing, but as far as I can tell, no one is doing anything.”
“I can assure you-”
“I have some serious complaints about the way this investigation is being handled.”
I tried to edge past her, but she wasn’t budging. “Any complaints should be directed to Lieutenant Granger. It’s his case.”
“My understanding is that he’s essentially a supervisor. All my sources tell me that in a case such as this, a proper psychological analysis is critical to catching the killer. And that’s your department, right?”
“I’m also working with-”
“So let me be blunt, Ms. Pulaski. Do you think you’re up to this?”
Every joint in my body stiffened. “I’ve been working as a behaviorist for over-”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that you were recently fired and have not been reinstated. I know about your personal problems. As well as the… addiction that led to your hospitalization.”
“You’re terribly well informed, aren’t you?”
“In my business, it’s essential.”
“Well, in my business, it’s essential to know what the hell you’re talking about. We’re running a first-rate investi-”
“I’ve had recovering alcoholics on my show, Ms. Pulaski, as well as experts in the field of substance abuse. And I know you can’t just square your shoulders and be cured a week after you go into rehab.”
“It was detox, not-”
“Frankly, I’m appalled to think that a critical role in the apprehension of my daughter’s killer has been relegated to someone who only weeks before was suffering paranoid alcohol-infused delusions and behaving in a violent and psychopathic manner.”
“We don’t say psychopathic anymore,” I told her through clenched teeth. “I’m surprised all those experts on your show haven’t told you that.”
“My point, Lieutenant Pulaski, if indeed it is still appropriate to refer to you as a lieutenant, is that you have no business working on this case. I want you to resign so that someone better qualified can take your place.”
All right then, the gloves were off. “Ms. Spencer, this isn’t some daytime TV show dispensing feel-good bullshit to bored housewives. This is reality. And the reality is, I’m good at what I do. You’re not going to find a replacement who does any better.”
“I find that very difficult to believe. Your judgment is clouded.”
“Ma’am, don’t talk to me about clouded judgment. With all due respect, I’m not the one who just lost her only daughter. In every case of this nature we have grieving parents, and they are almost always obstacles, not assistants. We put up with it because we are service-oriented professionals and we realize that dealing with the death of a loved one is difficult.”
“Certainly you’re a testament to that,” she said dryly.
I sucked it in, showing a degree of restraint that surprised even me. “My point is, we’re doing everything we can to catch the killer and we will continue to do so. If you’re not going to help, get the hell out of the way!” I pushed her aside and marched on toward O’Bannon’s office.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” she shouted after me, confirming what I already knew all too well. “I’m not that easily brushed off.”