"Of course, that assumes the victims are chosen randomly, within the witch community," Doc said. "There's always the possibility that his grudge was against these two women in particular."
"We've got people working that angle," Karl said. "They're looking for a common factor – clients, boyfriends, relatives, all that."
"If they find something, it'll make my life a lot easier," I said. "But since God seems to be part of an ongoing conspiracy to make my life difficult, let's assume for now that it's a serial killer who's obsessed with witches."
"All right, then." Doc was sitting in an expensive-looking leather swivel chair. He tilted it back as far as it would go and closed his eyes. He sat like that without speaking for fifteen seconds or so. "He's choosing witches because they symbolize something for him – something that he wants to kill, or wishes he had, but can't. It's possible that an actual witch did him dirty sometime in the past, of course. However, when the victims are female, we tend to believe that they are serving as stand-ins for a woman in the killer's past, often the mother, or a mother-figure." Doc opened his eyes and shrugged. "Trite, but true."
"So, you figure the guy's mother was a witch?" Karl asked.
"Maybe," Doc said, "but it's rarely that simple. By the way, I've been using 'he' because it's easier, but I don't mean to prejudice your investigation by implying that the killer is necessarily male. However, the odds favor it, since the vast majority of serial killers who have been identified were male." Doc thought for a moment. "That doesn't apply to supernaturals, of course."
"How come?" Karl asked.
"Because the distinctions aren't as clear. For instance, do you consider a vampire who kills people a serial killer, or just hungry?"
"I know what I'd consider him," I said.
"No doubt," Doc said. "But then, you've got some issues of your own with vampires, don't–" He stopped himself, then looked at Karl. "Sorry," he said. "I meant no offense."
"None taken, Doc," Karl said. "When you're right, you're right – Stan does have issues with vampires. Although he hasn't put garlic in my locker for a couple of months now."
Doc stared at Karl for a couple of seconds, as if he wasn't sure whether he was being kidded. Karl was telling the truth – I do have problems with vamps, but maybe not as many as I used to.
Doc turned to me. "There's one other possibility that might apply to your killer's motivation," he said. "It could be political."
It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. "You mean human supremacists," I said.
Doc nodded slowly. "Exactly. I know we have some locally. Every once in a while, the Times-Tribune publishes one of their hate letters. And I think I remember reading something about a demonstration once."
Karl looked at me. "Pettigrew's bunch," he said.
"Could be a conversation with the HSR is in order," I told him.
Doc Watson tilted his head a little. "HSR?"
"The Homo Sapiens Resistance," I said. "That's the name of the national organization – although from the members I've met, calling themselves Homo sapiens may be a bit of a stretch. Cro-Magnons, maybe."
"Was there any kind of signature left at the crime scenes?" Doc asked me. "Anything that might make a statement about who was responsible, or why?"
"Nothing," I said. "And we went over those crime scenes pretty damn thoroughly. So did Forensics."
"And I haven't seen any statements released to the media, either," Doc said.
"What's your point, Doc?" Karl asked.
"Terrorism – and that's what we're talking about here – is only effective if the people doing it let the world know why they did it. Lenin said, 'The purpose of terror is to terrify', and it's hard to terrify people if they don't know who you are."
"Could be that the local haters haven't read Lenin – or much of anything else," I said. "We'll have a word with them, anyway. Shake their tree a little, and see if anything falls off."
"Besides," Karl said, "it's fun."
We'd learned what we came for, and it was time for us to go. As I stood up, I said to Doc, "I guess you've come into some money recently."
He looked at me with narrowed eyes. "It's true – my dad died a couple of months ago and left me a good-sized share of his estate. How did you know, Stan?"
One of the guys at the station house had told me about Doc's good fortune, but I decided to play Sherlock Holmes.
"That painting on your wall over there is new, and it looks like an original oil, not a copy," I said. "I haven't seen that sports coat on you before, but it's made of pricey fabric and looks tailored. Instead of getting your hair cut, like usual, you've had it styled. I can only see the edge of the watch under the sleeve, but it looks like an Omega, and the cheapest one they make goes for about fifteen hundred bucks." I gave him a casual-looking shrug. "You're too smart to live beyond your means, so I figured you'd had a windfall of some kind."
"I thought cops only did stuff like that in the movies," Doc said. "That's fucking amazing, Stan."
Since I knew that Doc had inherited some big bucks, it wasn't hard to work backwards and look for signs of affluence. But I had no intention of telling him that.
I followed Karl to the door, then turned back. Looking at Doc with what I hoped was a straight face, I said, "It was quite elementary, my dear Watson."
Doc's building isn't in a high crime area, and I wasn't worried about the police-issue Buick we drove getting stolen or stripped. As we came outside and turned the corner, I saw that I'd been right – the car was still there, and wasn't missing anything. But something had been added, in the form of the ghoul who was leaning against the driver's door.
I can recognize a ghoul on sight. I don't even need to smell his breath, although you can usually do that from several feet away, and it isn't pleasant. Their diet has what you might call a distinctive odor. They're all short, too. Not dwarf short, but I've never seen a ghoul who topped five foot six, and this one was no exception. He had a goatee like Doc Watson's, but where Doc looked suave and a little sinister, this flesh-muncher came across like a beatnik that had wandered through a 1950s time warp. I half expected to hear him call me "Daddy-o."