“So what’s all that tell you?” I asked, spurred on by what I felt sure was a breakthrough, and eager for something I could actually use.
“I’d look for someone smart who likes nice things. Also a methodical type-maybe compulsively neat. And a loner.”
“You mean he lives alone?”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily. He’s a loner in his head, but the more perceptive around him will notice that about him.” She seemed to hesitate a moment. When she resumed speaking, her attitude had shifted slightly. She sounded more removed, as if distancing herself a bit from her words. “Look, there is a generalized picture I can see in all this, but I’m worried that if I describe it, you’ll take it too literally and perhaps miss the man you’re after.”
I gave her a slightly helpless expression. “What can I say?”
She let out a frustrated sigh. “All right. From what Gail told us, we know he’s white and fairly trim. That would fit his personality, which includes keeping in shape, but in a solitary fashion, as with jogging or weight lifting. I’d say he’s aged anywhere from his mid-twenties to his late thirties, but not any younger-his style shows maturity, a control over more youthful impulsiveness. And control is the operative word: He’s meticulous, even rigid, which also means he presents himself physically that way-no torn jeans, untucked shirts, or weekend stubble. That’s also where any effeminate characteristics might be noticed. And he probably collects something to satisfy this need, like stamps or coins, or what-have-you-something tidy and organized.
“All this camouflages a restless, anguished, insecure, and very violent inner man, whose hatred of women dates way back, and whose violence comes out as revenge against a sex for whom he has nothing but contempt.” She lifted a cautionary finger at me. “But there again you’ll have to watch out, because little or nothing of that will show. This man is a born performer-an actor’s actor. He’ll date women, woo their socks off, and might even have once been, or still be, married-and not necessarily to a mousy, retiring type. Some of these men go after strong women. Whatever the case there, however, I’ll all but guarantee that if you can find out about his youth, you’ll find he comes from a family with serious psychological problems.”
Megan Goss picked up her thick file and placed it on the desk. I turned off the tape recorder I’d had running from the start of our visit, and rose.
She shook my hand and gave Gail a hug. “I hope you get him soon. Because if I’m right, and you don’t, he’ll be back-maybe as a killer.”
I thought at first that the crowd had dispersed around the Municipal Building, either from boredom or because something had lured it away. But the parking lot was still suspiciously full, forcing me to park illegally on the edge of a grass embankment. Entering the building supplied the explanation-the hallway between the patrol-administration side and the detective squad of the police department was lined with a small army of irritable reporters.
I hadn’t made it three feet past the door before a sharp-eyed young woman leapt to her feet from one of the benches. “Lieutenant Gunther, could we ask you a few questions?”
I shook my head at the gathering knot of people she’d stimulated. “Not if you want any answers.”
“Where have you been all day? You digging into something new?”
“Rumor has it all this is part of a feud between you and the State’s Attorney. Any truth to that?”
“None whatsoever,” I was stupid enough to answer, adding fuel to the fire. I had planned to retire to my office, but instead I headed directly for Ron Klesczewski’s command center.
“You’re being credited as the one who undermined Dunn’s case in court. Why did you wait till the last second?”
“The case was thrown out because the search warrant was invalidated. Does that mean Bob Vogel is still your number-one suspect?”
Ron Klesczewski looked up at the sudden swell of voices at the door, his face drawn and tired. He smiled at me from behind his long, folder-strewn table and waited until I’d shut the door firmly behind me. “You’re a welcome sight.”
“Feeling a little besieged?”
“When I want to use the john, I wait till the last second so I can combine two trips in one. You hear the press conference on the radio?”
I shook my head.
“Not good. It came out sounding like we weren’t sure if we had the right guy but blew the evidence, or had the wrong guy and were after somebody else. The chief stood by you. Made you sound like the Lone Ranger, fighting for truth and justice. ’Course, that didn’t make Dunn look too good. You could tell the two of them weren’t getting along. The press ate it up.”
I pulled the tapes I’d made at Megan Goss’s out of my pocket. “Harriet around?”
“Yeah-I put her in there.” He jerked his thumb at a tiny cubbyhole office that filled one corner of the large room. “All our calls are being transferred in here, too. What’s that?”
“More proof that Vogel didn’t do it. I want her to transcribe it. What’ve you heard back from our people?”
“We’re supposed to have an update conference at four.”
I checked my watch. “Bring ’em in now. Maybe I can cut down on their workload.”
The setting was less formal than before. People sat on chairs, on the edges of tables; a few were on the floor with their backs to the wall. In all, there were over a dozen of them-detectives, patrolmen in plainclothes, and, inevitably, Brandt and Lefevre.
I felt an odd combination of skepticism and excitement mingling in the air. “I apologize for yanking you back here on short notice, but I think it’ll be worth your while. Harriet’s been typing a transcript of a conversation Megan Goss had with Gail Zigman this morning after putting her under hypnosis. As a result of that session, we’ve been able to get a more detailed description of the man we’re after.”
I paused for theatrical effect. “He’s of medium build, flat stomach, no chest hair-although that could have been shaved off for the occasion-between twenty-five and forty, meticulously neat. He also doesn’t smell like a stray dog, which ought to rule out Bob Vogel if nothing else does.”
There was a polite ripple of muted laughter. “Based on the fact, therefore, that Vogel was carefully framed, I had Goss draw up a psychological profile of the type of man we’re after. I want to use that profile to narrow down our suspects to a revised A-list.”
“We throwing out the names that don’t fit?” Kunkle asked skeptically.
“Just moving them to the back. Criminal profiling is a good, time-tested tool, but it’s not always accurate. However, since we’ve got one, we might as well use it. If we don’t get any hits, we’ll go back to knocking on doors.”
I looked around, as if inviting debate, but I knew the simplicity of the rationale had already won them over. It would mean a hell of a lot less effort if it worked-never the worst incentive to a beleaguered, tired, uncertain team.
“All right, let’s deal with the solid evidence first-rule out the extremes. Who’s got anyone with either a real gut or who’s skinny as a rail?”
One of the patrolmen raised his hand tentatively. “I had Barry Gilchrist. He’s pretty scrawny-looks like he’s starving.”
I nodded. “Okay. He gets bumped. Anyone else?”
Encouraged, another one said, “Lonny Sorvin’s a porker.”
Three more names were added to the pile, for one reason or the other.
“Five down,” I said. “Okay. Goss said that, in all likelihood, we’re after a loner who’s compulsively neat, highly intelligent, likes nice things, and who keeps fit doing a solitary activity, like jogging or weight lifting. She also thinks he probably collects things-stamps, coins, or something similar.”
“Well, unless it’s empty beer cans, that lets out Harry Murchison,” Willy called out. “He and his girlfriend live like pigs, and he’s dumb as dirt.”