“I’ve asked Jackson to see if he can get us some info on that key. It’s large and its shape is a little odd, with a shaft that’s not your usual pin setup. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Burden tossed a cluster of papers on the desk. “Knowing what we know now, are you still convinced this isn’t the type of killer who preys on elderly women-the offenders that Safarik’s studied?”
“I’m more convinced now than I was before,” Vail said. “There’s no secondary financial component to his act; he doesn’t, as an afterthought, take money, jewelry. A typical sexual killer of elderly women is unsophisticated, disorganized, and of lower intelligence. They certainly wouldn’t interact with the police. That’s an intelligent act, a sign of psychopathy. And displaying the bodies in public places-it’s just not their way. Let alone the fact that half his vics are male.
“Safarik found that the killers of older women aren’t sophisticated, and they don’t mix genders. So, no. Unless I see something that totally contradicts this, this guy doesn’t fit. He’s a psychopath, and we’ve got our hands full.”
Friedberg walked in. “I heard, ‘He’s a psychopath and we’ve got our hands full.’ That can’t be good.”
“It’s not,” Vail said, sliding off the desk.
“But what does that actually mean-for us?”
“Labeling him a psychopath isn’t as impressive as it sounds. Ninety percent of serial killers are psychopathic. That’s by far the highest percentage among violent criminals.”
“Someone actually studied that?” Friedberg asked.
“Hell yeah. A third of rapists are psychopaths, half of all hostage takers. Two thirds of molesters. Like I said, psychopathy’s cornered the violent crime market. If we ever make contact with him-and I think it’s only a matter of time before we do-figuring out how to categorize him properly could prove extremely important.”
“Categorize him how?” Burden asked.
“There are four types, all with the same basic traits and characteristics. But they’re present in differing doses. I’ve got a decent idea of how to approach him, of how to talk to him, but let’s see how he reacts to Allman’s article.”
Burden sat down at the table. “What if you get it wrong?”
“I’d rather not go there. Let’s just say it could inflame the situation.”
Friedberg shoved an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “More vics.”
More vics. The story of my life. Vail looked away. “Yes. To complicate things, psychopathy could be co-morbid with other psychiatric disorders. But psychopathy is king and that’s what will resonate the strongest.”
Friedberg pulled the Marlboro from his lips. “I’ve requisitioned the key from the ’82 case. Wasn’t easy because I had nothing to go on, but I think we found it.”
“Assuming the key’s the same, or similar,” Friedberg said, “what do you think it means? The key to what?”
Vail shrugged. “First thought is that it’s a taunt. See if you can find the key to the case. He’s left it right there in front of us. He’s saying, ‘Here’s the key. Can’t you see it? What’s wrong with you people’?”
“What’s wrong with us?” Friedberg said with a chuckle. “Guy’s an insane nut case and he’s asking what’s wrong with us.”
“Lose that thought right now,” Vail said. “And don’t bring it up again.”
Friedberg looked around, his brow crumpled in confusion. “What’d I say?”
“A psychopath is not crazy. He’s not insane, and he’s not a nut job. He’s in touch with reality and knows right from wrong. This is an important concept, especially when it comes time to interview him.”
“You sound pretty optimistic that we’ll catch him,” Burden said.
“We can’t take a defeatist attitude. I have to believe we’re gonna nail this asshole. I mean, don’t you?”
Burden and Friedberg glanced at each other. In unison, they said, “Sure,” and “Yeah.”
But their body language did not invite confidence.
“Look at it this way,” Vail said. “This scumbag’s enjoying these murders. And he likes the cat and mouse game he’s set in motion. So it’s up to us. If we don’t figure this shit out, it’s gonna be hard to sleep at night. Because he’s not going to stop.”
21
MacNally pushed through the glass doors of First National Thrift. A chill wind slapped against his exposed lips, but he was only vaguely aware of it. He made eye contact with Henry, who was in the Chevy, idling double-parked at the curb. He popped the passenger door open as MacNally slid between the chrome bumpers of the stationary vehicles, then jumped into their car.
MacNally slammed the door. “Go!” But he did not need to say that-before he could finish the one syllable word, Henry had already accelerated hard, shoving MacNally against the seat, his head whipping backwards.
In the corner of his eye, MacNally saw the guard he had passed on his way out of the bank come bursting through the doors, yelling and pointing at them. “Shit.” It escaped MacNally’s mouth without much thought. He didn’t want to distract Henry from doing what he needed to do: Drive. Fast, yet in control. He yanked off the ski mask and tossed it in the backseat.
“Did you get the money?”
“Got the money. Just concentrate on getting us out of here.” He looked over at his son. Henry was just a kid. What was he thinking involving him in something like this? But it wasn’t like he could’ve robbed the bank, found his car in the parking lot, and then made a successful getaway.
As had been the case the past three years, he had Henry and Henry had him. That was it. No friends, no neighbors, no one else they could rely on. Fortunately, Henry was tall for his age, and wise beyond his years. Both made this job possible.
“Whoa-” Henry yelled as he swerved to avoid a car that had run a stop sign.
MacNally had to grab the heavy satchel, which had flown off his lap and onto the bench seat between him and Henry.
“How much did we get?”
Clutching the overstuffed bag, MacNally had been wondering the same thing. “Don’t know. Don’t worry about it-just concentrate on driving.” He shifted the satchel on his lap. “A lot. That was a good bank, lots of wealthy customers.”
“Guess I won’t need to mow anymore lawns.”
A simple comment, but it was like a dagger to MacNally’s heart. He pushed the guilt aside and brought his thoughts back to the road ahead of them. “We need to make a few turns. And we should change cars, too.”
Out of MacNally’s peripheral vision, a green sign whizzed by: Welcome to Georgia.