Just before Thanksgiving, the Biter's next target – the same profile: female, late teens, Caucasian, blond – was discovered in a Dumpster bin behind a restaurant a mile from Wellesley College. Sure, Chad thought. A Dumpster bin. The monster treated her the same way he did Stephanie and all his other victims. Like garbage.
He wrote another letter, but again he didn't receive an answer. The parents must be too stunned to react, he concluded. Whatever, it doesn't matter. I did my duty. I shared my grief. I let them realize they're not alone. I'm their and my daughter's advocate.
New Year's Eve. Another victim. Dartmouth College. More phone calls to detectives. More letters to parents. More visions in Chad 's kitchen at three a.m. A speck of brilliant light. A tender voice.
"You're out of control, Dad! Please! I'm begging you. Get on with your life. Shave! Take a bath! Change your clothes! Most of your authors have left you! Mother's left you! I'm afraid for you."
Chad shook his head. "Your mother…What? She left me?"
With a shudder, Chad realized that Linda had packed several suitcases and…Dear God. He remembered now. Linda had shouted, "It's been too long! It's bad enough to grieve for Stephanie! But to watch you do this to yourself? It's too damned much! Don't destroy my life while you destroy yours."
Ah.
Of course.
So be it, Chad dismally thought. She needs a comfort I can't give her. God willing, she'll find it with someone else.
Vengeance. Retribution. With greater fury, Chad pursued his mission. More phone calls, more frantic letters.
And then a breakthrough. What the detectives hadn't told Chad – but what he now learned -was that the tire tracks left by his daughter's desecrater had been identified last year, back in April, as standard equipment on a particular model of American van. Not only Stephanie's corpse near Yale but the later victim near Vassar had been linked with the tire tracks on that year and model of van. Because the Biter's numerous targets had all been students at colleges and universities in New England, the authorities had concentrated their search in that area.
When a blond, attractive, female student narrowly escaped being dragged inside a van as she strolled toward her dormitory at Brown University, the local police – braced for the threat – ordered roadblocks around the area and stopped the type of van that they'd been seeking.
The handsome, ingratiating male driver complied too calmly. His responses were too respectful, not at all curious. On a hunch, an officer asked the driver to open the back of the van.
The driver's eyes narrowed.
Chilled by the intensity of his gaze, the policeman grasped his revolver and repeated his request. What he and his team discovered… after the driver hesitated, after they took his keys… were stacks of boxes in the rear of the van.
And behind the boxes, a bound, gagged, unconscious co-ed.
That night, the police announced the suspected Biter's arrest, and Chad shouted in triumph.
Finally! A textbook salesman. The bastard's district was New England colleges. He stalked each campus. He studied his variety of quarry, reduced his choices, selected his final target, and…
Chad imagined the Biter's enticement. "These boxes of books. They're too heavy. I've sprained my left wrist. Would you mind? Could you help me? I'd really appreciate…Thank you. By the way, what's your major? No kidding? English? What a coincidence. That's my major. Here. In the back. Help me with this final box. You won't believe the first editions I've got in there."
Rape, torture, cannibalism, and murder were what he had in there.
Step in farther. Nothing's going to hurt you.
But now the bastard had finally been caught. His name was Richard Putnam. The alleged Biter, the media carefully called him, although Chad had no doubt of Putnam's guilt as he studied the television images of the monster. The unafraid expression. The unemotional eyes. The handsome suspect should have been sweating with fear, blustering with indignation, but instead he gazed directly at the cameras, disturbingly confident. A sociopath.
Chad phoned policemen and district attorneys to warn them not to be fooled by Putnam's calm manner. He wrote letters to the parents of every victim, urging them to make similar calls. Each night at three a.m. as he wandered through his cluttered apartment, he always found Stephanie's brilliant light hovering in the kitchen.
"At last they found him," she said. "At last you can give up your anger. Sleep. Eat. Rest. Distract yourself. Work. It's over."
"No, it won't be over until the son of a bitch is punished! I want him to suffer! To feel the terror you did!"
"But he can't feel terror. He can't feel anything. Except when he kills."
"Believe me, sweetheart, when the court finds him guilty, when the judge pronounces his sentence, that sociopath will suddenly find he can definitely feel emotion!"
"That's what I'm afraid of!"
"I don't understand! Don't you want revenge?"
"I'm speeding so brilliantly. I don't have time to…I'm afraid."
"Afraid about what?"
Stephanie's radiant light faded.
"What are you afraid of?"
Nothing will hurt you. The song kept echoing in Chad 's mind. While he hadn't been able to protect his daughter as he had promised when she was a child, he could do his utmost to guarantee he was there to make sure that the monster suffered. Calls to police departments revealed that the various states in which the murders had occurred were each demanding to put the Biter on trial. The result was bureaucratic chaos, arguments about which city would have the first chance to prosecute.
As the authorities persisted in quarreling, Chad 's frustration compelled him to visit the parents of each victim, to convince them to form a group, to conduct news conferences, to insist that jurisdictional egos be ignored in favor of the strongest evidence in any one city, to plead for justice.
It gave Chad intense satisfaction to believe that his efforts produced results – and even greater satisfaction that New Haven was selected as the site of the trial, that Stephanie's murder would be the crime against which the Biter was initially prosecuted. By then, a year had passed. As part of his divorce settlement, Chad had sold his co-op apartment in Manhattan, splitting the proceeds with Linda. He moved to cheaper lodgings in New Haven, relying on the income he received from his ten percent of royalties that his former authors were required to pay him for contracts that he'd negotiated.
Successful.
Sure.
Before Stephanie was…
Nothing will hurt you?
Wrong! It hurts like hell!
Each day at the trial, Chad sat in the front row, far to the side so he could have a direct view of Putnam's unemotional, this-is-all-a-mistake, confident profile. Damn you, show fear, show remorse, show anything, Chad thought. But even when the district attorney presented photographs of the horrors done to Stephanie, the monster did not react. Chad wanted to leap across the courtroom's railing and claw Putnam's eyes out. It took all his self-control not to scream his litany of mental curses.
The jury deliberated for ten days.
Why did they need so long?
They finally declared him guilty.
And yet again the monster showed no reaction.
Nor did he react when the judge pronounced the maximum punishment Connecticut allowed: life in prison.
But Chad reacted. He shrieked, "Life in prison? Change the law! That son of a bitch deserves to be executed!"