“I understand,” said Roger Parson Junior, crossing one thin, elegantly sheathed leg over the other, “that the Hug is now the center of racial demonstrations.”
“Yes, sir, whenever the weather’s bearable.”
“Why aren’t you doing something about it?”
“The last time I looked at the Constitution, Mr. Parson, it permitted orderly demonstrations of any kind, including racial,” Carmine said in a neutral voice. “If riots occur, we can act, not otherwise. Nor do we think it wise to use strong-arm tactics that might provoke riots. It’s embarrassing for the Hug, but its staff aren’t being molested as they come and go.”
“You must admit, Lieutenant, that from where we stand, the Holloman police haven’t exactly shone at any time in the last two and a half months,” said Spaight, tight-lipped. “This murdering fellow seems to be running rings around all of you. Perhaps it’s time to call in the FBI.”
“We are consulting the FBI regularly, sir, I can assure you, but the FBI is just as short of leads as we are. We have asked every state in the Union for particulars of crimes of a similar nature, with no positive results. In the past two weeks we have, for instance, checked the credentials and placement of several hundred substitute schoolteachers, with no positive results. Nothing that might offer a solution has been ignored.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Parson peevishly, “is why he is still at large! You must have some idea who is responsible!”
“Police methodology depends on a network of connections,” Carmine said, having thought about what he was going to say as he made his long drive. “Under normal circumstances there is a pool of likely suspects, whether you’re talking murder or armed robbery or drug dealing. We all know each other, the criminals and the cops. We, the cop end of the equation, conduct our investigations down a well-worn track, because that’s how it works best. Men of my rank have been at the job long enough to have developed pretty shrewd instincts about who’s at the criminal end of the equation. Murders have patterns, signatures. Robberies have patterns, signatures. They lead us to those who did it.”
“This murderer has a pattern, a signature,” said Spaight.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Mr. Spaight. This killer is a ghost. He abducts a girl, but he leaves not one single trace of himself behind. No one has ever seen him, even heard him. No girl seems to have known him. As soon as we realized he was into victims with a Caribbean background and had a chance to protect every girl of his type, he switched to a Connecticut black, Pennsylvania white cross. Same physical type of girl, but a different ethnic background. Taken from an inner-city high school with fifteen hundred students. He varied his technique in other ways I’m not at liberty to tell you. What I can tell you, sirs, is that we are no farther ahead than we were two and a half months ago. Because the network of connections isn’t there. He’s not a professional criminal, he’s an anonymous nonentity. A ghost.”
“Might he have a record of some other crime? Rape?”
“We’ve been there too, Mr. Parson, with a fine-toothed comb. My own feeling is that he’s as much a rapist as he is a killer, that maybe the rape is more important to him than the murder, that he only kills to make sure the victim can’t talk. I have personally gone through hundreds of files looking for anything that might suggest a rapist who’s raised the ante. When none of the convicted or accused rapists matched, I went to cases where the girl or woman dropped the charges – that happens often. I looked at pictures of girls, descriptions of their rape, but my cop instincts never stirred. If he was there, I’m sure they would have stirred.”
“Then he must be young,” said Spaight.
“What makes you say that, sir?”
“His history is two years old. Such shocking crimes would surely have produced symptoms of mania before that if he were an older man.”
“A good point, but I don’t think this killer is very young, no, sir. He’s cold, calculating, resourceful, without conscience or the shadow of a doubt. All that suggests maturity, not youth.”
“Might he be of the same ethnic background as his victims?”
“We had all thought of that possibility, Mr. Parson, until he crossed the ethnic line. One of the FBI psychiatrists thought he might look like his victims – same color, say – but if such a man exists, we haven’t spotted him and he doesn’t have a record.”
“So what you’re really saying, Lieutenant, is that if – or when – this murderer is caught, it won’t be by any of your more traditional methods.”
“Yes,” said Carmine flatly, “that’s what I’m really saying. Like so many others, he’ll crash by a fluke or an accident.”
“Not an opinion that inspires confidence,” said Parson dryly.
“Oh, we’ll get him, sir. We’ve pushed him into changes, and we’ll go on pushing him. I don’t think his frame of mind is as serene as it was.”
“Serene?” asked Spaight, astonished. “Surely not!”
“Why not?” Carmine countered. “He doesn’t have feelings, Mr. Spaight, as you and I understand feelings. He’s insane but sane.”
“How many more girls are going to die an agonizing death?” Parson asked, the words barbed.
Carmine’s face twisted. “If I could answer that question, I would know the killer’s identity.”
A uniformed maid came in wheeling a cart and proceeded to set the higher table.
“I trust you’ll stay for lunch, Lieutenant?” Roger Parson Junior asked, rising to his feet.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sit down, do.”
Carmine seated himself to look at Lenox tableware.
“We are patriots,” said Spaight, sitting on Carmine’s right as Parson went to Carmine’s left. Fenced in.
“In what way, Mr. Spaight?”
“American tableware, American linens. American everything, really. It was Uncle William who liked foreign matter.”
Foreign matter. Not the phrase I’d use to describe the rug, thought Carmine. Or the Velásquez.
A butler and the maid waited on table: Nova Scotia smoked salmon with thin brown bread-and-butter, roast veal au jus with pommes Lyonnaise and steamed spinach, a cheese plate and superb coffee. No alcohol.
“The martini lunch,” said Richard Spaight, “is a curse. If I know a client has indulged in one, I will not see him. Business requires a clear head.”
“So does policing,” said Carmine. “In that respect, Commissioner Silvestri runs a dry ship. No alcohol unless off duty, and no lushes on the force.” He was facing the Poussin, dreamily beautiful. “It’s lovely,” he said to his host.
“Yes, we chose tranquil works for this room. The wartime Goyas are in my office. On your way out, however, don’t miss our one and only El Greco. It’s under armored glass at the end of the corridor,” Roger Parson Junior said.
“Have you ever been robbed of any art?” the cop had to ask.
“No, it’s too difficult to get in. Or perhaps it is that there are plenty of easier targets. This is a city of wonderful art. I often amuse myself by working out how I’d steal a good Rembrandt from the Metropolitan or a Picasso from the private dealer on Fifty-third. Were I serious, I believe neither would be impossible.”
“Maybe your Uncle William knew the tricks too.”
Richard Spaight tittered. “He certainly did! In his day it was a great deal easier, of course. If you were at Pompeii or in Florence, all you had to do was tip the guide ten dollars. You should see the Roman mosaic floor in the conservatory at the old house in Litchfield – magnificent.”
Merry Christmas, ha ha, Carmine thought as he climbed into the pre-warmed Ford to commence the drive home. It isn’t either of them, though if a Rembrandt goes missing from the Metropolitan, I can tip off the NYPD where to look. M.M. will be under the ground before that bunch give up Uncle William’s collection, even if it is foreign matter.