Janet threw the photo back on the desk and concluded, “You’ve got the worst nightmare possible.”
“Why’s that?” asked Spinelli. But I suspected he already knew.
“At both murder scenes he left a paucity of evidence. He wore gloves so you couldn’t match his prints, indicating this was a matter of concern to him. But he knew you’d get his DNA, indicating confidence that he’s not in your, or the FBI’s, DNA database. Nor will he likely be found in your sex offender databases. But his fingerprints could be on file. You should think about what that means.”
“Maybe he’s just stupid,” Spinelli replied.
“You know he’s not.”
“Do I?”
“Danny, the man’s a planner. He studies his targets and prepares. He somehow manages to get close to them. He brings along a rape kit, all the right tools, and he knows how to use them. He’s a sexual predator, but when his prey bucks his scenario, he shuts down his sexual impulses and coldly terminates the problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“He’s done this before. And his ability to control his urges and rages is worrisome.” She observed, “You don’t see many like that.”
It was a very impressive display of conjecture. Both cops nodded appreciatively. I also was impressed. But I was even more mystified. In case you haven’t noticed, her sister was murdered three days before, and she shows up, cool and icy calm, and insinuates herself into the investigation. Now she’s professionally hypothesizing about the guy who may have brutally murdered her sister, her emotions completely in check, her brain firing on all cylinders.
Weird? Right.
But a knock on Martin’s door showed three impatient detectives waiting for us to exit so they could enter. We had fulfilled our purpose, and aside from the normal troubles and nightmares the Alexandria Police Department had on its hands that chilly evening, with two women murdered by a maniac, clearly Martin and Spinelli were busy staring off the edge of a cliff.
Janet and I found our own way out, leaving Martin with Spinelli, which I regarded as less than a favor.
Outside, I asked Janet, “You eat yet?”
“No. And I’m famished.” She was shivering and had her coat pulled tightly around her body. It was cold, but not that cold.
I said, “Me, too. And I know the perfect place.”
In truth, Julia Cuthburt’s photo had ruined my appetite. When you’re in a cop station everybody’s working hard to keep it light and insensitive. Part of that’s just macho horseshit, but also passion and emotion cloud up logic, logic solves crimes, and there’s this forced, almost competitive effort by all parties to treat the whole thing like a clinical discussion. It’s all phony. Under the surface, I think we were all picturing the final hour of Julia Cuthburt’s life and feeling a bit green in the gills. The killer had turned a living, breathing human being into a vulgar calling card to say, Fuck you, I’m here, I’m very good at this, and I’m not through.
So we needed to decompress and clear our minds, and I knew a great place with brick ovens, genuine pan-baked pizza pies, and a nice mix of artery-cloggers you could pile on. We both kept it light on the short drive over.
Bertolucci’s, by the way, is a popular establishment, very the matic, though some of the locals seem to feel it goes a little overboard; in fact, the walls are painted with guys in funny clothes shoving around gondolas, and Venetian palaces, and spewing volcanoes, a collage of another world and another place, so wildly ridiculous that it almost works. But, like everything in the suburbs, it is part of a strip mall. Also, the waiters and waitresses speak with these goofy, half-baked Italian accents and call one another Dom This and Dom That, which adds to the hilarity because they’re all local teenagers with names like O’Donnell and Smith. Only in America. But it was late and the usual family crowd had thinned out, so no line, and no squalling kids, and we ended up at a nice quiet table by the roaring fireplace.
I ordered a bottle of vino as we got settled. A kid showed up, said, “Buon giorno, signores, my name is Dom Jimmy Jones, and I’ll be your sommelier and waiter this evening,” uncorked our bottle, poured our glasses, and took his Disney act somewhere else. At least the pizza’s real.
Janet took a few deep sips of wine, then asked me, “What do you think about Julia Cuthburt?”
“There’s no dignity in death.”
In a sort of rushed tone, she said, “I know this sounds odd, but maybe Lisa was lucky. If she hadn’t forced his hand-”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t have stood it if she died like that.”
“Amen.”
“A bunch of strangers sitting around… studying her photo.. . naked… that way Julia Cuthburt was posed-”
“Drink some wine. Dream you’re in Italy.”
She drank some wine. After a moment, she asked, “Did you ever try a case like this?”
“No. Our serial killers have chests filled with ribbons and are called heroes. Some of our graduates make a big name for themselves after they leave the service, but Army life tends to discourage them from acting out their fantasies.”
“But you’ve handled rapes, sex crimes?”
“Yes. A few.”
“What about Lisa?”
“Probably. The JAG Corps likes us to be well-rounded. Great efforts are expended to round out our trial experience.”
“Could she have been involved in a case with her killer?”
It was an insightful question, one I should’ve thought of. I replied, “I wouldn’t rule it out. She couldn’t have handled many violent sex crimes, because we do generalize. It shouldn’t be too difficult to back-check her case records.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Maybe not. Even if Lisa and the killer met in connection with her legal duties, it wasn’t necessarily a sex crime.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re familiar with criminal profiles. Those who would commit murder and rape have a disdain for all laws. He’s as apt to have been prosecuted for DUI, shoplifting, military disciplinary problems.” I added, “I’ll check her record on sex crimes, but don’t hold false hopes.”
But since she’d raised the subject, I also suggested, “You know, now that it appears Lisa’s murder was at the hands of a serial killer, there’s not much you and I can do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The customary motives of jealousy, greed, revenge, and cover-up have just been eliminated. Why she was killed is no longer the mystery. Catching serial killers requires strong procedural police work.”
“Are you suggesting I should go home?”
“Yes. Grieve with your family. Wait for the cops to find this guy.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “And if it wasn’t a serial killer?”
“If it… Didn’t I just hear you tossing theories at Martin and Spinelli about this guy?”
“What if they’re wrong?”
“But you agreed with them.”
“You didn’t listen carefully. I neither agreed nor disagreed. I speculated.”
“All right. Do you have a reason to suspect something else?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
When I said nothing in reply, she added, “Consider the differences between Cuthburt’s and Lisa’s murders. Cuthburt’s was inarguably a sexual assault. We’re presuming that was the motive with Lisa. Cuthburt was attacked in her home, Lisa in a public parking lot. I could go on.” She paused, and then added, “In fact, the only similarities were pieces of the victim profile and the broken neck. That could be coincidental.”
She was right. But she was not convincing. I said, “I would think an assistant DA would have confidence in cops.”
“Really? I thought it made us experts in their mistakes. I’ve lost more cases off their blunders. Also, they’re human. When a live person is around every day checking on their progress, they keep the case on the front burner and pay attention to the details.”