“But not a hundred percent?”
“You know that level of certainty’s an impossibility. But I’ve looked at everything-it’s him.”
Janet glanced over at Spinelli and asked, “From the sperm on Fiorio’s body, did you get a DNA match with the other victims?”
“The sperm on her thigh matched none of the other specimens,” Spinelli replied.
“Well, isn’t that odd?” Janet asked, or suggested. “Three different sperm types.”
“It is a mystery,” Meany said. “But don’t read too much into it.”
“I’m not, George.” She then said to Meany, “I’m just curious. According to the news accounts, the L. A. Killer left his own semen.”
“Right. That is what we thought, at the time. We figure he realized that was a mistake and is covering his tracks better this time.”
Janet offered him an odd smile. “I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“The sperm on the corpses… whose is it?”
“Whose? We have no idea whose. Not his, obviously. In fact, we think he’s splashing specimens on the bodies.”
“Specimens?”
“Yes… specimens. We think he carries vials around, most likely obtained from a fertility clinic or a doctor’s office. Cuthburt’s murder suggests this guy’s an expert in B amp;E, and those types of facilities don’t have a reputation for great security.”
“But didn’t the L. A. Killer ejaculate his own sperm?”
“As I said, that was our opinion. He was never caught, though, so we never got a DNA match. Maybe he was splashing, too.”
“But you’re suggesting this guy splashes different people’s semen on the bodies. Why the difference?”
Meany crossed the floor and put a hand on her arm. “Look, think back to that first case we worked together. Or any case you’ve ever prosecuted. There are always incongruous threads in these things.”
I was about to ask Meany if by incongruous threads, he meant things like strongarming witnesses, illegal wiretaps, and so forth. But before I could make that helpful point, Janet replied, “For the sake of argument, assume you’ve already got the L. A. Killer’s DNA from the killings three years ago. Why would he hide it this time?”
Meany replied, “You said yourself, that’s an assumption. In any regard, we know the man’s a nut. Who can tell what twisted logic is driving him this time? The truth is, we won’t know till we catch him.” His hand was still on her arm as he informed her, “But we will catch him, Janet. Have no doubt about that.”
Janet faced Spinelli and asked, “Danny, what’s your view?”
“Mine?” He glanced pointedly at Meany and said, “We got a guy tryin’ to act like the L. A. Killer.”
“A copycat?”
He nodded. “That L. A. guy, he liked to squeal to the local news about the finer points of his handiwork, right?”
“So you’re suggesting a copycat might have a profile to fit into.”
“A fuckin’ textbook.”
“And what makes you think this isn’t just the same guy?”
“The sperm thing. The L. A. wacko didn’t toss somebody else’s. This guy’s jerkin’ us around.”
Meany, who was still holding Janet’s arm, said, “We of course considered what Spinelli’s suggesting. Look, the Director’s directly involved and our top people are on it. We’ve carefully, blah, blah.. .” He launched into this incredibly long spiel about how his all-knowing and beloved FBI looks at everything, similarities, differences, and so forth, and computes them into its assessments. I tuned him out.
Not that I don’t admire the FBI; I actually think they’re a wonderful bunch and all that, but if these guys were that good, how come they didn’t catch the Rosenbergs till after they gave the commies the blueprints for a nuclear device? I mean, you fry these two people after they already told the Sovs how to incinerate a hundred million folks? If there’s such a thing as postmature ejaculation, these guys had it.
However, Janet’s eyes never left his face, and, incidentally, his hand never left her arm. I found this annoying for some reason. The same guy who shoved a shiv in her back now shows up, all smiley and dimple-chinned, the white knight promising to slay the nasty old dragon. Give me a break-the only reason this jerk slapped on the kneepads and begged his bosses for this case was to wheedle his way back into Janet’s knickers. Surely she saw right through him. Right?
But there was this moment after Meany finished his FBI-knows-all tutorial where everybody just sat and pondered what he’d said. Or maybe, like me, they’d all tuned out so long that they needed a moment to restart their motors.
Janet finally said, “Thank you, George.”
Another moment passed before Janet suggested, “The theory was the L. A. Killer ejaculated. Either the torture or the act of killing got him off, right?”
Meany replied, “That’s what our profilers concluded. The victim abuse and killing were sexual fantasies for him. We believe he experienced orgasm at some point during the torture, then snapped their necks.” He added, “Roughly speaking, this case appears to follow the same model.”
“Then shouldn’t there be traces of his semen?”
“I know this is going to sound silly,” Meany informed her. “Our profilers hypothesize that our killer now wears a condom.”
Silly? I believe I mumbled, “Boy, it sounds so obvious now that you mention it.”
Meany stared at me-three demerits.
Janet faced Meany again. “And what about the increasing ferocity toward the victims?”
“Not uncommon,” he replied. “Success goes to their heads. We see it all the time. They start with certain inhibitions. The more they get away with, the more those inhibitions erode. Also, it gets harder to achieve sexual arousal. They push the envelope and experiment more.”
Janet appeared to ponder this point, then said, “And you think that accounts for it?”
“There’s a second theory we’re wrestling with. He may see this as a competition… a game. The women are pieces on the board. The provocative postures of the victims, the calls to the networks, the splashed semen as a calling card, the whole process of physical escalation could mean he sees this as a match. He makes the rules, maybe even alters the rules, and we have to play.”
Spinelli, I noticed, was hunched over, staring at the floor, feet tapping, a sort of sardonic expression pasted on his face. And it struck me that he and I, we had a few things in common. We both thought George Meany was an asshole. Also, this prolonged discussion about sperm and DNA made for great cocktail conversation-or possibly not-but nothing more. Debates about the queer habits of this ghoul weren’t going to catch him. Maybe it made everybody feel better, but it was a substitute for actually dropping this guy. The score was Killer 4, Cops 0; they’ve got no tangible evidence to tie him to the crimes, no idea who he is or how they’re going to catch him, and everybody’s trying to figure out whether he slaps a poolie over his pudley.
Eventually, even they drew the conclusion that the subject had been exhausted, and after a few more closing comments, special thanks from Martin for coming in, and so forth, the group began to break up. Hands were shaken, fond adieus were exchanged, and then Meany escorted Janet and me back through the warren of detective desks and out to the parking lot.
In fact, we were at my car when Meany said to me, “Excuse us, Drummond. Janet and I need to talk about a few things. In private.”
He then led Janet about thirty feet away. They squared off, about five feet apart, and faced each other. I had no intention of eavesdropping, because it was absolutely none of my business. I believe respect for others’ privacy is next to Godliness. However, the hearing in my left ear happens to be better than my right, and if I kept my head twisted just so, snatches of the conversation did inadvertently drift into my aural cavity.
For instance, Meany, in a whiny tone, complaining, “… and you just disappeared out of my life, walked out… without giving me any chance to explain.”