“I take it you cleared Connie’s ex,” Mulligan finally said.
“Yeah. According to her twin sister, Carl Stuart made a big scene when he moved out. Claimed Connie had cheated on him with some guy she worked with at Johnson & Wales. Mary insists it’s not true, but we never did get to the bottom of it. And Carl has a sheet, an assault a couple of years ago for mixing it up with a drunk who hit on Connie at Lupo’s.”
“A jealous guy,” Mulligan said.
“Looks like. But no way he’s good for it. The stocking feet that tracked through the murder scenes could never have squeezed into his size nines. His prints are all over Connie’s house, of course, but he’s not a match for the ones we lifted from the knives, the medicine cabinet, and the windowsill. And as far as we can tell, he wouldn’t have had any reason to kill Becky Medeiros.”
“What about Peeping Tom complaints?” Mulligan asked. “We know the killer spied on Connie and Becky. Maybe he’s been looking in lots of windows around the neighborhood.”
“We’ve canvassed the neighbors,” Jennings said, “but only a couple of them noticed a prowler, and none of them got a good look at him. They just heard rustling noises and saw some movement in the dark.”
“So now what?”
“So far, we’ve interviewed more than three hundred people and gotten absolutely nowhere. All we can do is go back to the beginning and start over.”
“The FBI been any help?”
Jennings raised an eyebrow.
“How’d you hear about that?”
“You’re not the only person I talk to, Andy.”
Jennings didn’t say anything.
Mulligan gave him a moment to think about it, then said, “So?”
“This has gotta be off the record.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“The chief called the BSU last week and asked if they could give us a hand.”
“The BSU?”
“The Behavioral Science Unit.”
“What’s that?”
“The part of the bureau that studies serial killers.”
“And?”
“They sent a profiler named Peter Schutter up from Quantico. We gave him copies of our investigative files and walked him through both crime scenes.”
“And he told you what?”
“Mostly stuff we’d figured out already.”
“Such as?”
“That the same killer was responsible for both attacks. That he probably has a history of prowling, peeping, and animal cruelty. That the size of his footprints and the way he overpowered his victims indicates a large male. That the sloppy crime scenes mean he’s young and inexperienced. That the method of entry also tells us we’re looking for a young guy, probably in his mid- to late twenties. Not that climbing through windows is that difficult, but an older man would have chosen a less strenuous way to get inside.”
Jennings paused and drew a deep breath.
“And that he’s going to kill again, probably after a cooling-off period of twelve to twenty-four months.”
“And the clock is ticking,” Mulligan said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Think this guy Schutter would talk to me?”
“I suppose I could ask.”
The following afternoon, Mulligan and Jennings met Schutter in his room at the Holiday Inn in downtown Providence. The agent’s suitcase was on the bed, packed for his return trip to Washington.
“Detective Jennings tells me you’ve got some questions,” Schutter said.
“I do,” Mulligan said.
“A couple of ground rules first. Number one, anything I tell you must be attributed to an agent for the BSU. I do not want my name used. Number two, there are going to be things I can’t tell you. Some details that only the killer could know must be withheld so the police can use them to rule out false confessions.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, then. Ask your questions.”
“First off, I’m wondering why you agreed to talk to me.”
“Our work at the BSU isn’t well understood. Many police departments still are not availing themselves of our expertise. The director thinks the publicity could do some good. Besides, it appears that apprehending this killer will be difficult. The release of certain information might help members of the general public assist investigators with an identification. Detective Jennings says you are a person who can be trusted to keep your word and report on this responsibly.”
“I’ll do my best.” Mulligan pulled out his notebook, where he’d written a short list of things that were puzzling him. “Can you explain why the killer covered the bodies?”
“His motivation isn’t clear, but the behavior provides us with clues to his identity. Serial killers who murder strangers almost never cover the bodies. The perpetrator we are seeking not only knew his victims but lives within walking distance of the murder scenes. Killers who live farther away nearly always move the bodies and dump them.”
“One of their neighbors did this?”
“There’s a high level of probability.”
“Why would he kill all these people?”
Schutter glanced at Jennings, who was shaking his head vigorously.
“I’m willing to discuss this,” the agent said, “but only off the record. The families of the victims have been through enough. They don’t need to be exposed to the worst of it.”
“Off the record, then,” Mulligan said.
“He kills because it’s how he achieves sexual release.”
“I already gathered that. But how does somebody get that way?”
“Sometime during preadolescence, probably when he was about ten years old, something happened that caused him to equate sex with violence. It could have been an event as simple as idly touching himself while watching slasher movies on TV. Psychologists call it ‘imprinting.’ It’s the same thing that leads some males to associate sex with garter belts or women’s shoes.”
“Movies?” Mulligan said.
“I believe he is obsessed with them. Films like Friday the Thirteenth and A Nightmare on Elm Street. He sits in front of his TV and masturbates to them.”
Mulligan raised an eyebrow and looked at Jennings.
“We checked all the video stores,” the detective said. “Turns out half the people in town watch that stuff. And if he shoplifted them, there wouldn’t be any purchase or rental records anyway.”
“With slasher films as his inspiration,” Schutter continued, “he built himself a fantasy world. At first, his fantasies would have been simple, but over time they grew more elaborate. At least a year before he killed for the first time, he was stabbing helpless women to death in Technicolor movies that played in a continuous loop inside his head. Eventually, the fantasies were no longer enough to satisfy him. That’s when he made a conscious decision to cross the line between make-believe and murder.”
Schutter paused to allow Mulligan to catch up with his note taking.
“You’d be shocked how many people are walking around with violent fantasies in their heads, imagining how delightful it would be to strangle you or stab you to death,” the agent said. “What separates them from our killer is that most of them never decide to act on it.”
“Good God,” Mulligan said. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. It gives me the creeps.”
“Me too,” Jennings said.
“Why the overkill?” Mulligan asked. “Why did he keep stabbing his victims after they were dead?”
“The females in the killer’s fantasies always cower before his God-like power,” the agent said. “They weep and beg him for mercy. Becky Medeiros didn’t do that. She fought for her life.”
“She spoiled his fantasy,” Mulligan said.
“Yes, and that enraged him.”
“What about the Stuarts?”
“The killer stabbed Connie Stuart twenty-two times and her eight-year-old daughter twelve times, but he plunged knives into the twelve-year-old fifty-two times. That tells us she was the one who fought him the hardest.”