He looks back up at me, and his eyes are filled with frustration. "I couldn't prove what I knew. And there weren't any more killings. No other scenes. Time went on; he moved away. I started dreaming again. Sometimes it was the babies. Most of the time it was Renee."
No one here feels superior to Don Rawlings now. We know that everyone has that point. Where they can no longer bend without breaking. He no longer seems pathetic or weak. Instead, we recognize him for what he is: a casualty.
Whoever said "time heals all wounds" wasn't a cop.
"The reason we're here," I speak into the silence, "is because VICAP
matched the MO of our unsub to your unsolved case. He has killed again." I lean forward. "After listening to you, I'm certain our killer and yours are one and the same."
He studies my face like someone does when they don't trust in hope.
"You having any better luck than I did?"
"Not in terms of physical evidence. But we did find out one thing that, combined with your suspect of twenty-five years ago, might break this case."
"What's that?"
I explain to him about Jack Jr. and the contents of the jar. Cynicism begins to fall away from his face, replaced by excitement.
"So you're saying this guy was indoctrinated in this idea of being Jack the Ripper's great-great-grandkid, or whatever, and that it started when he was young?"
"That's what I'm saying."
He leans back in his chair with a look of amazement. "Man oh man oh man . . . I never had any reason to check out his mom back then. The dad was long gone and in the wind . . ." Don has the look of someone in shock. Reeling. He gathers himself up and taps on the case folder he'd brought with him. "That info's in there. Who his mom is, where she lived at the time."
"Then that's where we're going," I say.
"Do you think . . ." He takes a deep breath, draws himself up. "I know I'm not much these days. I'm an old, drunk has-been. But if you let me go with you to see the mother, I promise I won't fuck it up."
I've never heard someone sound as humble as he does right now.
"I wouldn't have it any other way, Don," I say. "It's time for you to see this through."
53
CONCORD IS LOCATED north of Berkeley in the Bay Area. We are headed there to see Peter Connolly's mother, a woman named Patricia. The driver's license on file says that she is sixty-four years old. We have opted to show up on her doorstep, rather than telegraph our coming or our suspicions. Mothers have sent their sons on killing sprees before. In this case, who knows?
I am in the zone. It is that place I get to near the end of a hunt, when I know, at a primal level, that we are zeroing in on our quarry. All senses heighten to an almost painful level, and I feel as if I am running full tilt across a piano wire over a chasm. Sure-footed, invincible, unafraid of falling.
I look at Don Rawlings as we drive, and I see a spark of it there as well, though perhaps mixed with more desperation. He has dared to hope again. For him the price of failure might be more than a disappointment. It could be fatal. In spite of this, he looks ten years younger. His eyes are clear and focused. You can almost see what he was like when he was still honed sharp.
We are junkies, all of us who work in this profession. We walk through blood, decay, and stench. We toss and turn with nightmares caused by horrors the mind has trouble encompassing. We take it out on ourselves, or our friends and family, or both. But then it comes toward the end, and we arrive in the zone, and it is a high like no other. It's a high that makes you forget about the stench and blood and nightmares and horrors. And once it is behind you, you are ready to do it again.
Of course, it can backfire on you. You can fail to catch a killer. The stink remains, but without the reward that cleanses it away. Even so, those of us who do this thing continue, willing to take this chance. This is a profession where you work on the edge of a precipice. It has a high suicide rate. Just like any profession where failure carries such a terrible weight of responsibility.
I think of all these things, but I don't care. For now, my scars have no meaning. Because I am in the zone.
I have always been fascinated by books and movies about serial killers. Writers and directors so often seem dedicated to the idea that they must lay out a path of bread crumbs for their hero to follow. A logical array of deductions and clues that lead to the monster's lair in the blazing light of an aHA!
Sometimes this is true. But much of the time it's not. I remember a case that was making us crazy. He was killing children, and after three months we didn't have a clue. Not a single, solid lead. One morning I got a call from the LAPD--he had turned himself in. Case closed. With Jack Jr., we have exhausted the gamut of physical evidence and the search for the esoterics of "IP numbers." He has costumed himself, planted bugs and tracking devices, enlisted confederates, been brilliant. And in the end, the resolution of it all will probably come down to just two factors: a piece of cow flesh and a twenty-five-year-old unsolved case gathering dust in VICAP.
I have learned to need only one truth over the years, and it provides all the order I require: Caught is caught and caught is good. Period. Alan's cell phone rings. "Yeah," he says. His eyes close, and I am fearful, but they open again, and I can see his relief. "Thanks, Leo. I appreciate you calling me." He hangs up. "She's not awake yet, but they've upgraded her condition from critical to stable. Still in ICU, but the surgeon told Leo specifically that death wasn't on the table anymore, unless something really unexpected happens."
"Callie'll pull through. She's too damn stubborn," I say. James says nothing, and silence rules again. We keep driving.
"Here it is," Jenny murmurs.
The home is old and just a little shabby. The yard's uncared for but not quite dead. The whole place has the same feeclass="underline" on its way out but not yet gone. We get out of the car and walk up to the door. It opens before we can knock. Patricia Connolly looks old, and tired. As tired as she looks, her eyes are awake.
With fear.
"You must be the police," she says.
"Yes, ma'am," I respond. "As well as members of the FBI." I show her my credentials and introduce myself and the others. "Can we come in, Mrs. Connolly?"
Her brows knit together as she looks at me. "You can as long as you don't call me Mrs. Connolly."
I hide my puzzlement. "Certainly, ma'am. What would you prefer I call you?"
"Ms. Connolly. Connolly is my name, not my late husband's. May he burn in hell." She opens the door wide for us to enter. "Come on inside."
The interior of the house is clean and neat, but devoid of personality. As though it is cared for only through force of habit. It feels twodimensional. Patricia Connolly ushers us into her living room, indicating for us to take seats. "Do any of you want anything?" she asks. "I only have water and coffee, but you're welcome to either."
I look around at my crew, who all shake their heads in the negative.
"No thank you, Ms. Connolly. We're fine."
She nods, looking down at her hands. "Well, then, why don't you tell me why you're here."
She continues to look at her hands as she says this, unable to meet my eyes. I decide to follow my instincts. "Why don't you tell me why I'm here, Ms. Connolly?"
Her head snaps up, and I see I was right. Her eyes glint with guilt. Not ready to talk yet, though. "I have no idea."
"You're lying, " I say. I'm startled at the harshness of my own voice. Alan's face registers surprise.
I can't help it. I'm done fucking around. I am filled to the brim, and the anger inside me is overflowing. I lean forward, catching her eye. I stab a finger at her. "We're here about your son, Ms. Connolly. We're here about a mother, a friend of mine, raped and gutted like a deer. About her daughter, tied to her mother's corpse for three days." My voice is rising. "We're here about a man who tortures women. About an agent, another friend of mine, laying in the hospital, maybe crippled for life. We're--"