“That’s our thought, too.”
“Another thing, you might want to look into the medical history of the suspects. Some researchers argue that many serial killers suffered some form of brain damage when young, usually to the right hemisphere, which accounts for lack of empathy. So if you can get access to early medical records, look for any brain trauma—blows to the head, repeated concussions—or neurological abnormalities.”
Steve nodded. “Back to his MO shifts. On the third killing the guy gets cagey and decides to set a stage for suicide, maybe because of the Novak protest. It’s possible he knows something about police procedures.”
“Hard not to. Serial killers today know about crime scene forensics. They’re C.S.I.-savvy. They’ve seen the shows and movies. They’ve read books. They know police work. They know how to cover their trail and disguise the scene.”
“As opposed to the killer who leaves his signature to taunt the cops, to say, ‘It’s me.’”
“Yes. This one isn’t playing hide-and-seek with police. He just can’t help but leave his signature behind.”
“Yet he stages a suicide—intentional or accidental—to cover that the deaths are serial murders. And that’s what I keep circling back to—what I don’t get.”
“I’m not sure. Unless there are other elements he didn’t want discovered.”
“Like a telltale signature—something that is all his and he doesn’t want found.”
“Possibly. And maybe that’s what you’ll have to figure out to stop him.”
“So I’m looking for someone whose mother had red hair, wore black stockings, and who knocked him on his head a lot.”
She laughed. “Now, aren’t you glad you stopped by?”
He gave Jackie a hug. “Thanks never comes close.”
“It’ll do.” She squeezed him back.
Steve closed the door behind him. The evening was warm and a crescent moon made a crooked smile over the trees. He headed for his car, thinking that under that moon was a killer who hunted women who looked like his wife.
As he pulled away, Jackie’s words reverberated in his head: “Maybe the question is what brings them to him.”
82
It was around ten the next morning when Steve reached Cynthia Farina-Morgan.
He said he had a few questions to ask her about her sister. In front of him were four photos of Terry—the backyard shot and three taken off the Mermaid Lounge Web site. “I hate to bring it up again, but the investigation is ongoing and we have some a few more questions.”
“Certainly, Lieutenant.”
“Your brother positively identified Terry at the Medical Examiner’s office. Understandably he said that it didn’t look like her.”
“It was Terry, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. But I’m just wondering if I could e-mail you some recent photos of Terry. After you’ve taken a good look, I’d like to call you back and hear what you have to say.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Please just take a look then let’s talk.”
She agreed and he e-mailed her the photos. While he waited for her to call back, he dialed Dana on his office phone. There was no answer. She had caller ID and had decided not to take his calls. Shit.
Five minutes later his phone rang. “Are you sure these recent photos weren’t doctored?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “Then she had cosmetic surgery.”
“Based on what exactly?”
“Based on the fact that her face is different.”
“What specific changes do you see?”
“Well, it’s obvious. Her cheekbones are more prominent and her eyes are more open and her brows are slanted upward. But I don’t believe it, because she never told me, which wasn’t like her. This is a major change, yet she never asked my opinion.”
He heard hurt in her voice. “Did she ever mention going to a resort spa called Pine Lake Resort in Muskoka, Ontario? It would have been early May. She was up there for a week.”
“No, she never told me. Why was she up there?”
“We’re not sure. She apparently went alone and without telling anybody. She also paid in cash so there was no paper trail. Some of the staff remembered her and identified her, but they say she kept a low profile because her face was bruised and swollen.”
“What?”
“Our first thought was that she had been in a car accident, but that didn’t check out. Then there was speculation that she had been abused by someone.”
“Was she?”
“Not that we know of. And that raised the possibility that she had had significant facial surgery and went there to recover.”
A long silence filled the line. Then Mrs. Morgan said, “All I know is that three months ago she told me she had decided to get breast implants. But she said nothing about facial reconstruction, and that’s what these photos look like.”
They did, and that thought had crossed his mind when he first saw the Mermaid Lounge photos.
“Also, that kind of work would have cost thousands of dollars. And she said nothing.”
“That’s unfortunate, but she clearly wanted to keep it secret.”
“So what does that mean? How does that relate to her death?”
“I’m not sure that it does.” But his gut was telling him otherwise.
83
They were all wrong. Every one of them.
The Hewson woman had the proper eye structure and cheekbone width, but the brow was too wide and the chin was Munchkin-sharp. Plus her eyes were the wrong hue and her hair had a tawdry fire.
The Murphy woman had a good length of jaw that calibrated closely with the lower half of the computer template. But her brow was ridged and low and she had refused implants in her cheeks, which would have filled her out and approximated the heart shape he had sought.
The same with the others—there was always some element that threw off the balance and fell short of the perfect 1.618 phi ratio of cheek-to-cheek width to crown-to-chin length—all had fallen short, including the Farina woman, whose brow was too wide.
He had Lila’s complete portfolio from the days she had modeled hot chocolate to the promo portraits that Harry Dobbs had sent around. He also had some glorious color and black-and-white close-ups like those of Greta Garbo by Clarence Sinclair Bull or Grace Kelly by Yousuf Karsh. Those he had scanned and downloaded into his computer; then using software developed for 3-D facial recognition by security firms, he converted the images into digitalized templates based on approximate calibrations of her skull structure and the dimensions of her eyes, nose, brow, and jawline. That rendered a skeletal frame upon which to create a muscle-based morphing capability to determine where potential candidates were lacking—where flesh should be enhanced by implants, where bone may need to be reduced, where features needed to be fleshed out or reduced to achieve the exact likeness. In the ten years since he had looked for potential candidates, he found only a handful of women who came close—whose faces did not need a suspicious amount of refashioning to satisfy his needs.
And over the decade, he had made some changes but not in his requirements. No, some things were absolute. Changes in technical matters, strategies, and approaches. He had also, of course, made some basic changes in himself, divining the true source of his needs and the solution for gratifying the imp in his soul. A gratification that was nothing short of destiny.
And this Markarian woman was the answer.