“Sometimes, though, we can take the self-analysis too far. It’s a defense mechanism. Intellectualism as a means of distancing ourselves from our raw emotions.”
Hoyt paused. Then said, with a faintly mocking note: “You want me to talk about feelings.”
“Yes.”
“Any feelings in particular?”
“I want to know what makes men kill. What draws them to violence. I want to know what goes through your head. What you feel, when you kill another human being.”
He said nothing for a moment, pondering the question. “It’s not easy to describe.”
“Try to.”
“For the sake of science?” The mockery was back in his voice.
“Yes. For the sake of science. What do you feel?”
A long pause. “Pleasure.”
“So it feels good?”
“Yes.”
“Describe it for me.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“It’s the core of my research, Warren. I want to know what you experience when you kill. It’s not morbid curiosity. I need to know if you experience any symptoms which may indicate neurologic abnormalities. Headaches, for instance. Strange tastes or smells.”
“The smell of blood is quite nice.” He paused. “Oh. I think I’ve shocked you.”
“Go on. Tell me about blood.”
“I used to work with it, you know.”
“Yes, I know. You were a lab technician.”
“People think of blood as just a red fluid that circulates in our veins. Like motor oil. But it’s quite complex and individual. Everyone’s blood is unique. Just as every kill is unique. There is no typical one to describe.”
“But they all gave you pleasure?”
“Some more than others.”
“Tell me about one that stands out for you. One that you remember in particular. Is there one?”
He nodded. “There’s one that I always think about.”
“More than the others?”
“Yes. It’s been on my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t finish it. Because I never got the chance to enjoy it. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch.”
“That makes it sound trivial.”
“Does it? But over time, even a trivial itch begins to consume your attention. It’s always there, prickling your skin. One form of torture, you know, is to tickle the feet. It may seem like nothing, at first. But then it goes on for days and days without relief. It becomes the cruelest form of torture. I think I’ve mentioned in my letters that I know a thing or two about the history of man’s inhumanity to man. The art of inflicting pain.”
“Yes. You wrote me about your, uh, interest in that subject.”
“Torturers through the ages have always known that the subtlest of discomforts, over time, become quite intolerable.”
“And has this itch you mentioned become intolerable?”
“It keeps me up at night. Thoughts of what might have been. The pleasure I was denied. All my life I’ve been meticulous about finishing what I start. So this disturbs me. I think about it all the time. The images keep playing back in my head.”
“Describe them. What you see, what you feel.”
“I see her. She is different, not like the others at all.”
“How so?”
“She hates me.”
“The others didn’t?”
“The others were naked and afraid. Conquered. But this one is still fighting me. I feel it when I touch her. Her skin is electric with rage, even though she knows I’ve defeated her.” He leaned forward, as though about to share his most intimate thoughts. His gaze was no longer on O’Donnell but on the camera, as though he could see through the lens and stare directly at Rizzoli. “I feel her anger,” he said. “I absorb her rage, just by touching her skin. It’s like white heat. Something liquid and dangerous. Pure energy. I’ve never felt so powerful. I want to feel that way again.”
“Does it arouse you?”
“Yes. I think about her neck. Very slender. She has a nice, white neck.”
“What else do you think about?”
“I think about taking off her clothes. About how firm her breasts are. And her belly. A nice, flat belly…”
“So your fantasies about Dr. Cordell-they’re sexual?”
He paused. Blinked, as though shaken from a trance. “Dr. Cordell?”
“That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it? The victim you never killed, Catherine Cordell.”
“Oh. I think of her, too. But she’s not the one I’m talking about.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The other one.” He stared at the camera with a look of such intensity that Rizzoli could feel its heat. “The policewoman.”
“You mean the one who found you? That’s the woman you fantasize about?”
“Yes. Her name is Jane Rizzoli.”
EIGHTEEN
Dean stood up and pressed STOP on the VCR. The screen went blank. Warren Hoyt’s last words seemed to hang like a perpetual echo in the silence. In his fantasies, she had been stripped of her clothing and her dignity, reduced to naked body parts. Neck and breasts and belly. She wondered if that was how Dean now saw her, if the erotic visions that Hoyt had conjured were now imprinted in Dean’s mind as well.
He turned to look at her. She had never found his face easy to read, but in that instant the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.
“You understand, don’t you?” he said. “You were meant to see this tape. He laid a path of bread crumbs for you to follow. The envelope with O’Donnell’s return address led to O’Donnell herself. To his letters, to this videotape. He knew you’d see it all, eventually.”
She stared at the blank TV. “He’s talking to me.”
“Exactly. He’s using O’Donnell as his medium. When Hoyt talks to her, in this interview, he’s really talking to you. Telling you his fantasies. Using them to scare you. humiliate you. Listen to what he says.” Dean rewound the tape.
Once again, Hoyt’s face appeared on the screen. “It keeps me up at night. Thoughts of what might have been. The pleasure I was denied. All my life I’ve been meticulous about finishing what I start. So this disturbs me. I think about it all the time…”
Dean pressed stop and looked at her. “How does that make you feel? Knowing you’re always on his mind?”
“You know damn well how it makes me feel.”
“So does he. That’s why he wanted you to hear it.” Dean pressed FAST FORWARD and then play.
Hoyt’s eyes were eerily focused on the audience he couldn’t see. “I think about taking off her clothes. About how firm her breasts are. And her belly. A nice, flat belly…”
Again Dean hit STOP. His gaze made her flush.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want to know how that makes me feel.”
“Exposed?”
“Yes.”
“Vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
“Violated.”
She swallowed and looked away. Said, softly: “Yes.”
“All the things he wants you to feel. You told me he’s attracted to damaged women. To women who’ve been violated. And that’s precisely the way he’s making you feel now. With mere words on a videotape. Just like a victim.”
Her gaze shot back to his. “No,” she said. “Not a victim. Do you want to know what I’m really feeling right now?”
“What?”
“I’m ready to tear that son of a bitch into shreds.” It was an answer launched on pure bravado, the words punched into the air. It took him aback, and he just frowned at her for a moment. Did he see how hard she was working to keep up the front? Had he heard the false note in her voice?
She forged ahead, not giving him the chance to see past her bluff. “You’re saying he knew, even then, that I’d eventually see this? That the tape was meant for me.”
“Didn’t it sound that way to you?”
“It sounded like any sicko’s fantasy.”
“Not just any sicko. And not just any victim. He’s talking about you, Jane. Talking about what he’d like to do to you.”
Alarms crackled through her nerve endings. Dean was turning it personal again, aiming it like an arrow straight at her. Did he enjoy seeing her squirm? Did this serve any purpose except to heighten her fears?