“We thought it might be a tent or a tarp,” said Rizzoli.
“And what would the silicone add?” asked Dean.
“Antistatic properties,” said Erin. “Some tear and water resistance. Plus, it turns out, it reduces the porosity of this fabric to almost zero. In other words, even air can’t pass through it.” Erin looked at Rizzoli. “Any guesses what it is?”
“You said you already know the answer.”
“Well, I had a little help. From the Connecticut State Police Lab.” Erin placed a third graph on the counter-top. “They faxed that to me this afternoon. It’s an ATR spectrograph of fibers from a homicide case in rural Connecticut. The fibers were lifted from the suspect’s gloves and fleece jacket. Compare it to Karenna Ghent’s fibers.”
Rizzoli’s gaze flew back and forth between the graphs. “The spectra match. The fibers are identical.”
“Right. Only the color’s different. The fibers from our two cases are drab green. The fibers from the Connecticut homicide came in two different colors. Some were neon orange; others were a bright lime green.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sounds pretty gaudy, right? But aside from the color, the Connecticut fibers match ours. DuPont nylon type six, six. Thirty-denier filaments, finished with a silicone rub.”
“Tell us about the Connecticut case,” said Dean.
“A skydiving accident. The victim’s chute failed to open properly. Only when these orange and lime-green fibers turned up on the suspect’s clothing did it turn into a homicide investigation.”
Rizzoli stared at the ATR spectra. “It’s a parachute.”
“Exactly. The suspect in the Connecticut homicide tampered with the victim’s chute the night before. This ATR is characteristic for parachute fabric. It’s tear-resistant, water-resistant. Easily packed away and stored between uses. That’s what your unsub is using to wrap his victims.”
Rizzoli looked up at her. “A parachute,” she said. “It makes the perfect shroud.”
NINETEEN
Papers were everywhere, file folders lying open on the conference table, crime scene photos layered like glossy shingles. Pens scratched on yellow legal pads. Although this was the age of computers-and there were a few laptops powered up, screens glowing- when information is spilling fast and furious, cops still reach for the comfort of paper. Rizzoli had left her own laptop back at her desk, preferring to jot down notes in her dark, assertive scrawl. The page was a tangle of words and looping arrows and little boxes emphasizing significant details. But there was order to the mess, and security in the permanence of ink. She flipped to a fresh page, trying to focus her attention on Dr. Zucker’s whispery voice. Trying not to be distracted by the presence of Gabriel Dean, who sat right next to her, taking his own notes, but in far neater script. Her gaze wandered to his hand, thick veins standing out on his skin as he gripped the pen, the cuff of his shirt peeking out white and crisp from the sleeve of his gray jacket. He’d walked into the meeting after she had and had chosen to sit beside her. Did that mean anything? No, Rizzoli. It only means there was an empty chair next to you. It was a waste of time, a diversion, to be caught up in such thoughts. She felt scattered, her attention fracturing in different directions, even her notes starting to wander in a skewed line across the page. There were five other men in the room, but it was only Dean who held her attention. She knew his scent now and could pick it out, cool and clean, from the room’s olfactory symphony of aftershave scents. Rizzoli, who never wore perfume, was surrounded by men who did. She looked down at what she’d just written:
Mutualism: symbiosis with mutual advantage to both or all organisms involved.
The word that defined Warren Hoyt’s pact with his new partner. The Surgeon and the Dominator, working as a team. Hunting and feeding off carrion together.
“Warren Hoyt has always worked best with a partner,” said Dr. Zucker. “It’s how he likes to hunt. The way he used to hunt with Andrew Capra, until Capra’s death. Indeed, Hoyt requires the participation of another man as part of his ritual.”
“But he was hunting on his own last year,” said Barry Frost. “He didn’t have a partner then.”
“In a way, he did,” said Zucker. “Think about the victims he chose, here in Boston. All of them were women who’d been sexually assaulted-not by Hoyt, but by other men. He’s attracted to damaged women, women who’ve been marked by rape. In his eyes, that made them dirty, contaminated. And therefore approachable. Deep down, Hoyt is afraid of normal women, and his fear makes him impotent. He can only feel empowered when he thinks of them as inferior. Symbolically destroyed. When he hunted with Capra, it was Capra who assaulted the women. Only then did Hoyt use his scalpel. Only then could he derive full satisfaction from the ritual that followed.” Zucker looked around the room and saw heads nodding. These were details that the cops in this room already knew. Except for Dean, they had all worked on the Surgeon investigation; they were all familiar with Warren Hoyt’s handiwork.
Zucker opened a file folder on the table. “Now we come to our second killer. The Dominator. His ritual is almost a mirror image of Warren Hoyt’s. He’s not afraid of women. Nor is he afraid of men. In fact, he chooses to attack women who live with male partners. It isn’t just a matter of the husband or boyfriend being inconveniently present. No, the Dominator seems to want the man there, and he goes in prepared to deal with him. A stun gun and duct tape to immobilize the husband. The positioning of the male victim so he’s forced to watch what happens next. The Dominator doesn’t just kill the man straightaway, which would be the practical move. He gets his thrills by having an audience. By knowing another man is there to watch him claim his prize.”
“And Warren Hoyt gets his thrills by watching,” said Rizzoli.
Zucker nodded. “Exactly. One killer likes to perform. One likes to watch. It’s a perfect example of mutualism. These two men are natural partners. Their cravings complement each other. Together, they’re more effective. They can better control their prey. They can combine their skills. Even while Hoyt was still in prison, the Dominator was copying Hoyt’s techniques. He was already borrowing elements from the Surgeon’s signature.”
This was a point Rizzoli had recognized before anyone else, but no one in the room acknowledged that particular detail. Perhaps they’d forgotten, but she hadn’t.
“We know Hoyt received a number of letters from the general public. Even from prison, he managed to recruit an admirer. He cultivated him, maybe even instructed him.”
“An apprentice,” said Rizzoli softly.
Zucker looked at her. “That’s an interesting word you use. Apprentice. Someone who acquires a skill or craft under the tutelage of a master. In this case, it’s the craft of the hunt.”
“But which one is the apprentice?” said Dean. “And which one is the master?”
Dean’s question unnerved Rizzoli. For the past year, Warren Hoyt had represented the worst evil she could imagine. In a world where hunters stalked, none could match him. Now Dean had brought up a possibility she didn’t want to consider: that the Surgeon was but an acolyte to someone even more monstrous.
“Whatever their relationship,” said Zucker, “they are far more effective as a team than as individuals. And as a team, it’s possible the pattern of their attacks will change.”
“How so?” asked Sleeper.
“Until now, the Dominator has chosen couples. He props up the man as his audience, someone to watch the assault. He wants another man there, to see him claim the prize.”