“You must be Teddy,” the man said, offering his hand as he acknowledged Nash’s absence. “He’s giving an exam. He’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve spent the morning reading through all this and trying to catch up.”
The man introduced himself as Dr. Stanley Westbrook, a criminal psychiatrist from the FBI’s Behavioral Science section who’d made the trip up from Washington via the Metroliner as a favor to his friend. He said he’d been a student of criminal behavior for most of his career, and worked with Nash many times in the past. When he mentioned some of the cases he’d been associated with over the last ten years, Teddy recognized most of them and knew Westbrook was real.
A copy of the Daily News was set on the table. As Teddy glanced at it, he tried to find some assurance in the psychiatrist’s presence, but couldn’t. It felt like they were moving too slowly. Like their feet were anchored in piles of dry sand.
“There’s been a leak,” he said.
“Nash told me about it,” Westbrook said, glancing at the newspaper. “He admires you, by the way. He trusts you. He wishes you’d been his student and thinks we should hire you.”
Taking a seat at the jury table, Teddy handed over the medical examiner’s report Powell had given him. As Westbrook opened the file and scanned through the autopsy results, Teddy couldn’t help but think about what he’d said to Powell just a half hour ago. Even though a life was at stake, he’d been out of line and didn’t feel very proud.
Westbrook thumbed through the report until he reached the toxicology results and shook his head. Teddy noted the coffee cup on the table set beside an ashtray.
“This is troubling,” the psychiatrist said, still eyeing the report.
The door opened and Nash walked in, carrying a sheaf of papers and dumping them on his desk. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “You two have had a chance to meet?”
Westbrook looked up from the report and nodded.
“Good,” Nash said, opening a fresh cigar and joining them at the table. “So where do we stand?”
“I think you’re correct,” Westbrook said. “You’re looking for a man in his twenties or thirties with a history of serious mental illness. He was abused as a child, or suffered some great emotional crisis as a young boy. If we could look back at his childhood, I’m certain we’d find numerous cases of animal abuse as well.”
“What are the chances that he’s an artist?” Teddy asked. “Even an attorney? Have you thought about the tattoos, or is it a stretch?”
“I don’t think it’s a stretch at all.”
The crime scene at the Lewis house flashed before Teddy’s eyes before the psychiatrist could say anything more. The sitting room on the other side of the hall with the magnificent paintings by Seurat, Gauguin, and Cezanne hanging on the walls. He hadn’t thought of it before. He’d seen it, but its meaning hadn’t registered.
“A chair was turned toward the paintings,” Teddy said. “Someone had moved the chair to look at the art. At the time, I thought it was the owner.”
Nash and Westbrook traded looks and nodded as if the insight impressed them. For Teddy, this new observation read like everything else. It wasn’t evidence of anything. But it was another sign.
Westbrook lit a cigarette and looked at him. “Nash told me your theory, and I agree. Darlene was rejected because of the marks on her skin. Since there’s a good chance you’re dealing with an artist, there’s a certain appreciation for purity going on here. Valerie Kram is a different story. She spent time with the killer. She modeled for him. When she was used up, he threw her away. But remember, Valerie Kram was part of his work by then, something akin to sacred, so she was placed in the water where he found her and cleansed.”
“What about Holmes?” Nash asked.
“Based on your profile, I’d say he’s outside the model or field of inquiry. Of course I’ve never spoken with the man and there’s always the chance that I’m wrong. What interests me most is the condition of the body found in the river.”
“The cut down the middle of her chest,” Teddy said.
The psychiatrist nodded and turned to Nash. “Teddy brought the toxicology report with him,” he said. “Cutting the victim open could have more meaning than it seems. The medical examiner found drugs in her system. It’s a safe bet they’re in his system as well. You’re looking for a user and your profile should be amended to reflect that. Valerie Kram may have died from strangulation. But she was on the verge of overdosing on Ecstasy as well.”
This was new. Teddy hadn’t looked at the toxicology report Powell had given him earlier. He was too upset with her, too upset with himself for treating her the way he did, and he’d been running late. But Teddy knew something about Ecstasy. It was pretty much the drug of choice with his classmates in school. He’d used it a handful of times himself, but stopped when he woke up one morning overwrought with depression. He knew the drug’s effects, though. He knew its power and what a single dose could do.
“He’s using Ecstasy as a way of controlling his victims,” Teddy said. “He’s using the drug to soften them up.”
Westbrook glanced at Nash again, then turned back. “But Ecstasy has a nasty side effect, Teddy. Particularly in high doses. Beyond what chronic use can do to the brain, the drug causes a marked increase in body temperature. In an overdose like this, Valerie Kram was literally cooking from the inside out.”
“Then this could be another explanation for dumping her body in water,” Nash said.
Westbrook sat back in his chair. “And for cutting her open. Steam would have been venting from her body. Her internal organs would’ve felt hot to the touch. Don’t forget the sexual implications of the knife.”
Teddy grimaced as the horror settled in. The sickness. The idea that the murders were a result of the killer’s twisted sexual fantasy.
As Westbrook showed Nash the toxicology report and discussed the results, Teddy looked up at the photographs tacked to the wall-the girl’s faces watching them from the other side. They seemed so familiar, so innocent. He noted the time and began to feel anxious again. He turned back to the psychiatrist.
“Tell us who we’re looking for,” he said. “Give us your best guess.”
Westbrook lowered the toxicology report and folded his hands on the jury table. “You’re looking for a mad-dog killer,” the psychiatrist said. “A real motherfucker with delusions of grandeur. Someone whose paranoia is off the charts. Someone who suffers from hallucinations, not necessarily from the drugs he’s taking, but because of his illness and the way he was mistreated as a child. If you were ever to meet this individual, you’d know instantly that something was wrong. If you were ever to meet this individual, I’d make sure you knew how to handle a gun. You’re not looking for a human being, Teddy. He’s past that now. You’re looking for an animal.”
This time it was Nash and Teddy who traded looks. Ominous and sobering looks. The situation appeared so grim, Teddy could taste it in his mouth.
FORTY-TWO
Eddie Trisco peeked through the curtain, wondering if it was safe to go outside. The sun had set an hour ago, yet the windows in the corner house remained dark. He checked the roofline and saw the satellite dish pointed toward him. He couldn’t tell if the strange device was working or not, but the man he’d seen making repairs this morning was long gone. So were the cars parked along the street. Maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. Maybe they were between shifts.
He turned away from the window, staring at Mrs. Yap’s body on the living room floor as he considered his options. He needed to get rid of her car. He could deal with her body later. Still, he didn’t want to leave Rosemary alone.