Lien-hua stuffed some Forest Service maps into her pocket, closed the car door, and headed for the woods. “C’mon,” she said. “The trail starts over here.” Then she added, “And that was at least a B+.”
30
The Illusionist set down the duffel bag, rang the doorbell, and waited.
He’d delivered the first package earlier, on the way to work, but had decided to wait with this one, just for fun. Just to make things more interesting.
He’d kept it in the trunk of his car for the last couple hours, and only now, during his coffee break, was he slipping out to deliver it. Yes, it was a little riskier this way, but he wasn’t worried. Not one bit. Everything was still on schedule. After all, he knew how to plan the perfect crime. He’d done it before. So many times before. And he’d never been caught. Never!
The door creaked open. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” said the Illusionist. “You can die.” Then he whipped out his Glock and put a bullet through the man’s forehead before the guy could even stop furrowing his eyebrows.
The Illusionist picked up the duffel bag, entered the house, and closed the door.
The secret wasn’t to be clever. No, clever criminals get caught all the time.
He unscrewed the silencer and holstered his weapon.
The secret lay in misdirection. Make them look at one hand while you hide the coin in the other.
Misdirection and planning, actually. Because when they see the coin isn’t in your right hand, they’ll immediately look to the left one. So you have to anticipate their reaction and be able to show them that the coin isn’t in that hand either. Aha! That’s the thing. The coin was really in your right hand all along.
Misdirection. Control. Meticulous planning.
Leaving the duffel bag at the front entrance, he dragged the dead man’s body down the hallway and into the bedroom closet.
Where are you going to direct their attention? That’s the question. Where do you want them to look? Just like in a game of chess. All of life is a complex game of strategy; moves, and countermoves, taking and losing pieces, setting up for the final endgame. Landing a new job. Getting a date. Negotiating a contract. Life boils down to studying your opponent and thinking through his moves and then finding a way to position the pieces to your advantage. And that’s what the Illusionist did best!
After positioning the body, he retrieved the duffel bag and carried it into the bedroom.
Yet only a fool would think he could figure out the whole game before his opponent has moved. No, instead, the best players are the ones who respond to how the other player moves. The key to winning the game isn’t in how well you can reason, but in how well you can respond. Yes. Because no one can guess every possible future move. Of course not. It isn’t possible to predict the whole game. You have to be able to improvise. To adapt. That’s where most killers fail.
That’s how the Unabomber got caught. He just couldn’t stay in the shadows, had to show everyone how clever he was. And then he wrote it all out so the whole world could see. So that his brother could see and turn him in. And then the game was up. No, you must not be clever. You must be controlled.
Anticipation. Calculated response. Self-control.
That’s how you stay one step ahead of the audience.
He unzipped the duffel bag and removed the contents. He placed them on the treadmill in the corner of the room and then stepped back to view his handiwork.
Perfect.
After Alice, he would be free to move on. No longer under suspicion at all. Not ever again. The game would simply move to a new place, a new board, with a new set of players. Maybe California next time. Yes, he’d always wanted to visit the West Coast. Or Oregon. That might be nice. Follow in the footsteps of Bundy and Ridgeway. Yes, that might be just the place to go. Have his name mentioned in the same breath as theirs.
No, wait.
Have theirs mentioned in the same breath as his.
The Illusionist smiled. It was almost scary to be this good. Almost frightening to be this far ahead in the game.
He grabbed the empty duffel bag and made his way to the first door. The morning was cool and still. He pressed the door open and waited just inside the entryway for a few moments, scanning the neighborhood.
The house provided wonderful cover, and he was certain he hadn’t attracted any attention, but it was always better to make sure. To be cautious.
He slipped outside, walked the three blocks to the place he’d parked his car, started the engine, and headed back to his day job. Misdirection.
Sleight of hand.
Watch and be amazed.
The show was about to begin.
31
The 1.5-mile uphill hike from the trailhead to the meadow where we found Mindy would normally take about half an hour, but we were going slowly, carefully. I was trying to imagine the Illusionist walking up this trail with Mindy. Did you really carry her all this way? Or did she walk? If so, why didn’t she fight you? How did you get her to trust you?
Lien-hua spoke, echoing my thoughts. “She walked with him, didn’t she?”
“I think so. It’s too far to carry a body uphill.”
“Did he force her? Restrain her somehow?” she asked.
“Maybe. There were some bruises on her wrists, but the indentations were shallow. He didn’t drag her. He might have tied them postmortem.”
“Then how did he subdue her while he strangled her over and over again?”
“I don’t know.” I’d started panting a little as we hiked but tried to hide it so Lien-hua wouldn’t notice. I stopped and readjusted my pack. “He might have used threats of violence. She had a younger sister, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. She’s eight.”
“Maybe that’s it. He might have threatened to hurt the girl. I don’t know. We may never know.” I started walking again. “We can check on it, though, see what her relationship with her sister was like.”
Sunlight dangled in between the branches of the trees, dancing across my face. We hiked for a few minutes in silence, and then Lien-hua said, “I found your views on motives very interesting, Dr. Bowers.”
Ah, the briefing yesterday.
“So when you say ‘interesting’ do you mean ‘fascinatingly compelling,’ or are you just using the word ‘interesting’ to try and disagree with me politely, the way most people use it?”
“Hmm. Well, since you put it that way, I choose option number two.”
“The ‘I don’t agree with you but don’t want to stir up trouble’ usage.”
“Yes. Honestly, I’m surprised that you believe motives play such a minor role in life.”
We stepped into a sheltered cove protected by ancient trees, some of which must have been over a hundred years old. I could see by the abundance of younger growth that the rest of the hillside had been logged years ago. These hidden coves up in the mountains must have been too hard for the loggers to reach.
“Well,” I said, “I think there are only three primary motives, and none of them are very helpful when it comes to solving a crime.” “Just three, huh?” I sensed a bit of amusement in her voice.
“Yes.”
“And they are?”
“Desire, anger, and guilt.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Just those three?”
“Yup. Think about it. Take them one at a time. Desire: people want fame or sex or money or power. Even revenge is a form of desire. Think of how many crimes result from lust, greed, envy, jealousy, or ambition. All just different names for desire.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “OK. And anger I’ll agree with.”
“Yeah. And of course there’s guilt, which speaks for itself. We all have to find a way to deal with our regrets and our shame, or we implode.”