“Did he admit to killing her?”
“I can’t talk about what he may or may not have told me.”
Ruiz’s eyes disappear into a narrow maze of wrinkles and his body tenses. Just as suddenly he exhales and gives me what I suspect is a smile. He’s out of practice.
“Tell me about the man who killed Catherine McBride.”
The message seems to have reached him. Pushing Bobby out of my head, I try to reflect on Catherine’s killer, based on what I know of the crime. I’ve had a week of sleepless nights thinking of little else.
“You are dealing with a sexual psychopath,” I begin, unable to recognize my own voice. “Catherine’s murder was a manifestation of corrupt lust.”
“But there were no signs of sexual assault.”
“You can’t think in terms of normal rape or sex crime. This is a far more extreme example of deviant sexuality. This man is consumed by a desire to dominate and inflict pain. He fantasizes about taking, restraining, dominating, torturing and killing. At least some of these fantasies will mirror almost exactly what happened.
“Think about what he did to her. He took her off the street or enticed her to go with him. He didn’t seek a quick and violent sexual coupling in a dark alley and then silence his victim so she couldn’t identify him. Instead he aimed to break her— to systematically destroy her willpower until she became a compliant, terrified plaything. Even that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted the ultimate in control, to bend someone so completely to his will that she would torture herself…”
I’m watching Ruiz— waiting to lose him. “He almost succeeded, but in the end Catherine wasn’t entirely broken. She still had a spark of defiance left. She was a nurse. Even with a short blade she knew where to cut if she wanted to die quickly. When she could take no more she cut the carotid artery in her neck. That’s what caused the embolism. She was dead within minutes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Three years at medical school.”
Ruiz is staring at his pint glass, as though checking to see if it is centered properly on the coaster. The chimes of a church bell are ringing in the distance.
“The man you’re looking for is lonely, socially inept and sexually immature.”
“Sounds like your basic teenager.”
“No. He isn’t a teenager. He’s older. A lot of young men start out like this, but every so often one emerges who blames someone else for his loneliness and his sexual frustration. This bitterness and anger grow with each rejection. Sometimes he’ll blame a particular person. Other times he will hate an entire group of people.”
“He hates all women.”
“Possibly, but I think it’s more likely he hates a particular sort of woman. He wants to punish her. He fantasizes about it and it gives him pleasure.”
“Why did he choose Catherine McBride?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she looked like someone he wanted to punish. He may have been driven by opportunity. Catherine was available so he changed his fantasy to incorporate her looks and the clothes she wore.”
“The red dress.”
“Perhaps.”
“Could he have known her?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Motivation?”
“Revenge. Control. Sexual gratification.”
“I take my pick?”
“No, it’s all three.”
Ruiz stiffens slightly. Clearing his throat he takes out his marbled notebook.
“So who am I looking for?”
“Someone in his thirties or forties. He lives alone, somewhere private, but surrounded by people who come and go— a boarding house perhaps or a trailer park.
“He may have a wife or a girlfriend. He is of above average intelligence. He is physically strong, but mentally even stronger. He hasn’t been consumed by sexual desire or anger to the point of losing control. He can keep his emotions in check. He is forensically aware. He doesn’t want to be caught.
“This is someone who has managed to successfully separate areas of his life and isolate them completely from each other. His friends, family and colleagues have no inkling of what goes on inside his head.
“I think he has sadomasochistic interests. It’s not the sort of thing that springs out of nowhere. Someone must have introduced him to it— although probably only a mild version. His mind has taken it to a level that far outstrips any harmless fun. His self-assurance is what amazes me. There were no signs of anxiety or first-time nerves…”
I stop talking. My mouth has gone slack and sour. I take a sip of water. Ruiz is gazing at me dully, sitting up straighter and occasionally writing notes. My voice rises above the noise again.
“A person doesn’t suddenly become a fully fledged sadist overnight— not one this skillful. Organizations like the KGB spend years training their interrogators to be this good. The degree of control and sophistication were remarkable. These things come from experience. I don’t think he started here.”
Ruiz turns and stares out of the window, making up his mind. He doesn’t believe me.
“This is bullshit!” he rumbles.
“Why?”
“None of it sounds like your Bobby Moran.”
He’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Bobby is too young to have this degree of familiarity with sadism. He is too erratic and changeable. I seriously doubt that he has the mental skills and malevolence to dominate and control a person like Catherine so completely— the physical size, yes, but not the psychological strength. Then again, Bobby has constantly surprised me and I have only scratched the surface of his psyche. He has held details back from me or dropped them like a trail of bread crumbs on a fairy-tale journey.
Fairy tales? That’s what it sounds like to Ruiz. He’s on his feet threading his way to the bar. People hurriedly step out of his way. He has an aura like a flashing light that warns people to give him space.
I’m already beginning to regret this. I should have stayed out of it. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off instead of always looking and analyzing. I wish I could just focus on a tiny square of the world, instead of watching how people communicate and the clothes they wear, what they put in their shopping carts, the cars they drive, the pets they choose, the magazines they read and the TV shows they watch. I wish I could stop looking.
Ruiz is back again with another pint and a whiskey chaser. He rolls the liquid fire around in his mouth as if washing away a bad taste.
“You really think this guy did it?”
“I don’t know.”
He wraps his fingers around the pint glass and leans back.
“You want me to look at him?”
“That’s up to you.”
Ruiz exhales with a rustle of dissatisfaction. He still doesn’t trust me.
“Do you know why Catherine came down to London?” I ask.
“According to her flatmate she had a job interview. We found no correspondence— she probably had it with her.”
“What about phone records?”
“Nothing from her home number. She had a mobile, but that’s missing.”
He delivers the facts without comment or embellishment. Catherine’s history matches with the scant details she gave to me during our sessions. Her parents had divorced when she was twelve. She hooked up with a bad crowd, sniffing aerosols and doing drugs. At fifteen she spent six weeks in a private psychiatric hospital in West Sussex. Her family kept it quiet for obvious reasons.
Becoming a nurse had seemed to be the turning point. Although she still had problems, she managed to cope.
“What happened after she left the Marsden?” I ask.
“She moved back to Liverpool and got engaged to a merchant seaman. It didn’t work out.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No. He’s in Bahrain.”
“Any other suspects?”
Ruiz smiles wryly. “All volunteers are welcome.” Finishing his drink, he gets to his feet. “I have to go.”