Moe sat beside me for a while, alert, then groaned and lay down and fell asleep. When I started back the moon was gone and there was a damp breeze coming from the west with the smell of the ocean in it. As I picked my way down the trail I wondered what it would be like to tell Melinda I was going to leave her, and if I could do it.
Three
I was at my desk by six-thirty, third cup of coffee going, rereading the note of thanks from Donna Mason over at CNB. It was in my e-mail. I got rid of that one fast — I don’t like my fellows here aware of my doings with the media. It can be a perilous business and I like to keep it to myself.
I was waiting for the call from Special Agent Mike Strickley of the Investigative Support Unit in Quantico. I’d met him eight years ago at an FBI “road school” — training sessions for law enforcement that the then Behavioral Sciences Unit offered to local law enforcement. He’d told me to call them if I ever needed them. After the second girl, Courtney, I knew we had a serial offender and made the call. I sent him the photographs of both girls, their statements, videotapes of the release sites and the forensic evidence we’d culled. That was eight days ago, and Mike had faxed me yesterday morning to say he’d be ready today.
I was pondering another angle on how The Horridus was picking his victims. They were both fair-skinned, light-haired anglos. One with blond hair; one with red. They were ages five and six. They both lived with their single mothers except for occasional weekends with their fathers. They both had ground-floor bedrooms with windows not visible from the street. They both lived in Orange County, though he’d taken Pamela in Orange, which is central county, while for Courtney he’d gone south to San Clemente, near the San Diego County line. They were both abducted, held, then released wearing different clothes, with the aforementioned mesh robes and black velvet hoods. No signs of physical abuse other than light bruising on the upper extremities. No penetration, no bruising, no bleeding. No blood, skin or saliva left on them. No semen. They’d both been found with silver 3M duct tape cinched over their mouths. Acetate and wool/rayon blend fibers on the tape suggested that he carried it on his body somewhere, already stripped off, so as not to make any noise rasping it off the roll. He used a different shirt or jacket each time, a new or almost new one, to transfer as little evidence about himself as possible. He named himself for Courtney: written in felt pen on the inside of the tape over her mouth was the word, Horridus.
But I hadn’t found the link between the girls that he had found. Age. Race. Single-parent households. Ground-floor windows away from the street. How did he know? We had checked, rechecked and checked again for the connection between the girls, the common plane along which he was hunting them. Different cities. Different schools. Different day care. Different friends, parks, pools, shopping places. Different worlds and different lives. But somewhere their lives came together, and it was my job to find that place and be there the next time he hunted it.
Strickley called at six forty-five and apologized for the early hour. I told him I hadn’t been sleeping well anyway. We made small talk for about thirty seconds.
“I’ve looked over the material you sent me, and this is what I think. I’ll be faxing this out to you when we’re done, so you’ve got a hard copy, but I’m going to run it by you fast right now.”
“I’m ready.”
“Let me tell you something, Terry, you’ve got a genuine problem on your hands. He’s intelligent, cautious and he’s not going to stop until you take him out. This is a culmination for him, an arrival. He’s made the breakthrough, done it twice and he’s not turning back. It would be your call, but if you start putting on the pressure in some proactive way — which is what we usually recommend — we think he’ll graduate to a rape/kill scenario. Or he’ll leave and set up shop somewhere else. This is about control — control over the victims, you, us, everybody. My advice is not to publicize this profile. The more heat he feels, the tougher he’s going to get. But it’s your call out there, Terry.”
“All right.”
“Here he is: white male, late twenties to late thirties. The upper end puts him five years out of prime for this kind of pedophile, but the stalking and planning suggest maturity. Average height, slender. Physically presentable, maybe even attractive, this from the fact that he’s seen the girls and their mothers and not raised any red flags. And from the wool/rayon fibers and the acetate, which probably come from sport coats. He’s carrying the strips of duct tape inside. I’d guess a blazer because of the wool. The acetate is a common liner. I see a good chance he wears glasses. It’s just one of those feelings, but he’s bright and knows it and wouldn’t mind presenting himself in an academic or intellectual light. Glasses have a gentling effect. He might have a physical defect that he hides under clothes — possibly a skin condition like eczema or dramatic birthmarks, herpes, possibly a deformity. That’s one of the reasons he can’t attach to mature females — he’s sensitive about his appearance, but it’s something that doesn’t show in street clothes. That’s why he blinds them with the hoods he makes, though the primary reason is to hide his face. Two years of college, maybe more — science and humanities. He had some Latin in school, almost certainly Catholic, that’s where he first heard horridus. It’s Latin for rough, or bristling, and it’s used as a designator for animal species, specifically Moloch horridus, which is an Asian lizard, and Crotalus horridus, which is commonly known as the timber rattler. Look for him to be familiar with reptiles, maybe has a collection, or at least a library. Enjoys the outdoors. Has an extensive collection of pornography, mostly still photos, mostly young girls. He networks on the computer with others like him because he’s after validation and free porn. An actual conscience on this one, Terry — the Catholicism, the way he dresses them before he turns them loose, the way he blinds them, the fact he doesn’t kill them. He doesn’t feel good about himself except when it’s happening. Afterward, he spins down into a depressive phase. No military service. Lives alone. Never married. He’ll have had many relationships with women, none longer than a few months, no longer in touch with them. He’s around women a lot, but not closely — he’s an observer, not a mingler. He will have had homosexual experiences while young, possible abuse by a relative or friend, very possibly by a man involved with his mother. He’s white collar — clerical or retail. He might have artistic talent — visual, plastic arts — something he can make with his hands and see with his eyes. He makes the hoods and the gauze tunics, and they’re done skillfully. He makes good enough money to support himself, drive a late-model van, maybe even own a home, dress well, look successful. His home will be free standing — not a condo type of thing. Probably rather large, fenced and overgrown. Look for a separate guest house or maid’s quarters on the grounds. He’ll follow you in the media but he’s not likely to insinuate himself into the investigation. I doubt you’ve interviewed him yet. He’s taking their clothes as trophies and replacing them with clothes that belong to him — maybe literally, maybe symbolically. Hates his mother because she treated him like a girl, tried to make him behave like one, probably dressed him like one. Rarely saw his father. He’s had some precipitating stressor, something that pushed him over the edge. Death of a loved one. Something big.”