"Can I take them from the cellophane?"
I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler's loupe and some long tweezers.
I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.
After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.
"You've got one sick puppy here." He met my gaze, intense. "First I'll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it's harder to prove, but there's enough here to be absolutely sure of it."
"Go on."
"He's right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That's a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his t, l, f, i, and on the bottoms of the y and b."
He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.
"The t"s have descending bars, which are also clubbed. This can be a sign of mental imbalance. Many violent schizophrenics have descending t bars. In the second note he also mentions us, which might indicate disassociative identity disorder. But I don't believe in multiple personalities. It's a psychiatric fairy tale. I think the us was deliberate, either a ploy or a nod to an accomplice."
So far, all on the money.
"His pressure and angularity are very extreme. Again, indicators of violent behavior and aggression. The d is the social self-image letter. His d"s are slanted to the right and clubbed. This usually means an inflated ego, along with a desire to control situations."
"Keep going, Doctor."
"He refers to himself in capital letters. I'd call that the mark of a grandiose narcissist. He refers to the police department in lowercase letters, minimizing your importance. That's all I can get from a handwriting analysis, but I'm also a psychiatrist. From what he's written, and from the little I know about the case, I can make some assumptions."
"Please do."
"You're dealing with a sexual sadist. He's a control freak, and mastery over life and death is the ultimate high. He's got severe delusions of grandeur. I would guess that he may also be a sociopath, without remorse for his actions. He will be able to fake emotions, but won't be able to truly feel them. Can you tell me anything about the case?"
I ran it all down for him, from the discovery of the first Jane Doe until he showed up.
"The idea that he's punishing these women is a good one," he said when I'd finished. "The amount of pain he inflicted on them would also indicate that he knew them personally, rather than just grabbed them at random."
"Why did he change his MO for the last one?" Herb pondered aloud.
"Do you know the cause of death yet?" Mulrooney asked.
I shook my head, and then I had it.
"He didn't change intentionally," I realized. "Something went wrong. Maybe he gave her too much Seconal and she went into a coma. Or she tried to escape and he had to kill her. But her body didn't show evidence of torture. I bet he wanted to torture her, but didn't get a chance, so instead took his punishment out on her dead body."
Mulrooney eyed me. "You'd make a good shrink."
"Thanks. Any other insights?"
"He's killed before. Probably many times. This isn't an amateur. He's just decided to go public with it. There's too much planning, preparation, and thought put into these crimes to make them his first. The only evidence he leaves is what he wants you to find. This is a game to him. But there must have been something that set him off on this spree. Some reason he's decided to go public. Maybe he got divorced, or lost his job."
"The triggering event."
"Right. And there's something else too. I'm sort of surprised you haven't caught it yet, Lieutenant."
"Caught what?"
"He's sent you letters, broke into your apartment, called you on the phone, and now demands that you get fired." Mulrooney gave me a pained look. "This man has a crush on you."
"A crush? He wants to kill me."
"Sociopaths can't express emotions normally. In the letter to the Tribune, he even refers to you in capital letters, maximizing your importance. He's a stalker. Now he's fixated on you. Perversely fixated. I think all of this is his way of courting you."
Golly. Other guys just send flowers.
"I have a surveillance team keeping an eye on me."
Mulrooney rubbed his mustache. "Do you know how hyenas find a carcass? They follow the flight patterns of vultures. The vultures lead them to the food."
"Christ," Herb said. He was thinking the same thing I was.
"The perp could be watching the watchers."
Chapter 33
WE GOT A JEEP."
"Does the suspect fit the description?"
"There's some resemblance. No ID on him, but he's mentioned your name."
I nodded at Herb. The dragnet had been his idea. We ordered six teams to sweep a ten-block radius around my surveillance tail. Trucks and vans were stopped. Parked cars were searched. People on foot were questioned.
"We're on our way in, Lieut. Where do you want him?"
"Bring him to room C." I hung up the phone and reached out my hand to Dr. Mulrooney. "Good suggestion. We may have our man. Thanks for all your input."
He shook and gave me his card. "I'm glad to be of help. Feel free to call if I can be of further assistance."
Herb and I took the elevator, conserving my energy. This was all a bit anticlimactic, but that was how most cases ended; with a whimper, rather than a bang. As long as we got the guy, I was happy.
My hopes were dashed once I saw who was brought into the interrogation room.
"Hello, Lieutenant."
Phineas Troutt sat down in the lone wooden chair and smiled patiently at me.
Herb gave me a nudge. "This the guy that broke into your apartment?"
I frowned. "No. His name is Phineas Troutt, two T"s. Pull his record."
I closed the door behind me and shook my head at the legion of cops sitting behind the one-way glass. Then I turned my attention to my pool partner. "What's going on, Phin? Have you been following me?"
"I saw you on the news. You're purposely trying to get the Gingerbread Man to come after you."
"What does this have to do with you?"
Phin shrugged. "I had some free time, thought I'd see what your setup was. You've got three teams of two guys, each pulling eight-hour shifts. They hang back no farther than two hundred feet, and couldn't be more conspicuous if they tried."
The room smelled like smoke and sweat and desperation. Phin, however, seemed relaxed and even amused.
"You still haven't told me why you were following me."
"I figured the killer would make another try for you, but he'd see your surveillance just like I did. So I hung back to see if anyone was doing what I was doing and watching your surveillance team."
I still didn't know his angle, but I felt a tingle of excitement.
"Did you notice anything?"
He nodded.
"Two cars and four trucks, all with solitary male drivers. All acting suspicious. I wrote down the makes, models, and plates."
"Where did you write it down?"
"We're friends, right, Jack?"
I frowned. Why did he suddenly get coy?
"I'd like to think so, Phin."
"And friends do each other favors."
"So this is a favor?"
"Sure. I don't like seeing my friends get hurt. I'm sure you feel the same way."
Now it made perfect sense.
"You're in trouble, aren't you?"
"Possession. Cocaine. Trial is coming up next month. I'll do time." Phin scratched his bald head, an obvious ploy to make me aware of his cancer. "And the time they want me to do, I don't have left."
I didn't answer. The silence dragged. I knew the DA, and the Gingerbread Man case was weighty enough that he'd trade his wife and mother for an arrest. But I disliked bargaining with criminals, even helpful ones who played pool with me.