Kane (30 page)

“First of all, the FBI’s analysis of the first two families reveals the victims to be low-risk, high-profile individuals.  The third family falls in the same category.  For this reason and other similarities in the crimes, including the killings having taken place in highly populated, middle class neighborhoods, the family members are not categorized as victims of opportunity and were probably selected well before their murders.”

“They were stalked,” said Collins.

“Correct,” said Berns.  “The killer knew his victims, at least marginally.  Furthermore, with the exception of replacing the husbands’ bodies in bed and covering his victims with a blanket—something that the behaviorists agree is probably ritualistic and not representative of any form of remorse—the killer is making no effort at concealment.  This indicates a desire for recognition.  His violence is close-range and confrontational, with varying degrees of savagery inflicted on various family members, although his rage is primarily directed toward women.  Nonetheless, the familial aspect of the crimes should not be overlooked.

“Second:  In brief, analysis of the crime scenes demonstrates the killer’s willingness to modify them to suit his needs.  He feels comfortable in the homes, taking hours to complete his crimes.  He employs disparate methods to kill each member, for the most part using materials brought with him.  These factors, along with the lack of evidence found at the scenes, suggest a high degree of organization and planning, both before and after committing the crimes.

“The third section is fairly long, but what it boils down to is this:  The autopsies show that although the husbands were not sexually molested, the killer performed postmortem acts on the women, revealing a necrosadistic sexual motivation.”

“Meaning the guy has to kill to achieve orgasm?” asked Deluca.

“Right,” Berns replied.  “Leaving the bodies in positions of repose, the killer’s use of candles, his cutting of the husbands’ eyelids, and the different techniques employed to kill other family members all demonstrate a high level of ritualism.  This, taken with the degree of organization and planning shown throughout other phases of the crimes, suggests a killer who has reached an advanced state of development.  In addition to torture, the other common element in his murders is a preselection of victims, probably focusing on the wife, although again the familial aspect should not be considered coincidental.

“The next section contains the FBI’s physical and psychological assessment of the killer.  It’s open to interpretation, but some parts may prove useful.  Most of it parallels the analysis I already gave you, but there are a few new things.  The profilers think the killer may have a record of criminal and psychological disturbances.  If a criminal background is present, instances of assault and rape would be expected.  If he’s been institutionalized in a mental hospital, the diagnosis would probably have been manic depressive psychosis or paranoid schizophrenia.  They also think he’s of slightly above-average intelligence, and that jewelry, clothing, other personal items taken from his victims may have been given to others.”

I glanced around the room.  Every detective present was concentrating on the sheets before them.  “The last section may prove the most useful,” Berns went on, flipping to the final page.  “As noted earlier, the killer’s selection of high profile victims, his leaving the front doors open, and his failure to conceal the bodies suggest a desire for recognition.  Typically, he may try to inject himself into the investigation.”

“Lend us poor dumb cops a hand,” I said.

“Right.  The Bureau guys think this may present an increased chance of locating him.  Organizing community meetings to discuss the killings, for instance, then getting the names and license plate numbers of anyone who attends.  Another proactive approach would be examining males who repeatedly phone in on the hotline.  In that regard, news releases could be designed to encourage the killer to call.  And, of course, unauthorized men visiting the crime scenes or gravesites should be considered suspect.

“I like the idea of organizing community meetings,” said Huff.

“The media angle might work, too,” I added.  “It sure didn’t take our guy long to react the last time around.  News release on Friday; murders on Sunday.”

“There’s no proof that the Welsh killings resulted from Domingos’s arrest,” Snead said defensively.

“Maybe not, but it’s possible.”

Berns nodded.  “The killer is undoubtedly following the case in the news.  He had probably already planned the Welsh murders, but the false arrest may have angered him enough to make him accelerate his timetable.”

“You said there were areas where you disagreed with the FBI report,” noted Huff.  “Could you go over those?”

“Of course,” answered Berns.  “For one, I don’t accept the behaviorists’ assessment of the killer being of only slightly above-average intelligence.  Everything I’ve seen suggests he’s smarter than that.”

“Anything else?”

“Along the same line, I would be surprised if he gave away items taken from his victims.  Too dangerous.”

“Does that go for his calling in on the hotline, hanging around the crime scenes, and all the other mistakes we’re hoping he makes?” I asked.

“In my estimation, yes.  If he’s as intelligent as I suspect, he’s probably well versed in police investigative techniques.”

“Could he be a cop?” asked Snead.

“It’s possible.”

Snead turned to Huff.  “How about interviewing police officers who might have come in contact with the victims during the past year?”

“Now we’re chasing our own tails,” I said.

“What’s that, Kane?”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, we have our hands full without investigating cops.  And if it gets out that we’re combing our own ranks for the killer, the media will go nuts.  We won’t score any points with the rest of our brothers in blue, either.”

“Tough.  Lieutenant Huff?”

Huff sighed, making another notation in his folder.  “I don’t like it, but I guess we have no choice.”  He glanced at Berns.  “That it, Sid?”

Berns nodded.  “For now, anyway.”

“Any other questions?”

No one spoke, but we all thinking the same thing.  The killer had taken another family, and we were no closer to finding him.

26

T
wo days later, having a court appearance on a previous case, I took off early for lunch—allowing time to eat and still make it to the West Los Angeles courthouse by two PM.  On impulse, however, I exited on Hoover Street after passing the Santa Monica Freeway interchange, drove a half mile south, and pulled into a USC visitors’ parking lot across from the Shrine Auditorium.

Not an active alumnus, I had visited my alma mater only rarely since graduating.  As I made my way toward the USC School of Music, I noticed that much of the campus I remembered was now hidden behind newer buildings.  At times I missed familiar landmarks, either concealed or torn down, and was forced to ask directions from passing students.  Eventually I found myself standing before an unfamiliar, multistoried structure with a brass plate identifying it as the Albert S. Raubenheimer Music Facility Memorial Building.

Searching for the entrance, I took a walkway to the left, glancing through the open door of an annex building nearby.  Behind a worn counter, racks of musical instruments gleamed in the dim light.  Curious, I stepped inside.  A young man looked up from behind a cluttered desk.  “May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.

I gazed around the interior of the room, surprised by the number of instruments jammed into cases and hung on the walls.  Some appeared familiar, but many, like a collection of fat-bellied mandolins and pear-shaped lutes, did not.  “What is this, some kind of musical pawn shop?” I asked.

The youth smiled.  “Sort of.  Students can borrow instruments here and experiment with them without actually having to buy one.  Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Some
one
.  Alexander Petrinski.”

“Wednesday mornings, Professor Petrinski holds student conferences in his office.  Ramo Hall.  Second floor.”

“Where’s that?”

“Straight out the doors, past the coke spoon, first building you come to.  You can’t miss it.”

“Coke spoon?”

“One of the sculptures.  You’ll see.”

After thanking the youth, I continued down the curved pathway, pausing before a huge stone carving that in my opinion looked more like a double-ended washbasin.  Proceeding beneath a canopy of sycamore and jacaranda, I found the Virginia Ramo Hall of Music around the next bend.  Upon entering the building, I checked the directory, locating the name for which I was searching:  Alexander Petrinski, Keyboard Studies Chair, Rm. 212.  Instead of taking the elevator, I ascended a single flight of stairs and exited on the second floor.  Petrinski’s office lay at the end of a short hallway.  I stopped at the entrance and knocked.

“Come in.”

I opened the door.  Two grand pianos, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a leather couch all but filled the small studio beyond.  A young woman sat at one of the keyboards.  A heavyset man with thick gray hair stood behind her, his robust bearing belying his advancing years.  The man turned, his eyes registering surprise.  “Dan.  I’d about given up on you.”

“Sorry, Alex.  I’ve been busy.”

Petrinski turned to his student.  “That’s enough for today, Carla.  Keep working on it.  I’ll see you after the holidays.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young woman.  She rose and started for the door.  “Have a nice Thanksgiving, Professor.”

After she left, Petrinski and I regarded each other uncomfortably.  Although we had known one another since Travis first began studying piano, our relationship had often been less than cordial.  “I suppose I should have phoned before stopping by,” I offered.  “I had a couple minutes, and—”

“I’m glad you came,” said Petrinski.  “We haven’t talked since the funeral.”

“No.”

“Tom’s death was a great loss.  I’m truly sorry.”

“Thanks.  But that’s not why you called.”

“No.  I want to discuss Travis.”

I sat on one of the piano benches, my back to the keyboard.  Hunching my shoulders, I leaned forward.  “What about Travis?”

Petrinski hesitated, seeming uncertain how to proceed.  “Can I be frank?” he asked.

“Aside from myself, probably better than anyone else I know,” I answered.

Petrinski smiled.  “I’ve been told that,” he agreed.  “All right, but you won’t like what I have to say.  No offense, Dan, but I’ve always believed that the best thing for Travis’s musical development would be for him to get out from under your influence.  Now I’m not so sure.  I don’t know what’s wrong, but your son seems to need some form of guidance I can’t give.”

“The kid’s screwing up in school, and you want me to boot his tail back on the straight and narrow?” I said.  “You could have told me that over the phone.  I’ll talk to him, all right.  Where is he?”

“Classes are over for the holidays, but Trav mentioned staying till Thursday.  He’s probably in one of the annex practice rooms.  And actually, your son is doing well in most of his university courses.  Especially those given by the Music Department.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Instead of responding, Petrinski gazed at me for a long moment.  Finally he asked, “What do you know of Travis’s world of music?”

I shrugged, aware of Petrinski’s irritating habit of broaching subjects obliquely.  “Not much,” I answered, wishing he would get to the point.  “I’m not totally ignorant on the subject, but country music’s more my style.”

“You may understand more than you think.  I define good music as any that can repay our attention by enriching our lives and giving us pleasure, revelation, and maybe even enlightenment.  Music,
all
music, if it fulfills its potential, can play a vitally worthwhile role in our lives.”

“I never said that I thought what Travis is doing isn’t worthwhile,” I objected, anticipating the direction the conversation seemed headed.

“Maybe not in so many words, but that’s what he thinks.”

“Even if that’s true, I still don’t see—”

Petrinski cut me off.  “I think Travis is at a critical juncture.  There’s no doubt he has the ability to become a world-class musician.  After his success at the Van Cliburn International, many think he’s already achieved that status.  I believe he has more to offer.”

“Like what?”

“In a senior-level course Travis is auditing, he’s shown a wonderful talent for composition.  It’s something I suspected he possessed, but I had no idea of its depth.  That he’s waited until now to show it is puzzling, to say the least.”

“And?”

Petrinski paused, scowling at me like a headmaster dressing down a student.  “I believe Travis has something of value to communicate through his music, not only by interpreting the writings of others, but also with his own compositions.  Despite your son’s finally beginning to do work commensurate with his abilities, something’s holding him back.  I believe it has something to do with you.”

“I’ve never had a thing to do with Travis’s music.”