Strip Search (26 page)

I thought he was telling the truth, too, but it wasn’t because of that analysis. I couldn’t even claim I saw it in his eyes, since he was wearing a mask. I just…knew.

“Anything else?” Granger asked. Now he was the one who sounded as if he were begging. “There must be something.”

“Purcell’s team found some hair and fiber,” Laird said, “but nothing that’s going to help us catch him.”

“The only way we’re going to catch him,” I said, “is if we can figure out what his methodology is, no matter how twisted or irrational it may be. So we can be waiting for him the next time he tries to strike. We have to get inside his head.”

Granger grunted. “Which is what you’re—”

“Yeah, I know already, okay?” Yes, I snapped at him. But I didn’t call him an asshole, which I thought showed remarkable restraint.

“Pulaski, I want a preliminary profile on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t—”

“I don’t care how rough it is, or how many spaces you have to leave blank. I want something.” He glared at me. “Unless you’re not capable of doing it.”

“I’ll do it.” You bastard. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got.” I only wished it could be with my fist. But I probably would’ve missed my target. My hands were shaking even as I thought about it.

“MR. BRAZEE?”

He didn’t look away from his bulb-studded mirror. “That you, Halley? Come to grovel for your old job back?” He chuckled. “Ain’t gonna work.”

The sound of the door closing was followed by the deadbolt sliding into place.

“Hey, what’s the big—” Brazee swiveled in his chair. “Who the hell are you?”

The short stocky man behind him did not answer. He heard the jingle of a pair of handcuffs, and a second later, felt the snapping around his left wrist. The other end of the cuffs clamped onto the arm of his chair.

“What the—” He tried to stand, but the cuff chain jerked him back into his seat. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but all I have to do is say ‘Boo’ and there’ll be people crawling all over—”

“I don’t think so.” Calmly, Tucker opened his overcoat, withdrew a long-handled axe, and placed the blade against Brazee’s throat. “First, near as I can tell, everyone else has gone home already. Like rats from a sinkin’ ship.”

“My act is not—Anyway, even if the crew has left—”

“I told your driver you wanted to walk home. Clear your head. Said you had some thinkin’ to do.”

“He wouldn’t believe you.”

“He did. Got the impression he didn’t mind leavin’ early all that much. Got the impression he doesn’t like you so much. Tell the truth, Mr. Brazee, I get the impression no one likes you much.”

“That’s insane.”

“I remember when you were somethin’, when you had that song on the radio, what was it called?”

“I’ve had many hits.” He sniffed. “But the one you’re remembering is probably ‘I Miss You So in Springtime’?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. That was a good song. Damn good song.”

Brazee’s eyes moved slowly from Tucker’s face to the blade still pressed against his throat. “So…are you an…enthusiastic fan?”

“No. But I liked that song.”

“Then why don’t you let me go?”

“Can’t do that.”

“If you free me, I could…sing it for you.”

“Nice offer. But nah.” He grinned a little. “’Fraid your number is up. And I really mean it.”

“I don’t understand. If you like my song, why don’t you let me—”

“This has nothing to do with your songs. You were chosen, that’s all.”

“Chosen? But—” His eyes slowly widened, the horror dawning. “You’re that man. The one I read about in the paper. You killed two people.”

“Three.”

“And then you—” His head fell. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

“Like I said,” Tucker replied, looking away, “it’s nothin’ personal. Well, it is, in a way. But it’s still all about the numbers.”

They both heard the creaking sound outside at the same time. “Halley!” Brazee shouted. “Halley! Help!”

Tucker dropped the axe, ran to the door and flung it open.

No one was there.

“Just the house settlin’, I guess,” Tucker growled. “But that was stupid. I coulda killed you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because there’s supposed to be a…a procedure.” He spoke each syllable slowly, as if it were its own word. “A pattern.” He put the blade back against the man’s throat. “But don’t get the wrong idea. You screw up again, I’ll kill you right here and now and do the rest of the stuff later. It’s not the best way. But I’ll do what I gotta do.”

“Other stuff? What…other stuff?”

Tucker spoke as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “The brandin’.”

“Why would you possibly want to…to…hurt me? I’ve never done anything to you. I’ve never done anything to anyone.”

Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “’Zat what they say back in Terre Haute?”

Even with the blade against his throat, the stiffening of his neck was noticeable. “W—Why would you ask me about…about that city?”

“What kinda man doesn’t take responsibility for his own kid, huh?”

Brazee could feel the man’s hot breath on his face. He pulled back, as far as the cuffs would allow. “There were…practical considerations…Career…You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

His voice dropped. “His mother was a groupie. Met her backstage at a concert. We weren’t married.”

“You coulda married her.”

“Yeah, and killed my career. I couldn’t disappoint the little girls, man. I’m sure you know how that is. The chicks had to think I was available. I was a teen heartthrob.”

Tucker placed his free hand atop Brazee’s head and slowly turned it to face the mirror, bringing the blade right along with it. “Been a long time since you’ve been a teen, huh, mister? Bet it’s been a long time since you had a teenager in your audience, too.”

“That’s not my fault. It’s just bad management.”

“You haven’t been makin’ your payments.”

“I haven’t been pulling in the scratch like I used to. But I got a plan. My new manager, he’s gonna make my show bigger, better. Maybe bring in the guys who did the act for…for…those two German guys with the cats.”

“Too late.” Tucker reached under his overcoat and this time withdrew a branding iron with the letter
N
at the end.

“What—What are you—Oh my God—”

“You are Netzach. You must make the sacrifice.”

“The sacrifice. What does that mean?”

“Well,” Tucker said, as he pulled out his acetylene torch and began heating the branding iron, “it means you won’t be doin’ any more singin’ anytime soon.”

I COULD HARDLY ASK Amelia to refill the prescription I swiped from her, could I? And I sure as hell couldn’t get through all this, Granger breathing down my throat, having to cancel on Amelia, feeling lost, feeling alone.

Watching that videotape. Twice.

I know why he made it, and why he left it behind. At least in my mind I did.

He left it for me. He left it because he knew how badly it would screw me up. And he was right.

Thank God for the Internet. In less than twenty minutes, I found some shady outfit that could have Valium at my doorstep tomorrow afternoon, if I was willing to pay the outrageous shipping costs. But for that matter, as I hyper-clicked around, I found all kinds of options. Why stop at Valium when there was Xanax, and Effexor, and for that matter, even better stuff. Vicodin. Prozac.

I ordered a wide assortment. A smorgasbord of relief. I was going to need it.

Might as well stay up all night working on this preliminary report. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, not with two lousy Valiums left. But tomorrow would be different. If I could just get through the next twenty-four hours. So I logged off the Internet, logged onto the FBI’s BSI database, and went to work. It would be a hard night. But I knew I could make it.

Help was on its way.

BEHAVIORAL PROFILE—THE MATH MAN
by Susan Pulaski, M.A., LVPD
…is complicated by conflicting psychological indicators. The investigators have uncovered data suggesting an orderly personality, as well as a disorderly personality, a narcissistic personality as well as a sympathetic personality, an antisocial or poorly socialized personality as well as a keen understanding of social conventions and social strata. One possible explanation is that the serial killer’s
modus operandi
and rationalizations are still developing; however, the fundamental fact pattern and extremely stylized and complex methodology have remained consistent from the start. Another more dangerous possible diagnosis would be dissociative personality disorder, that is, the existence of multiple personalities, one dominant and controlling, one submissive and compliant, and both extremely dangerous. The prototypical Jekyll-Hyde split allows one alter-personality to assume the qualities which the central consciousness recognizes to be the most socially unacceptable, while the submissive personality, however regretfully, carries out the plans mapped by the other. This is a particularly dangerous combination, because it creates an outlet for rationalization and release that allows even personalities that have not progressed to full sociopathy to commit the most heinous deeds.
Despite the conflicting indicators and the paucity of concrete information, there are some facts we can state affirmatively about the killer. The killer is:
1) a white male between the ages of twenty and forty. (Although this information cannot be ascertained by psychological profiling, eyewitness reports have indicated that he is short, only somewhat over five feet tall, stocky, strong, dark-haired);
2) from a low income bracket, probably only marginally above the poverty level. Most likely he finds his menial job unfulfilling because it provides no outlet for his intelligence, or at least his aptitude for mathematics, creating a desire to do what his delusional mind conceives as “greater things” to show his worth;
3) fond of, or at least able to tolerate, acts of extreme violence. It is possible that he has convinced himself that the merit of his acts is so great that it justifies deeds he would otherwise find repellent. It is remotely possible that he finds acts of violence to be sexually arousing, that his usual impotence is overcome by acts of extreme brutality;
4) the product of a broken home and a troubled childhood. He probably was raised by only one parent, or neither. The fact that he has chosen both male and female victims, however, makes it difficult to determine which influence he was missing in childhood. He probably mistreated animals or smaller children. He may have been a late bed wetter. All factors likely to produce an ongoing frustration with the UNSUB’s lack of impulse control; and
5) very fond of and very good at mathematics.
Detectives should be looking for an adult who is lonely, isolated, angry, and violent, someone who spends long hours alone, obsessively working on problems of his own creation, or indulging in an aberrant but well-developed fantasy life. As classified by the DSM-IV, he suffers from antisocial personality disorder and may have sought or been given psychological therapy in the past.
The key to locating this killer will almost certainly be understanding the mathematical clues he has left at the crime scenes, as well as the videotape of the most recent assault. Some part of his complex psyche wants to be caught, or perhaps wants us to appreciate the “majesty” of his design, or to be awed by his superior intellect, hence the mathematical equations. Even if we are unable to perceive it, in his mind there is a rationale, a pattern to his crimes. If we could understand that, we could anticipate his moves. If, for instance, we understood how he selects his victims, we could protect them and lay a trap for him.
It has been suggested that he possesses a prurient mania against pornography or sexual sin, but that does not seem consistent, does not explain his seemingly random and diverse selection of victims, and does not appear to link the most recent victim. The selection process is almost certainly mathematical, but how the determination is made is still unknown. There is a strong indication that all his crimes “add up” to something, some ultimate goal, some purpose, but that too is unknown. In some respects, the killer almost seems driven to commit his crimes, as if somehow he is compensating for past wrongs, perhaps those done to him, or trying to punish others who have committed like crimes, or trying to prevent future incidents from happening. In his self-deluded, narcissistic mind, some such rationale justifies the violence. The exact process, however, remains unknown. When we understand that, we will have taken the most important step toward understanding this killer. If this is, for him, a numbers game, we must try to comprehend, however bizarre they may be, the rules of that game…

I YANKED THE LAST PAGE out of the printer, stared at it, then with more than a little reluctance, passed it to O’Bannon’s new assistant Amanda David for photocopying. Just as well I was out of the little blue sleepy-bye pills. I was tense as hell, but I had been able to stay up most of the night, working and reworking this report, until it was as good as I could make it, given that I really didn’t know squat about this killer and writing this report was pitifully premature.

This should have been simple, but somehow, I just couldn’t get my head around it, couldn’t get my usual empathic ability to see inside someone else’s head. The key to finding an UNSUB is Why + How = Who. And I’d worked it. I’d written a report that was consistent with the facts and made best use of the information in our possession. But deep down, I knew it sucked. A total waste of taxpayer paper. I didn’t know enough about Why to get to Who. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere, I’d gotten something fundamentally wrong. It was just a hunch, an instinct. But profilers worked on instinct—or at least they should. They had to be able to sense what could not yet be proven. They had to be able to crawl inside the killer’s mind, or perhaps more accurately, reconstruct it on a piece of paper. But my instincts had gone to hell, and I was stuck here, banging at the keyboard like a monkey, putting words together that didn’t say much and wouldn’t help anyone, much less Granger. Well, they might help him prove my utter worthlessness, but nothing else.