The Beginning (45 page)

“There are many meanings and contexts to the number seven,” Savich said, looking up from the autopsy report he was reviewing again. “I don't know if we'll get much out of this, but as soon as we've inputted all the information from Ms. Ramsgate's murder into the program, I'm going to correlate it to any instances of the number seven as working behavior in numerology.” He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring blankly at him. “Hey, it's worth a try. There might be something; it might be our guy buys into all that stuff, that it will give us some clues about him.”

Captain Dougherty said, “Use a psychic if you think it might help. A trained cat, if you've got one.”

Savich laughed, not at all insulted. “I know it sounds weird, but you know as well as I do that people can be loonier than the Mad Hatter.”

“I didn't catch your name,” Ralph Budnack said, staring at Sherlock, “but I've seen you before. Now I've got it. You came in here claiming to be related to the victim.” He turned to Savich, his jaw working. “You want to tell me what's going on here?”

“Calm down, Ralph. It's all very understandable. Her sister was killed seven years ago in San Francisco by this guy. That's why she realized so fast that he'd struck again. That's why she came up here. Thanks to her, we're on to him immediately. Now, you don't have to worry about her. She works for me. I'll have her under control.”

Captain Dougherty stared at her, chewed harder on the unlit cigar. “I don't want any vigilante stuff here, Agent Sherlock. You got that? You even tiptoe outside the boundaries and I'll bust you hard. I don't care if you're FBI. I wouldn't care if you were Mueller himself. It appears to me that Savich would bust you too. I wouldn't want to go in the ring with him.”

“I understand, sir.” Why did Dillon have to tell them the truth? She could have lied her way out of it. She caught his eye and realized he knew exactly what she was thinking. He didn't want her to lie anymore. Well, bully for him. It hadn't been his sister who'd been butchered; it hadn't been him to have nightmares horrible enough to wake you up wheezing, knowing that you were dying, that someone was close, really close, nearly close enough to kill you. She wanted to throw him through the window, although it looked as though it had been painted shut.

Now Budnack would tell the other cops who she was and what she'd done, and no one would trust her as far as the corner.

“I hope we'll find out something about this seven-year thing,” Savich said. “It also occurred to me that he knows how to build sets and props. Not just build them, but he has to transport them to the buildings where he intends to commit the murders. They must be constructed to fold pretty small to fit in a car trunk or in a van. That means he has to be proficient at least at minimal construction.

“Also, surely a truck would have been remarked upon. And he must do it in the middle of the night to cut way down on the chance of being seen. It's possible that the seven business will correlate to building things. Who knows?”

“Like a propman in the theater,” Sherlock said slowly, hope soaring.

“Could be,” Savich said. “Let's get the rest of the goodies in the program, then see what we come up with. He stood. “Gentlemen, anything else?”

“Yes,” Ralph Budnack said. “I want to help you input into this magic program of yours.”

“You got it,” Savich said and shook his hand.

The three of them took turns until late in the afternoon. Savich said, “There, that about takes care of it. Now let me tell MAX to stretch his brain and see what he can find for us. I inputted every instance of the number seven I could find. For example, two of the murders were committed on the seventh day of the week. Another murder was committed in the seventh month of the year. Sounds pretty far-out, but we'll see. The real key is the seven-year cycle and the fact that he killed seven women. MAX has more to work with here than he's ever had before. Also I gave MAX another bone—the construction angle.” His fingers moved quickly over the keys. Then he grinned up at Sherlock and pressed ENTER.

“That computer your kid?” Ralph Budnack asked.

“You'd think so,” Savich said. “But no, MAX is a partner, and by no means a silent one.” He patted the keyboard very lightly. “Nope, I'll have some real kids one of these days.”

“You married?”

“No. Ah, here we go. MAX's first effort. Let me print it out.”

There were only two pages.

Savich grinned at them. “Take a look, guys.”

“The Pleiades?”

Ralph Budnack looked ready to cry. “We spent four hours inputting stuff and we get the Pleiades? What the hell are the Pleiades?”

“The seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione,” Sherlock read. “They're a group of stars, put in the sky by Zeus. Orion is behind them, chasing them.”

“This is nuts,” Ralph said.

“Keep reading,” Savich said. “Keep reading.”

Sherlock looked up, her face shining. “He's an astronomer, he's got to be. That or he's an astrologer or into numerology, with astronomy as a hobby.”

Ralph Budnack said, “Maybe he's a college professor, teaching mythology. He builds furniture on the side, as a hobby.”

“At least there appears to be something in the seven scenario,” Savich said, laying down page two. “We've got some leads. I've got a couple of other ideas, but Ralph, you and your guys can start checking this all out. Chances are, according to the Profilers, that the guy has been here at least six months, but less than a year. Enough time, in other words, for him to scout out all the places he's going to take his victims.”

“Good point,” Budnack said, rubbing his hands together. “My other team members are interviewing everyone they can scrape up from the Congress Street area. I'll pull them off to do this.”

When Sherlock and Savich were alone, she said, “You're having a problem with all this, aren't you?”

“This whole business with the seven sisters of the Pleiades, it seems too easy, too obvious.”

“Why? It took MAX to come up with it. The SFPD didn't come up with it. The Profilers didn't either. Also, it's a seven-year interval between killings. He kills seven women at each cycle. Two sevens is a goodly number of sevens.”

Savich stood up and stretched, he scratched his stomach. “You're probably right. I'm dragged down because MAX got it and we didn't. But you know, I've got this itch in my belly. Whenever I've gotten this itch in the past, there's been something I've missed.

“I need to go to the gym. Working out clears my brain. You want to come along? I won't tromp you this time. In fact, I'll start work on your deltoids.”

“I didn't bring any workout stuff. Besides, I plan to protect my deltoids with my life.”

 

THE
cops tracked down four possible suspects within the next twenty-four hours—two of them astrologers who'd come to Boston during the past year, two of them numerologists. Both the numerologists had come during the past year from southern California. They didn't arrest any of them. Budnack, Savich, and Sherlock met later that day in Captain Dougherty's office.

“No big deal about that,” Ralph Budnack said, frowning. “All the nuts come from southern California.”

“So does Julia Roberts,” Savich said.

“Point taken,” Budnack said and grinned. “So what do you think, Savich? It just doesn't feel right with any of these guys. Plus two of them have pretty good alibis. We found a homeless guy, Mr. Rick, he's called, who said he saw a guy going in and out of the warehouse on Congress. He said he was all bundled up and he wondered about that since it was really warm that night, said it was so warm he didn't even have to sleep in his box. Said he hadn't seen him before.”

“Any more specifics about the man?” Lacey asked. “Anything about what he looked like?”

“Just that he looked kind of scrawny, a direct quote from Mr. Rick. Whatever that means. Mr. Rick is pretty big. Scrawny just might mean anything smaller than six foot. I might add that only one of the four guys we picked up could be called scrawny, and he's got the strongest alibi.”

Savich had wandered away. He was pacing, head down, seemingly staring at the linoleum floor.

“He's thinking,” she said in answer to Captain Dougherty's unasked question.

“Your sister was really offed by this guy?”

“Yes. It's been seven years. But you never forget.”

“Is that why you got into the FBI?”

“I didn't know what else to do. I went to school and learned a bit about all the areas in forensics, then I focused on how the criminal mind works. Actually I'd planned to be a Profiler, but I couldn't live what they do every day. So here I am. Thank God for Savich's new unit.”

“You even learn about blood-spattering patterns?”

“Yeah, some of the examples of that were pretty gruesome. I'm not an expert, but at least I learned enough so that I'd know what to do, where to find out more, who to contact.”

Captain Dougherty said, “Everyone thinks profiling is so sexy. Remember that show on TV about a Profiler?”

“Yeah, the one with ESP. Now that was something, wasn't it? Why bother with profiling? A waste of time. Just tune into the guy and you've got him.”

He grinned and she distracted him with another question about one of the men they'd hauled in for questioning.

 

IT
was at midnight when Savich sat up in bed, drew a very deep breath, and said softly, “Gotcha.”

He worked at the computer until three o'clock in the morning. He called Ralph Budnack at seven
A.M.
and told him what he needed.

“You got something, Savich?”

“I might,” he said slowly. “I might. On the other hand, I might be off plucking daisies in that big flower market in the sky. Keep doing what you're doing.” He then called Sherlock's room.

“I need you,” he said. “Come to my room and we'll order room service.”

The fax was humming out page after page from Budnack. “Yeah,” Savich was saying, “this will help.”

“You won't tell me what you're homing in on?”

“Nope, not until I know there's a slight chance I'm on the right track.”

“I was thinking far into the night,” she said, and although it wasn't at all cold in the room, she was rubbing her hands over her arms. She looked tired, pinched. “I couldn't get this seven business out of my mind.” She drew a deep breath. “We banked everything on seven, and so we got the Pleiades and all that numerology stuff. But what if it doesn't have anything to do with seven at all? What if there was just the one instance of seven and that was merely the time lag before he started killing again? What if he killed more than seven women? Eight women or even nine?” She looked nearly desperate, standing there, rubbing her arms. “Not much of a big lead there. I think you're right, it's too pat, and too confining. But if there's nothing there, then what else is there?”

“You're perfectly right. You've got a good brain, Sherlock. My brain was working in tandem with yours—”

She laughed, some of the tension easing out of her. “Which means that you've got a good brain too.”

“Me and MAX together have a top-drawer brain. All right, let me tell you where I'm heading and if you think I'm off the wall, then you can haul me back. I've been thinking that we've gotten too fancy here, exactly what you said—it's too complicated out there. It assumes our killer is a really deep, profound fellow with lots of esoteric literary or astrological underpinnings. That he probably builds designer furniture on the side. I woke up at midnight and thought: Give me a break. This is nothing but a headache theory. It's time to get back to basics.

“I knew then that our guy isn't any of those things. I think the answer might lie with the obvious. I've been asking MAX to come up with other alternatives or new options based on new factoring data I've put in.” He drew a deep breath. “Remember, Sherlock, this still might not lead anywhere.”

“What's obvious?”

“A psychopath who knows how to build props, make them fold up small, and make them portable. I know that they checked into this in San Francisco—they went to all the theaters, interviewed a dozen prop designers and builders. I went back in to see exactly what they did find—and where they'd looked, what kind of suspects they'd turned up.

“Not much, as it turns out. So, I'm having MAX look where they didn't look. I've inputted everything I can think of into the program so we've got a prayer of turning up something helpful.”

She didn't say anything, just looked at him. She felt hope well up, but she was afraid to nourish it. She saw he was rubbing his neck.

“What's wrong with you?”

“I worked out too hard last night after you left and then spent too much time hunched over MAX. No big deal.”

“If you're not too macho, you might consider some aspirin. On the other hand, I hesitate to say anything at all now, given that you and MAX together are such a great team and MAX has got the bit between his teeth.”

“Yeah, he's got a great byte.”

“That was funny, Dillon, if you spelled it right.”

“Trust me. I did.”

“You look like you're ready to burst out of your skin and you can still be funny.”

“You're not laughing.”

“I'm too scared.” And it was the truth. She was terrified he would kill again, terrified that he would escape and there would never be justice.

He watched her walk away from him across to the far windows that looked down eight floors to the street below.

“You want to tell me what else happened seven years ago?”

She actually flinched as if he'd struck her. He rose slowly and walked to her. He reached out his hand, looked at it, then dropped his arm back to his side. He said only, “Sherlock.”

She didn't turn, shook her head.

MAX beeped. Savich pressed the PRINT button. After a moment, he picked out one sheet of paper from the printer. He began to laugh. “MAX says our person may be in building supplies.”

She whipped around so fast she nearly fell. “As in a lumberyard?”

“Yes. He says that odds are good that with all the building materials the killer left behind, the type of hardware the killer used, the type of nails, the wood, the kinds of corkboard, the brackets, etcetera, that our guy works in lumber. Of course, the cops in the SFPD looked at every prop he left behind at every murder. It turns out that the wood wasn't traceable, that all the brackets, hinges, and screws were common and sold everywhere. They came up dry. Now, they never specifically went after men who worked in lumberyards. MAX thinks that's exactly where we should look.”

Her eyes were sparkling. “MAX is the greatest. It's brilliant.”

“We'll see. Now in addition to a guy who works in lumber, we've also got a psychopath who hates women and cuts out their tongues. Why? Because he himself has taken grief from them or seen other men take the grief?”

She said slowly, not meeting his eyes, “Maybe he cuts out their tongues because he knows they bad-mouth their husbands and curse a whole lot. Maybe he doesn't believe women should curse. Maybe that's how he picks out the women to kill.”

She'd known that all along, he thought, but how? It was driving him crazy, but he let it go for now. He knew she was right on the money. It felt right to his gut—no, it felt perfect. He said easily, “That sounds possible. Weren't there some profiles drawing that conclusion?”

“Yes, certainly there were. The guy's not in the theater or anything sexy like that?”

“Nope. I'll called Ralph. He can check to see who's arrived during the past year in Boston who works for a lumberyard.” Now that he thought about it, perhaps he had seen some speculation about that in some of the reports and profiles he'd read. Still, there was a whole lot more to all this. He looked at her. She looked away. Trust was a funny thing. It took time.

 

MARLIN
Jones was the assistant manager at the Appletree Home Supplies and Mill Yard in Newton Center. He was in conversation with his manager, Dude Crosby, when a pretty young woman with thick, curly red hair came up to him, a piece of plywood in her hand. There was something familiar about her.

He smiled at her, his eyes on that foot-long piece of plywood. He said before she could explain, “The problem is that the plywood's too cheap. You tried to put a nail through it and it shredded the plywood. If you'll come over here, I'll show you some better pieces that won't fall apart on you. Have we met before?”

“Thank you, er, Mr. Jones,” she said, looking at his name tag. “No, we haven't met before.”

“I'm not very good at remembering faces, but well, you're so pretty, maybe that's why I thought I'd met you before.” She followed him out into the lumberyard. “What are you doing with the plywood, ma'am?”

“I'm building props for my son's school play, and that's why I need to use plywood, not hardwood. They're doing
Oklahoma!
and I've got to put together a couple of rooms that can be easily disassembled then put back up. So I'll need some brackets and some screws too.”

“Then why'd you pound a nail through it?”

“That was just experimentation. My husband, that miserable dick head, won't help me, drinks all the time, won't take part in raising our son, won't show me any affection at all, well, so I've got to do it all myself.”