Paint It Black (17 page)

“I'll bring the wine,” she said.

Emily's glass of Chianti sat untouched on the patio table. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Wainwright was prone in a lounge chair, his beer on his belly, eyes closed.

Louis glanced back at Farentino, watching her from behind sunglasses that he would soon need to remove. The sun was setting behind her, casting her in a soft, orange light, turning her red hair copper.

The three of them had barely said a word in the last half hour.

Louis had not told Wainwright that Emily was coming, and when she had shown up—a half hour late—Wainwright simply cracked open his second beer and headed to the patio. Louis knew Wainwright was pissed that he had invited her. This patio had become their sanctuary, their platform for discussing the gruesome aspects of their case. Outsiders weren't allowed in, although Louis and Wainwright had given Dodie a sort of special dispensation. But women weren't welcome. Even Margaret understood that.

The small talk had died quickly. After that, Margaret had lured Dodie inside to help with dinner. Wainwright had downed his beer too quickly and retreated to the lounge. Louis wondered how in the hell they were going to get through dinner, let alone any productive discussion of the case.

Emily looked at him suddenly and he knew he had been caught staring at her. There was this strange look in her eyes, this plea for some kind of communication, some kind of acknowledgment that she was here.

Louis took off the glasses and stood up. “Refill, Farentino?”

She shook her head, her eyes flitting to the comatose Wainwright and then back out to the canal. Louis could hear Dodie and Margaret. They were arguing about something, trying hard to keep their voices low. But not low enough that Louis didn't hear Emily's name . . . and his own. To his horror, he realized that Margaret was talking about how he should ask Emily out.

He glanced at Emily and knew she had heard it.

“Margaret thinks I'm lonely,” he said.

“I gather,” she said with a small smile.

He was glad when she let it go at that.

After a moment, she reached down and dragged forward her huge briefcase.

“I have something to show you,” she said, pulling out some manila folders. “It's why I was late.”

She tossed the stack on the table between them with a
thunk.

“I spent the day going through VI-CAP,” she said. “He's killed before.”

Louis stared at the folders, then slowly came forward and picked up the top one. “Where?” he said.

“I found three other cases, similar MOs. All unsolved.”

Louis was scanning the first file, a report out of the Ocean County, New Jersey, Sheriff's Department. A black man, shotgun wound, beaten, stabbed, and painted. His body was found August twenty-eight of last year.

He picked up another file. The second and third cases were from Broward County, Florida, in November of last year. Both with the same MO, including that the two men were likely killed on Tuesdays.

Louis looked over at Wainwright. His eyes were open.

“There could be more, but this was all I found,” Emily said.

Louis nodded as he read the Jersey file. He knew a little about VI-CAP. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was new, a national system designed to identify serial murderers. The idea behind it was to bring together the fragmented efforts of law enforcement agencies around the country so data could be fed into computers for analysis. The problem was, few police departments and agencies had the equipment and manpower to either input or access the pool of information. Things had gotten even more muddied two years ago when VI-CAP was merged into the FBI's labyrinthine control.

But Farentino had cut through the red tape. Louis glanced again at Wainwright. He struggled up to a sitting position in the lounge chair and was looking at Emily.

“We have to start talking about patterns,” Emily said.

“The only pattern is the day of week,” Wainwright said.

“There's got to be more,” Emily said.

“If there was, we'd have seen it,” Wainwright said.

“Maybe you don't know what to look for,” Emily said.

Louis shot her a glance. She looked away.

Wainwright stared at her for a moment, then slowly hoisted himself out of the chaise. “I need another beer,” he said.

Louis waited until he went inside. “Farentino, he's got thirty years on you. For God's sake, show some respect.”

She dropped her gaze, then started sorting through the papers in the briefcase sitting between her knees. “Okay, I'm sorry,” she said after a moment.

“Tell it to Dan,” Louis said. He went back to reading the file from New Jersey.

She waited a moment, then let out a long sigh. “This isn't easy, you know,” she said. “Most cops think the stuff I do is voodoo, or that I'm like some weirdo psychic called out to the scene to pick up vibrations from the victim's shoe or something.” She paused. “This is science and I believe in it. I believe it can help.”

“Tell that to Dan, too,” Louis said.

Wainwright shuffled back out onto the porch, a fresh Budweiser clutched in his hand. He paused, then came over to the table. He picked up one of the files and squinted to read it in the spare light of the Japanese lanterns. Finally, he retreated back to the chaise, taking the file with him. Emily watched him.

“Maybe I should explain how profiling works,” she said, walking over to him.

Wainwright didn't look up from his reading. With a glance at Louis, Emily cleared her throat.

“The basic principle we work on is that behavior is a reflection of the personality,” she said. “Criminal investigators, like myself, are called in to analyze the data gathered by law enforcement agencies and provide a picture—a profile, if you will—of what the UNSUB or unknown subject is like.”

Wainwright was still reading the file.

“It's like . . .” Emily paused. “You're the regular doctor and we're the specialists, called in to offer advice. We're usually called in as a last resort.”

Emily and Louis both waited for Wainwright to say something.

When he didn't, Emily continued. “I know you aren't comfortable with this, either of you. Cops are used to dealing with facts. Shit, so's the rest of the bureau.” She paused and ran a hand over her messy curls. “And then, suddenly, here I come, giving you nothing but my feelings.”

Wainwright had put down the file and was looking at her.

“With what I do, I don't have the luxury of dealing in black and white,” she said. “I'm dealing with human behavior, in all its perverse forms. And believe me, there is nothing black and white about that.”

Wainwright took a long swig of beer and let out a soft belch.

“Maybe I should go through the steps of how this works exactly,” Emily said.

She glanced at Louis. He gave her a small nod.

“First, I evaluate the criminal act itself, the crime scene, police reports, and autopsy protocol. I've done that already through the files you sent to the bureau.” She looked at Wainwright. “Then I develop a profile of the offender, with critical characteristics, and offer suggestions.”

“And we take this
profile
and just go out and magically match it up to some dirtbag,” Wainwright said.

“There's nothing magical about it,” Emily said quietly.

Wainwright took a drink of his beer. Louis came forward and took the chair next to Emily.

“Go on,” he said.

“Serial murderers tend to have certain common denominators,” Emily said. “They're usually products of abusive homes, they often torture animals or set fires as children. They have low self-esteem, hate authority, and blame the world for their problems. They crave control and believe by killing, they are calling the shots. They almost always kill strangers and they are almost always the same race as their victims.”

“But you still don't think it's Levon,” Wainwright said.

Emily seemed surprised to hear him ask a question. She shook her head. “I talked to Roberta Tatum some more today, and Levon wasn't abused. He does, however, exhibit profound self-esteem problems and may be mentally ill.”

Wainwright got up suddenly and headed for the canal, the file in his hand. He went out to stand by the barbecue, staring out at the canal. For a second, Louis was afraid he was going to heave the file into the water.

“What else?” Louis asked, drawing Emily's attention back.

“Serial killers generally can be divided into two categories—organized and disorganized offenders,” she said. She paused. “You're sure you want to hear all this?”

Louis nodded, taking a drink of beer.

“Okay,” Emily said. “The organized offender is basically what we know as the sociopath. He's methodical, smart, socially adept, able to manipulate his victims so they feel comfortable. He carefully selects and stalks his victims from his comfort zone. Often there is a ritual aspect to the murders, usually sexual. The place where he dumps them often has some symbolic importance. He knows police procedure and likes to taunt cops.”

“Ted Bundy,” Louis said.

“Exactly.” Emily reached for her wineglass and took a drink.

“Now the unorganized offender is different,” she said. “He usually has a psychotic disorder of some kind—schizophrenia, personality fragmentation—that creates delusions. These guys are below average intelligence, loners, unmarried, live near the crime scenes. They use a ‘blitz' style of attack, catching their victims off guard. The crime scene is disorganized. This is the guy neighbors always describe as weird.”

“Son of Sam?” Louis asked.

Emily nodded. She took another drink of her wine. “We also have to look at the MO and the signature.”

“Okay,” Louis said, “the MO is what the killer does to effect the crime. In these cases, the shotgun to the leg, the beatings and stabbings.”

She nodded. “And the signature is a symbol,” she said, “the thing that gives him emotional satisfaction.”

“The black paint,” Louis said.

Emily nodded.

Louis was quiet for a moment. “Well, our guy attacks quickly, but with precision. The killings are methodical and sequential, but not all the scenes are alike so I sure wouldn't call them ‘organized.' And victims still don't have anything in common but sex and race. Could our guy be both types?”

Emily nodded again. “Sometimes the line blurs.”

“Great. That's fucking great.”

Emily and Louis looked out to where Wainwright stood. He was facing them, shaking his head. He came back onto the patio.

“So basically, you're saying you can't really tell us anything for sure about this motherfucker,” he said.

“Dan—” Louis said.

“First Louis says he's white, then you say he's black but it can't be Levon because he didn't set his pet dog on fire.” He threw up his hands. “Goddamn it, if we can't even figure out what color he is, what the hell can we figure out?”

Emily and Louis stared at him.

“He's black,” Emily said firmly.

Wainwright looked down at the file folder in his hand, then tossed it on the table. He went inside the house.

Emily watched him go, then reached for her wine. She finished it quickly.

Louis went to the table, opened each file, and scanned the three police reports. One in New Jersey and five in Florida.

“Why do you think he came to Florida?” Louis asked.

“These guys often go underground when they feel the heat and resurface someplace new and start over again,” she said. Louis looked closer at the faxed pages. The New Jersey body was found in a place called Barnegat Light, the first Florida body in a place called Coral Springs, and the third in Lauderdale Lakes.

“Where's Barnegat Light, New Jersey?”

“It's on a barrier island, north of Atlantic City.”

“And the places in Florida?”

She paused. “Broward County. It's over on the East Coast, north of Miami. Both places are suburbs of Fort Lauderdale.”

“Where were the bodies found?” Louis asked.

“I know where you're going with this,” she said. “The Jersey one was right on the beach.” She pulled out a fax. “The second and third ones were found in drainage canals.”

Louis dropped the file back on the table and turned to look out at Dodie's boat.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“I just remembered something Dan said when we were over in Captiva,” Louis said. “He was right about something and didn't realize it.” He turned to face her. “He's dumped them all in water. It's water, Farentino. That's the thread. He likes water.”

Louis took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the small patio table. He was sitting forward on a lounge chair, his feet planted on either side of him, the files from the NAACP guys, Mills and Seaver, spread in front of him.

He could feel the sun climbing up his back, and checked his watch. It was almost seven
A.M.

He picked up another folder, this one thick and banded with fat rubber bands. These were “tips,” names of possible weirdos, offered by their mothers, brothers, sisters, and ex-wives.
My old boyfriend has a knife collection and hates black people. My neighbor once threatened to throw acid on the black guy down the block.

He was trying to find a link—any link—between the NAACP list and the tips. But he wondered if he was wasting time.

He's black, Emily had said.

How could she be so sure?

He heard the sliding door open and looked up. Margaret was heading his way with a coffeepot. Her hair dangled with loose rollers and her cotton robe fluttered in the morning breeze.

She refilled his cup and set four sugars on the table.

“How long have you been up?” she asked.

He pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed his face. “Since four. Thanks for the refill.”

“I can throw on a few eggs, if you want.”

“That's okay, I can eat later.”

Louis slipped his glasses back on, but could see her pink slippers out of the corner of his eyes. He looked up at her again.

“Really, I'm fine, Margaret.”

“Louis, did it ever occur to you that I
like
taking care of you? I like cooking for you and Sam.”

He took off his glasses again. “I don't want you to fuss, that's all.”

She sat down in the chair across from him. “It's what I do. People have things they just do. You read those awful things and chase killers, I take care of people.”

He smiled. “Well, then, I will take some eggs.”

She didn't move. He started to put his glasses back on, but stopped, afraid she would take it as a dismissal.

“You need to let people take care of you sometimes, Louis,” she said gently. “I heard you mention your foster mother the other day. I didn't know you were a foster child. When Sam told me why you went back to Mississippi, I just assumed that's where you were raised. What was she like, your foster mother?”

He straightened, setting his glasses on the files. “Her name is Frances. And she did take good care of me, Margaret,” he said.

“As much as you would let her, right?”

Louis glanced toward the canal. Suddenly he remembered hanging over a toilet, sicker than a damn dog from the flu. He had locked both his foster parents out of the bathroom and had fallen asleep in his thin pajamas on the cold floor. Phillip had finally removed the lock to get in and carried him to bed.

There had been other locks, too. Locks that came after the one time Louis tried to run away. He was ten and had been with the Lawrences for less than a year. He took ten dollars from Frances's purse and jumped out the bedroom window at midnight. When he tried to buy a bus ticket to Mississippi, the clerk had called the police. Hours later, Phillip had shown up at the police station and brought him home. He didn't know at the time that his actions normally would have sent him straight back into the system. He didn't know that Phillip had pleaded with child services to give Louis a second chance. All he knew is that there were now locks on his bedroom windows. “We put them there because we want you to stay, Louis,” Frances had told him. He never tried to leave again.

He looked back at Margaret. “Yeah, she took care of me. As much as I would let her, yes.”

Margaret smiled. “You know, Sam and I talked about taking in foster kids, but I didn't think I could bear to let them go home,” she said. “Plus, Black Pool didn't have much of that kind of thing.”

She paused. “Did you have lots of brothers and sisters coming and going through the house?”

He knew she meant foster kids, kids he refused to make friends with, because even after he realized he wasn't going anywhere, he knew they were. But two others came to mind, too. A skinny kid with skin as dark as coffee beans and a big girl with a stiff ponytail and bright red lipstick—lipstick stolen from his mother's purse.

“I have a brother and sister,” he said, immediately surprised that he had said anything. “When my family was split up, they stayed in Black Pool. They went to relatives.”

Margaret didn't ask why.

“You should look them up,” she said instead. “You can't ever replace family or friends.”

He nodded. Another image came to mind. He was small, very small, and his sister Yolanda was putting curlers in his hair. He smiled. God, she'd be what . . . thirty-five now? Hell, he probably had nephews or nieces somewhere. And Robert would be thirty-one. Gulfport. That's where he'd heard they'd gone.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I should.”

Issy strolled over to them and hopped onto Margaret's lap. The cat stared at Louis and he thought he detected a smirk.

“What about your friend who gave you the cat?” Margaret asking, stroking Issy.

She was fishing, he knew that. She was trying so hard to find out if there was a woman in his life—or had been.

“It didn't work out,” he said simply.

“But you kept her cat,” Margaret said.

He didn't answer.

Margaret smiled. “Well, it's nice to keep a part of something you lost,” she said. “I have a baby blanket my grandmother gave me when I was pregnant. We lost the baby, but I couldn't get rid of the blanket, even after the doctor told me I wouldn't ever have more babies. What he said was just words. The blanket was something real.”

Louis sensed she expected him to say something. “It must have been hard,” he said. “I mean, as much as you wanted children.”

“We were lucky,” Margaret said. “We had enough of each other to keep going. But there are still nights we talk about how our lives might have been different.”

He was silent. He wasn't thinking about Margaret and Sam now, or even about about Zoe and Michigan. He was thinking about Kyla, the girl he had gotten pregnant in college.

How can you say it's not yours, Louis?

It can't be,
he had told her. But he was thinking,
It ruins everything. I'm twenty years old and I don't want this.

I'll leave then, Louis. I'll get rid of it.

Go,
he had thought.

“Louis?”

Margaret was talking to him, bringing him back. “That's why Sam likes you here,” she said.

He looked at her. “I'm sorry?”

She touched his arm. “Sam,” she said. “He likes having you here.”

Louis didn't trust himself to say anything.

She rose, setting Issy aside. “I'll go get your eggs going now,” she said.

The cat sat on the floor for a moment, staring up at him, then trotted after Margaret.