Silent Kills (13 page)
Authors: C.E. Lawrence
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Elena Krieger finished the last of her coffee and washed the mug out in her gleaming kitchen sink, wiping it thoroughly with a newly laundered dish towel before hanging it carefully on the mug rack in her small, immaculate kitchen. She gave the spotless counters a quick wipe with a new sponge, then, satisfied, went into the bedroom to get dressed for work. She plucked a crisp white shirt from the closet and put it on. Her clothes were arranged by color, blouses to one side, skirts on the other. She chose a newly laundered navy-blue skirt and slid it over her slim hips, stepping into a pair of low matching pumps to complete the ensemble. She regarded herself with satisfaction in the mirror, then frowned when she contemplated the day ahead of her.
Lee Campbell was ill with a fever and chills, and Chuck Morton had persuaded him to stay in bed. That meant today’s meeting would involve only her and Morton and Detective Butts. She buttoned the top button of her shirt, smoothing her skirt over her trim thighs.
Hildegard Elena Krieger did not like Detective Leonard J. Butts. Even more, she
disapproved
of him. Everything about him ran counter to her own value system. She found his slovenly appearance disgusting, she disliked his use of profanity, and most of all, she thought his constant eating was repulsive. He always seemed to have something in his mouth, like a baby who can’t go without its bottle. She had always carefully controlled her own appetite, keeping watch over what she ate and drank, exercising regularly to maintain her tight, lean figure. People like Detective Butts angered her, partly because she disapproved of what she regarded as his undisciplined lifestyle, but also because she was envious—envious of anyone who could so blithely give in to his physical urges. He seemed to be enjoying himself (and life) in a way Elena Krieger couldn’t comprehend. She did not believe that life was for enjoyment. It was neither a sport nor a diversion—it was a task to be accomplished either well or poorly.
disapproved
of him. Everything about him ran counter to her own value system. She found his slovenly appearance disgusting, she disliked his use of profanity, and most of all, she thought his constant eating was repulsive. He always seemed to have something in his mouth, like a baby who can’t go without its bottle. She had always carefully controlled her own appetite, keeping watch over what she ate and drank, exercising regularly to maintain her tight, lean figure. People like Detective Butts angered her, partly because she disapproved of what she regarded as his undisciplined lifestyle, but also because she was envious—envious of anyone who could so blithely give in to his physical urges. He seemed to be enjoying himself (and life) in a way Elena Krieger couldn’t comprehend. She did not believe that life was for enjoyment. It was neither a sport nor a diversion—it was a task to be accomplished either well or poorly.
And in order to accomplish a task, what was called for was discipline. Detective Butts was so lacking in this virtue it took her breath away. Sometimes he would turn up at meetings looking as though he had slept in his clothes; sometimes he was unshaven; and worst of all, he usually had something to eat shoved into his pockets. She wouldn’t keep a dirty tissue in one of those pockets, let alone food—his jackets looked as though mice had bedded in them. Just thinking about it made her shiver all over. Some people might have said Elena Krieger suffered from OCD, but she preferred to think of herself as practicing good hygiene.
She sighed, slung her shoulder bag across her muscular back, and grabbed the apartment keys from the hook in the hallway. Double locking the door behind her, she headed out of the building toward the subway. It was going to be a long day.
When she emerged from the subway in the Bronx, the trees all had that dusty end-of-summer look—even more so than in Park Slope, where she lived. She had recently moved, and couldn’t really afford the rent in what was one of Brooklyn’s most fashionable neighborhoods, but she liked it there. It was no longer trendy—Williamsburg and DUMBO had usurped that label a while ago—but Park Slope had a thriving gay and lesbian community. Elena played both sides of the fence, but she thought of herself as a lesbian, so she felt at home in Brooklyn. And of course, wherever there was a gay community, there were good restaurants. Not that Elena had much spare time or money to eat out often, but she liked knowing they were there.
She walked the short couple of blocks to the Bronx Major Cases squad house and entered the lobby. There, at his post at the far end of the room, was Ruggles, Chuck Morton’s ever-faithful desk sergeant. He sat hunched over, his blond eyebrows knit in concentration, studying a document on his desk.
Ruggles.
The name fit him, somehow. She realized she had no idea what his first name was—it had never occurred to her until now that he might have one. She simply thought of him as Ruggles. He lifted his head as Krieger approached, his features expanding into a sunny smile.
Ruggles.
The name fit him, somehow. She realized she had no idea what his first name was—it had never occurred to her until now that he might have one. She simply thought of him as Ruggles. He lifted his head as Krieger approached, his features expanding into a sunny smile.
“Good morning, Detective Krieger,” he proclaimed cheerfully, half rising from his chair. If he had worn a hat, she thought, he would have tipped it. But he was bald, his head as bare as a baby’s bottom.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she replied, modulating her voice so as to seem friendly but not seductive. Elena Krieger was aware of her effect on men, and though she worked hard to be alluring, she worked equally hard not to lead them on needlessly. Her sexual ethics were as carefully thought out as all other areas of her life. She believed in responsibility, and one of her responsibilities, as she saw it, was not to toy with other people’s feelings.
It was painfully obvious that Sergeant Ruggles was taken with her. He didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve; he had it tattooed on his forehead. He seemed to have no pride where his feelings for her were concerned. He doted on her, following her around like an eager puppy. Sometimes she had the impulse to give him a pat on the head or a good scratch behind the ears. It was really quite touching, and a little annoying. He was a full half foot shorter than she was, ten years younger, and obviously came from a working-class background.
Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm came from noble German blood on both sides of her family, and considered it her duty to her ancestors to find a mate of similarly august lineage. She did not regard it as snobbery; she saw it as part of her responsibility as a descendant of kings, noblemen, and warriors.
“Commander Morton has just stepped out of his office,” Ruggles said, shuffling along eagerly behind her as Elena headed toward Chuck’s office. “But Detective Butts is there.”
Disgust gathered like bile in Elena’s mouth. She briefly considered spending some time with Sergeant Ruggles, to delay entering the office, but she was uncomfortable around him. She found his eagerness to please annoying, and was determined not to lead him on in any way. No, she was going to be working with Detective Butts on this case, so she did what Elena Krieger always did in the face of adversity—she faced her fate bravely. Squaring her broad shoulders, she pushed open the door to Chuck Morton’s office.
There, nestled behind Morton’s desk like a groundhog in a burrow, was Detective Leonard Butts. She saw to her horror that he had brought his breakfast and was in the process of eating it. Sandwich wrappings spread out in every direction like dirty yellow wings. Next to them was a paper coffee cup with greasy fingerprints. She squelched an involuntary shudder and closed the door behind her.
Butts looked up and wiped his mouth on a grimy napkin. “Hiya—how’s things?”
Her upper lip curled in distaste, but Butts didn’t notice. He was concentrating on his breakfast, smacking his lips and slurping down coffee in large gulps. That was another thing she disliked about him—the way he so shamelessly enjoyed his food. It was unseemly and vulgar. There was nothing wrong with taking pleasure in eating, but only up to a point. All of his lip smacks and sighs and grunts of pleasure were not only unnecessary, they were disturbing. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t see that, why he couldn’t realize his effect on other people when he ate.
Some people might say Elena Krieger was obsessed with food and sensuality and propriety. Some people might even call her a control freak. But she preferred to think of herself as well disciplined. Her attitude toward all bodily functions, including sex—no,
especially
sex—was that they had their place, and needed to be kept in it. At no point should any physical urge be allowed to supersede what she regarded as the rightful task of mankind, which was to maintain civility and correct behavior at all times. That was why she had entered law enforcement: crime offended her sense of decorum.
especially
sex—was that they had their place, and needed to be kept in it. At no point should any physical urge be allowed to supersede what she regarded as the rightful task of mankind, which was to maintain civility and correct behavior at all times. That was why she had entered law enforcement: crime offended her sense of decorum.
She regarded the runt of a man sitting before her. “Things,” she said, “are fine.”
If Butts sensed the disdain in her voice, he didn’t show it. He popped the end of his egg sandwich into his mouth, swallowed it in a single gulp, and slurped down the rest of his coffee. Crumpling up the waxed paper, he shoved it into the empty coffee cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. He brushed crumbs from the desktop and got to his feet.
“We might as well start. Morton’s held up in a meeting and Doc’s in bed with some kinda virus.”
“What can we do without them?”
“Well, we can look over what we have so far and see if anything strikes us.”
He walked over to the corkboard where the pictures of the victims were pinned up like butterfly specimens. Elena didn’t like looking at them. One reason she had specialized in forensic linguistics was that she found it less distressing to study documents than to look at dead people. Suicide notes, blackmail letters, and threatening emails were nowhere near as disturbing as photos of murder victims.
Underneath each victim’s name, written in capital letters, was the place and date she was found. Underneath that were photos of them in happier times, which their families had donated. In those pictures they were sitting at the table at Thanksgiving or dressed for the prom, smiling broadly at the camera. Beneath that were photos from the crime scenes, some of the victims, others of the surroundings.
Elena didn’t like any of it. She disliked not having control of her emotions, and looking at these photos pulled at her heart.
Butts sighed. “So far no usable prints—ditto with hair or fiber. No useful trace evidence of any kind. It’s like she was killed in a damn clinic.”
Krieger looked out the window at a patch of hazy summer sky. “Maybe she was.”
“I hope not. If we got a homicidal doctor on our hands, that would suck. What is it you said about Melville?” he asked. He was staring at the photo of Melville’s grave. The tombstone loomed white and solemn, the simple lettering legible even in the glossy Polaroid.
“His work could be deeply nihilistic.”
“Yeah, right. Do you see how that can help us nail this guy?”
She looked for any hint of sarcasm in his tone. Finding none, she replied, “There may be a connection to this steampunk world he seems to be in.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. If we knew more about Melville—”
“Or about this whole steampunk thing,” he interjected. “That would be good.”
“Actually, I did some research, and I found out a few things.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, there seems to be a connection to the idea of the mad scientist—that’s one of the stock characters, so to speak, of the steampunk subculture.”
Butts sat behind the desk and leaned back in the wooden swivel chair, hands behind his head. “No kiddin’? Maybe that’s where he got his ideas.”
“Also there is the character of the vampire hunter.”
“What does he do?”
“As far as I can make out, hunts and kills vampires. There is elaborate costuming involved in each of these characters.”
“Hmm,” Butts said, scratching his chin. “I wonder if that’s where this perp got some of his ideas. Do these people wear their costumes in public, or just at steampunk gatherings?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So what about Melville—how do you figure he fits in?”
“Did you know, for instance, that he was a friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Or that Poe, Hawthorne, and Melville are usually grouped together as the three preeminent Romantic gothic writers of their day?”
“I may have heard somethin’ about that in school.”
The door opened and Chuck Morton entered. Giving them a curt nod, he pulled off his tie and sat wearily at his desk.
“So,” he said, “what do you have for me?”
Butts looked at Elena with newfound respect. “I think you should listen to what Detective Krieger has to say.”
Morton leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “Okay,” he said, “shoot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“The vast majority of criminals you will encounter in your career have common, obvious motives for their acts. However, I am not here to talk about those offenders. I’m here to talk about the ones who fall outside the realm of normal criminal behavior.”
Lee paused to look at his audience. The lecture room was packed on this cloudy Thursday morning—a mosaic of faces, young and not so young, with many races and shades of color represented. The face of law enforcement in the city was changing. Whites outnumbered people of color, but only slightly. Men outnumbered women, but not by as great a margin as before.
Lee rested his hands on the lectern. He was still running a fever, but had decided not to postpone the lecture. He hated taking sick days for any reason, probably a legacy of his mother’s Scottish stoicism. He had notes in front of him, but so far he hadn’t used them. “What drives most criminals is what drives us all in our darker moments: greed, jealousy, revenge—recognizable human emotions.”
A girl in the front row gazed up at him with rapt attention, her blue eyes wide, soaking up every word. He couldn’t help thinking how she reminded him of his niece, Kylie. He made a mental note to call his mother, and continued.
“The sexual serial murderer has no such obvious motivations for his crimes. To begin with, most murders take place between people who know each other. This is rarely true of the serial offender. He may know his victims nominally, as John Wayne Gacy ‘knew’ the boys he preyed upon, but he met them and got to know them solely for the purpose of victimizing them. Far more telling is the fact that Ted Bundy had several girlfriends during his various killing sprees, but never hurt them. Richard Speck was married and also chose his victims outside his family—and so on.”
The girl in the front row raised her hand. “Is this because they care too much about the people close to them to hurt them?”
“As Hemingway said, wouldn’t it be pretty to think so, but the more probable explanation is that they choose strangers because it increases the odds of getting away with their crimes. As soon as they prey on someone close to them, their relationship to the victim is obvious—whereas connecting them to relative strangers is a challenge to law enforcement.”
“Is that why they often kill prostitutes?”
“Prostitutes are what we refer to as ‘high-risk’ victims—people whose lifestyle puts them in greater peril than the average person. They will get in a car with anyone, carry cash on their persons, and conduct business in crime-ridden, dangerous neighborhoods. Sadly, this leads to a proportionately greater number of crimes against these women.”
A studious-looking young man with impressive dreadlocks in the third row raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Is that why the Green River Killer chose them as victims, for example?”
“Yes, and he also knew that society is perceived as not caring about these so-called ‘disposable victims.’ He was buying himself time, in a way. As I said, the sexual serial offender is different from most murderers, because the motivation for the crime is different. Most people kill for readily identifiable motives—profit, jealousy, revenge, passion, and so forth. The object of their crime is more often than not someone they know, someone whose death has meaning for them—a cheating husband or wife, a business partner they want out of the way, that sort of thing. For most criminals, killing is an unpleasant way of getting what they want: money, the death of a hated spouse or family member, revenge on someone who has hurt them—that kind of thing.”
The back door to the hall opened and he saw Lucille Geffers slip into a seat in the back row. He went on.
“But the serial offender’s crimes are not so easily understood in terms of normal psychology. His motivation, the thing that drives him, is
the killing itself.
The murder is not a means to an end, it
is
the end—or if it isn’t at the beginning, it becomes the goal eventually. Sometimes the first crime is unplanned—a rape gone wrong, for example—but once the violence has escalated, he is not likely to stop until he is caught. Killing becomes its own reward.”
the killing itself.
The murder is not a means to an end, it
is
the end—or if it isn’t at the beginning, it becomes the goal eventually. Sometimes the first crime is unplanned—a rape gone wrong, for example—but once the violence has escalated, he is not likely to stop until he is caught. Killing becomes its own reward.”
Another hand went up—a tall Latina with long brown hair and thick glasses.
“Is that what’s driving the Van Cortlandt Vampire?”
A ripple of murmurs went through the room.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on an open investigation,” Lee replied.
“Is it true that sexual offenders tend to escalate in violence?” the girl asked.
“Absolutely. Sex linked to violence is what excites them, and as they get more confident, they feel more comfortable exploring their deviant fantasies.”
“Is that what happened with Bundy?” the young man with dreadlocks asked.
“By the time Ted Bundy went on the killing spree in the Florida sorority, he had spiraled downward into outright psychosis. The stress of being pursued was getting to him, and his already fragile personality structure couldn’t take the strain.”
Another hand went up. Lee was surprised to see it belonged to Leonard Butts, slouching in the back row. In his rumpled trench coat and a battered fedora, he looked like he was trying to impersonate a detective.
“Whaddya mean by fragile, exactly?”
“Ted Bundy was what we would call a true psychopath—that is, he lacked the ability to feel remorse or empathy for other people. So lacking the attribute of a truly integrated personality, he was forced to invent one—to become, in effect, a simulation of a human being. What was frightening about Bundy was his charm—his ability to con people into thinking he was one of them—when, in fact, he was just doing an impersonation of a human being. But it was a damn good one, and an amazing number of people bought it. Even when all signs pointed to his guilt, no one was willing to believe it.”
“Until he lost it,” Butts said.
“Right.”
Butts stayed through most of the lecture, but slipped out right before the end. Lucille Geffers remained in the back row, chin resting on her hand, her dark eyes intense, watching him. When his talk concluded, Lee left the lecture hall through the side door, not wanting to encounter anyone. He felt drained. He just wanted to go home, have a scotch, and bury himself in a Bach partita.
He looked up to see Lucille Geffers striding toward him. She wore khaki jodhpurs, a white cotton sleeveless shirt, and the usual Birkenstock sandals, her bushy hair bouncing briskly.
“That was very helpful,” she said. “The students really needed something like that right now, with this so-called ‘vampire’ at large.”
“Good,” he said.
“Have lunch with me?” she said, tilting her head so that her frizzy bangs fell to one side. She had nice eyes, Lee thought, large and dark and expressive.
“Okay.”
“There are some things I need to talk to you about.”
She took him to an Italian place a few blocks south on Tenth Avenue, with red and white checked tablecloths, plentiful portions of homemade pasta, and a decent wine cellar. The smell of fresh garlic hung in the air, and the cheerful sound of bubbling tomato sauce came from the small kitchen in the back.
When they were seated he dug a couple of ibuprofen out of his pocket and downed them with a swig of water. Then he ordered a Johnnie Walker Black, neat.
She smiled. “I think you’re allowed that, considering what’s happened in your life.”
He looked at her, grateful not to be judged. He was judging himself harshly enough as it was—a trick he learned from both his parents.
Old habits die hard,
he thought.
Old habits die hard,
he thought.
“Let’s order,” Louise said. “I’m starving.”
Over a bowl of fettuccine primavera and a bottle of Chianti, Louise told him that she had proposed his name for the position of adjunct professor in the Philosophy Department.
“I know I should have asked you first,” she said, nervously twisting her paper napkin around her index finger. “But I was afraid you’d say no.” She glanced at Lee, and when he didn’t respond, continued, “Anyway, to cut to the chase, we’d like you to think about joining the department as a part-time lecturer.”
“Why the philosophy department? My degree is in psychology.”
She smiled. “The psychology department is already the biggest one in the college, and there really aren’t any openings there. But we’ve recently lost a couple of people. One professor retired, and the other one moved away because he was worried about the safety of his family after ... the attacks.”
“I really appreciate your faith in me,” he said, “but I’m not sure this is the right time for me.”
“I’m aware of everything you’ve been through. It’s just that you’re in a unique position.”
That was true enough. Until now, the NYPD had never had a full-time profiler. It was only Chuck Morton’s constant pressure on the department to hire Lee that got him the job. In some ways, he still felt he was on probation. He encountered resistance from both the upper brass and rank-and-file members of the force.
Silence fell over them, the only sound in the room the low murmur of conversation and clicking of silverware at the nearby tables and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
“So today was kind of like an audition?” he asked. “A test to see if I was up to it?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” she said, leaning in toward him. “I wasn’t there, but I heard your first lecture went well too. And I think this would be a great thing for the students, and maybe even for you.”
He took a gulp of wine and set the empty glass on the table.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m really flattered.”
She laughed—a hoarse, hearty sound, like the braying of a delighted donkey.
“That sounds dangerously like a kiss-off,” she said. “Something you say when you don’t want to date someone.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “You don’t have to answer me now. But I should warn you, I can be very determined.”
He returned her smile. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
“And obviously the same is true of you,” she added.
She was right, of course, and his mind shifted to the task facing him. His forehead burned with a grim determination. He would stop this murderer—even if it killed him.
In the end, he thought, what mattered was not so much what you accomplished, but where you had been, what you had seen—your presence as a citizen of the world. The older he got, the more accomplishment took second place to memory—of times lived through, places visited, people loved, and, of course, people lost.
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