Silent Slaughter (26 page)

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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Slaughter
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C
HAPTER
S
IXTY-FIVE
E
dmund was excited. Tonight was the night. He would take her, ripping her away from everything and everyone she held dear, and make her his. He could hardly contain himself, humming as he went about his preparations in his spotless kitchen. It was important to be thorough, careful—he owed his success to his attention to detail.
That and his superior IQ, of course. He remembered when he was in sixth form, when his teacher, Mrs. Fontaine, had told him it was “off the charts.” She had said he had a responsibility to use a gift like that. He smiled as he packed the long piece of rope into his kit. He was using it, all right—he wondered what soft little Mrs. Fontaine, with her lopsided wig and crooked teeth, would say if she saw precisely how he was using it.
He prepared his tea with a dollop of cream—not a glug or a swirl or a slurp but a dollop—and watched the swirling pattern as it mixed with the hot liquid. He drank it slowly, savoring the moment of preparation for his next outing. He looked at the roses in the vase on the kitchen table, the white petals at their decadent peak—full, fragrant and pliant. He could detect the smell of decay lurking just beneath the sweetness. The transience of all things tugged at his heart, and a single tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily. Loathsome emotion, sadness. That was one reason he loved Bach—the cold clarity and restrained emotion gave him room to breathe. Emotion was messy, unpredictable,
uncontrolled.
Finishing his tea, he wound the rope carefully before placing it into the duffel bag. He bought a new length of rope for each of them, pristine and white and untouched—just like the girls. Of course, he knew they had been touched, pawed by grimy adolescent boys who didn’t deserve them. But they had never been touched the way
he
would touch them—he was certain of that. He alone deserved them; he alone knew what they really needed. They just didn’t know it yet.
He folded the silk blindfold with care, placing it next to the rope. He put the knife in last, fondling the blade for a moment before zipping the duffel closed. The logo on the front said
Gold’s Gym.
The bag had belonged to his first victim. He liked that little detail—it struck him as amusing. He slung the bag over his shoulder, turned off the kitchen light and stepped out into the night.
C
HAPTER
S
IXTY-SIX
“
I
can’t believe we got him!” Butts said the moment Lee entered the office. “He’s coming in for the interview in just a few minutes.”
“You mean—?”
“Professor Edmund Moran. I can’t believe how easy it was—I just called Columbia, they put me through to his office, and he said yes right away.”
“Interesting, he agreed so quickly,” Lee said. “He probably knows we have no real evidence pointing to him.”
“But he’s the guy, all right,” Butts insisted. “That voice—I’d never forget that voice.”
“We have to be very careful. Did you call Detectives Chen or Krieger?”
“Nope. Just you and me, Doc—we’ll crack this son of a bitch,” said Butts, his eyes burning with eagerness.
“I admire your confidence,” Lee said. “But I should remind you, this man is the worst kind of sociopath. He has no conscience, no remorse, and he has a genius-level IQ.”
Butts frowned. “Are you sayin’ we can’t handle him?”
“I’m just saying, watch your step. Techniques that work on most people won’t work with him.”
“So what’s your idea?” said Butts.
“To start with, we get into the interrogation room first, establish it as our space. When he enters, he’ll feel less comfortable.”
“You know, a lot of times if you leave a perp alone in the room for a while, they get nervous, and by the time you come in, they’re ready to confess.”
Lee put a hand to his forehead, which was beginning to throb. “That won’t work with him. He doesn’t experience stress and anxiety like a normal person.”
“So we go in first, then let the sergeant bring Moran in?”
“Right. We don’t want to give him the impression we think he’s anything special. Just a run-of-the-mill suspect we’re not especially interested in.”
“How are we gonna pull that off?” asked Butts.
“Just let me take the lead, okay?”
“Sure, Doc, whatever you say. Hey, you okay?” Butts asked, studying him. “You look a little green.”
“You have any aspirin?”
“I think so,” Butts said. Fishing around in his desk drawer, he produced a bottle of pills. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Lee popped two of them and gave the bottle back to Butts, who tossed it into the drawer. Then they walked down the hall to the interrogation room.
Lee noticed that Butts immediately began pacing the cramped room like a matador about to enter the bullring. It occurred to him that a bullring might be a safer place to be right now.
The desk sergeant poked his head into the room. “Guy here to see you—says his name is Moran.”
“Fine,” Butts said. “Bring him on back.”
Lee’s breath quickened, and white spots danced in front of his eyes. He sucked in a lungful of air, held it, then released it slowly.
The door opened, and Edmund Moran entered the interrogation room.
He was not what Lee had expected. The scar on his face was not as pronounced as Butts’s description had led him to believe, and even with the scar, the face was not ugly; in the right light, Lee imagined it could be rather handsome. The features were regular, well-formed, if severe, with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Lee realized with a shock that there was enough resemblance between him and Moran that they could be brothers. He was also taken aback by the physical poise of the man. Instead of evincing the nerdy shuffle of a classic math geek, he moved with athletic fluidity and grace.
“Dr. Campbell, how nice to meet you. I quite enjoyed your lecture the other day,” Moran said, extending his hand. Lee had no choice but to shake it. There was nothing to be gained by starting off in a confrontational mode. Moran’s voice was cultivated and faintly British, just as Butts had reported. It was raspy around the edges, as though he had sustained an injury to his vocal cords.
Phrases from the interrogation handbook floated through his head.
Put him at ease; make him think you’re on his side
. Edmund Moran was too intelligent to be fooled into thinking they were his allies, but it was too early to ruffle his feathers.
“Please, have a seat,” Lee said, pulling over a chair. Butts remained in a corner, arms crossed, perhaps in case Moran might try to shake his hand. Their visitor carefully folded his coat over the chair Lee offered, then sat in it as if he were perfectly at home in his own living room. He was the picture of ease.
He twisted around to look at Butts. “It’s good to see you again, Detective,” he said, removing a pair of expensive-looking kid gloves. He leaned back in his chair, regarding his interrogators through half-closed eyes. He reminded Lee of a sleeping crocodile.
Subject appears calm. Attempting to establish and maintain control—classic psychopathic personality behavior.
Edmund flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder. “So, am I under arrest?”
“Why?” Butts asked. “Are you guilty of somethin’?”
Moran smiled. “Isn’t that rather your job to find out?”
“You can go anytime you want,” said Lee. “Do you want to leave?”
“By no means. I’d like to help you with your investigation in any way I can.” He spoke earnestly, but the undertone of mockery was unmistakable.
“Great,” Lee said.
Subject inserting himself into investigation, even to the point of being exposed. Ego-driven, arrogant, attention-seeking.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t think so. It wouldn’t do to leave traces of my DNA behind, would it?”
Butts slapped a fistful of crime scene photos onto the table—the Alleyway Strangler’s victims, all young, all dead, photographed from various angles, their faces ashen, lips tinged with blue, their bodies a canvas for the depravity of a madman. Butts peered at Edmund.
“So,” he said, “you know any of these girls?”
Moran regarded the pictures with detachment, as one might study a mildly interesting math puzzle.
“Can’t say I do. But then, I suppose people look different dead, eh?”
“Not all that different,” Butts shot back.
Edmund looked at Lee and smiled but continued to address Butts. “Detective, your esteemed colleague here has no doubt told you that psychopaths don’t have the same physiological responses as ‘normal’ people. And the person who did this is clearly a psychopath. So if I did recognize these girls, you wouldn’t expect me to break into a sweat, now, would you?”
Lee met his gaze. “Sometimes the lack of reaction is more telling than an emotional response.”
“Oh, tut-tut, Dr. Campbell. No matter what my response is, you could regard it as suspicious. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t—isn’t that so?”
“Why do you sign your notes the way you do?” Lee asked. “Isn’t that taking a risk?”
“Well, now,” said the professor. “Since that information hasn’t been released to the public, the only person who knows what the signature is must be the killer. Isn’t that right, Detective Butts?”
Butts looked at Lee, and Moran laughed.
“Dear me—is that the best you’ve got?”
“What about the wound designs on the girls?” Lee said. “We’re pretty sure we know what they mean. Care to tell us if we’re right?”
“Are you profiling me, Dr. Campbell?” Moran crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “How’s it going?”
“Disappointing, actually.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m afraid you’re more predictable than I thought.”
Moran’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, really?”
“I was hoping for a few surprises, but on the whole you’ve been rather dull so far.”
Lee turned away but could feel the man’s gaze burning into his back. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax. His palms were sweating, and he felt another wave of dizziness sweep over him. He couldn’t let Moran see any vulnerability. Lee had the advantage now, playing on the man’s ego, his vanity—he knew what buttons to push. He just had to maintain control over himself, keep the outward appearance of calm....
“You know, you’re looking a bit peaked, Dr. Campbell,” Moran said. “How’s the investigation into your sister’s death going?”
Lee had anticipated that and fought against the mounting rage in his gut. He turned to face his foe.
“Now I
am
disappointed in you—playing that card so early in the game. You must have a very weak hand.”
Butts looked as if he were about to explode. His face reddened, and he clenched his fists. Lee shot him a glance with a clear meaning:
Don’t interfere.
The moment wasn’t lost on Moran. “I’m afraid your colleague doesn’t have your patience, Dr. Campbell—the poor fellow looks as if he’s about to burst.”
“You’ll be laughing out the other side of your mouth when I get a search warrant to toss your place,” Butts muttered.
“And how will you convince a judge to order a search warrant, Detective? What exactly do you have that constitutes probable cause?”
He was right, of course—all they had were their suspicions, and judges were finicky about issuing search warrants just because a suspect’s behavior was attracting attention. He seemed to know as well as they did that there was no hard evidence against him. It was time to shift gears. Flattery often worked on sociopaths, even if they knew you were using it as a technique.
“Detective Butts isn’t used to dealing with people of your intellectual gifts,” Lee remarked. As he expected, this did not sit well with Butts, who exhaled a puff of air, scowling.
Moran laughed. “Dear me, Dr. Campbell—I don’t see how insulting the poor detective will gain you any ground.”
Lee shrugged. “Who says I’m insulting him? It’s unusual to find someone like yourself operating in our world.”
“Like myself, and ‘our world,’ is it? Are you deliberately avoiding using the word
suspect
? I can’t imagine why—I
am
a suspect, aren’t I?”
“Let’s just say you’re a person of interest,” Lee replied.
Moran threw his head back and gave a loud guffaw, showing even, pointed incisors. “ ‘Person of interest!’ Oh, I like that. I do—it sounds like the title of some truly dreadful Movie of the Week.”
“We have other suspects we’re developing,” Lee said.
“Do you indeed?” Moran looked at Butts. “Is that true, Detective?”
“Yeah,” Butts said tightly. “Several of them.”
“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I was afraid you had run out of people to chase. Because that’s where the fun is, isn’t it—in the
chase
? The thrill of the hunt—you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I’m surprised you didn’t talk about it more in your lecture, actually.”
He directed this remark to Lee, who placed his hands on the table and leaned in toward him. In spite of the aspirin, a hammer had taken up residence in his head. He tried not to let it show, to keep his gaze steady as he looked into Moran’s eyes, which were so dark, they looked black.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“Touché, Dr. Campbell, and nice try—and how endearing, leaning in like that. ‘Invade the subject’s space, put him off guard.’ Though I’m not so easy to put off guard, as you know. Look, I’ll tell you what,” he said when Lee didn’t move. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
Butts looked startled, which made Moran laugh. “Good heavens, Detective, you didn’t think I meant—” He broke off and regarded Lee with a gaze so suggestive and insolent that Lee felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “No doubt he’s a handsome fellow, but I’m afraid I don’t swing that way. Not yet, at least,” he added, with a glance at Butts, who was clenching his fists so hard, Lee imagined his nails must be biting into the flesh of his palms.
“That’s too bad,” Butts muttered. “Because where you’re going, you’re gonna be getting a lot of action. Might as well enjoy it.”
Anger flashed across Moran’s face, brief as a summer thunderstorm, then vanished as quickly.
“Do you really think you can scare me with
threats
, Detective?” He turned back to Lee. “You really need to put a leash on your bulldog here, or he’ll ruin your whole plan. You
do
have a plan for interrogating me, don’t you?”
Lee sat down in the chair opposite him. “Not really. I’m just enjoying hobnobbing with such a superior intellect.” He noted that the professor couldn’t suppress an expression of pleasure at the compliment. The way to a psychopath’s heart was through his ego—they couldn’t help themselves. “What exactly did you mean when you said, ‘Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,’ by the way?”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Dr. Campbell. But since you’re so eager to know, what I meant was that we might share experiences of the hunt, as it were. You know—war stories. You’re invited to play too, Detective,” he said to Butts. “I’ll bet you have some nice, juicy tales to tell.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” said Butts.

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