The Ripper Gene (25 page)
“Okay. I’ll be down in a few.”
* * *
Ten minutes later Woodson dropped by. “Did you get through to anyone?” I asked.
“I got in touch with Harmon. He said they’re still working on it, but nothing yet. He said they’re going through garbage at this point.”
“You tell them to focus on medical records?”
“They’ve pulled all of them. But all the victims had different general practitioners. No insurance claims link them. In fact, four of the five hadn’t filed a claim for a visit to a doctor for more than a year.”
“Maybe we need to consider non-physician-related reasons for blood sampling,” I said.
“I think it’s headed in that direction.”
“Okay. We’ll just have to keep working on it.” I motioned her to take a seat. “I want to draw this guy out, Woodson. And it’s going to be a major undertaking.”
“Draw him out?”
“Yeah. Set up some sort of public event that might draw him in, something he can’t resist.”
“Like what?”
“I’m thinking about giving a false lecture on the ripper gene.”
Woodson frowned. “It might work, but how would it not stand out like a sore thumb? Where would you do this without it being obvious that it’s a trap?”
“You’re absolutely right—I’d never propose this except for the fact that the Society of Neuroscience is in town next week. It’s the perfect cover.”
“Don’t tell me you were literally invited to speak on the ripper gene at this year’s meeting?”
“Hell no.”
“Then how do you plan to give a lecture there? Surely the deadline has passed if the meeting is next week.”
“Months ago. But I know the annual meeting organizer and he’d go along with it,” I said. “I would have to tell him everything, but I’m sure I could get a slot.”
“So how would we advertise it?”
“I’m thinking we could ask Jimmy for some funds for a local advertising campaign to make sure the word about a Society of Neuroscience–sponsored lecture on the ripper gene gets around. It could be titled something like ‘Ten Years of the Ripper Gene: What Have We Learned?’ or something like that. If we can get this sort of title out in time, hopefully it will be enough to bait SWK. We can shoot for Web, TV, newspaper, and radio. Make like we’re celebrating the ten-year anniversary of the ripper gene’s discovery or something.”
“Honestly, I don’t think he’ll be able to resist. Can I help?” Woodson asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “It would be great if you could help convince Jimmy that this is all worth it. If we can get the word out, I think the chances are good that SWK won’t be able to, as you say, resist it. And we could post as many agents as possible at the lecture to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious, someone with a fake name tag, anyone overly nervous, anything out of the ordinary.”
Woodson smiled. “This investigation is finally starting to sound like fun for a change.”
* * *
A few minutes later Raritan’s voice carried over my office phone. “Raritan here.”
“Jimmy,” Woodson said. “I’m with Lucas here, we’re on speakerphone. You have a few minutes?”
“Sure. How’s the investigation going?” The chair in his office creaked loudly, and we heard both of his boots clomp down onto the desk as he put his feet up. Jimmy was settling in to listen.
“We think we’re getting somewhere. But we’re going to need a little help from you,” Woodson said.
“I’m listening.”
“Well, you remember the message our guy’s been leaving on the victims’ foreheads?”
“A tan cat can’t … what … attack, right? So did you figure out the message? Did Shelly come up with something?”
“No, Lucas figured it out. The killer isn’t leaving behind a message. He’s leaving behind letters. Letters of the genetic code.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.” Jimmy paused on the other end. “Genetic code? With a word like
attack
?”
“It was A-T-T-A-C, not
attack,
on the last victim’s forehead,” Woodson said. “We just assumed he’d gotten interrupted in writing
attack.
Turns out, he really did probably mean A-T-T-A-C.”
“I’ll be damned. Does the sequence actually mean anything?”
“Yeah,” I said, “it shows perfect identity with only a single gene in the human genome.”
“Which one?”
“Guess.”
“I’m not going to guess, Lucas. No, wait. Don’t tell me it’s…”
“Ripper,” Woodson finished the sentence for him.
“You guys are shitting me.”
“No, we’re really not shitting you,” I said. “For some reason SWK is leaving the ripper sequence on the foreheads of his victims.”
“So why the hell is he doing that?”
“Well we’re not sure on that point, but we suspect at least one thing—he’s obsessed with ripper. And we think we can draw him out. That’s why we need your help.”
“It sounds like you’re about to ask for money.”
“Yes. We need your money. What do you need from us?”
“It depends. What do you have in mind?”
“A sting operation. Nothing too expensive or extensive. Woodson can tell you all about it.”
I sat back while Woodson walked Jimmy through the entire proposal we’d plotted earlier that day.
Raritan paused after she finished. “I like it. If you can get the word out, it just might work. Okay, here’s the deal. Write up the proposal. I’ll put it on Moynihan’s desk Monday morning, so you have to get it to me by Sunday.”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Woodson said.
“Just keep the funding request as modest as possible and still get your work done. The less you ask for, the more likely you’ll get it.”
“Understood.”
“Good luck, then.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
* * *
After we hung up, Woodson leaned back. “What’s next?”
“What’s next, you ask? Only the most difficult thing for profilers in the world.”
“What’s that?”
“We wait.”
As if cooperating with us, the SWK went into a brief cocoon of inactivity for the next several days, which gave us a window of opportunity to set up the sting. When I wasn’t speaking to an organizer or an advertiser, I was conferring with Faraday to hear how Katie and the girls were doing, talking to Terry regarding progress in the lab, or reviewing details of the operation with Woodson. By Thursday there were still no new victims, and I began to secretly wonder whether SWK, after such an initial frenetic pace, had finally cooled off. The potential for this sting operation to be a big bust began to gnaw at me.
I drove the doubts from my mind as best I could by focusing on my upcoming lecture, “Genetics and Violence: What Have We Learned from the Ripper Gene?” I’d easily convinced Gary Turner, my colleague from Tulane, to give me a slot in a Late-Breaking Research session that he was chairing at the Society of Neuroscience meeting. It took a little more cajoling to get it made open to the public.
After the Late-Breaking Research session was announced, many former colleagues from various universities had called or e-mailed me to welcome me back to academic research. Though I felt guilty for doing it, I played along with all of them, just to maintain the ruse. We couldn’t afford to tip off SWK, in case all our efforts to publicize the event actually worked.
* * *
On the morning before my evening lecture, Woodson and I reviewed the plans with the agents assigned to work undercover with us. Harmon, St. Clair, McCloskey, and Rivera (the last two guys hailed from Homicide) would be posing as researchers at the meeting. They were to avoid conversation with the other real scientists in attendance and sit at predefined positions during my lecture, indicated on a blueprint map we handed out. They would move in controlled paths during the cocktail reception at the Magnolia Mansion, where two other agents from Homicide named Mincy and Huskinson would be posing as event organizer staff. Every detail was geared toward increasing the likelihood that at least one of us would cross paths with SWK, if he happened to attend.
After we adjourned, I walked with Woodson back to our offices. At her doorway she stopped. “So, everybody else seems ready, and we poured as much publicity into this talk as we could. The only question left is whether you’re ready for your big return back into academia.”
“I think so. In fact, I’m probably going to use the slides I presented up in Quantico. You may remember that lecture.”
“Ah, yes,” Woodson said. “I remember it well.”
We both laughed, then Woodson clapped her hands together. “Okay then, Madden. I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m going home to get ready.” She shook her hair loose from a tightly pulled ponytail. “My starring role as Dr. Karen Waveland, neuroendocrinologist extraordinaire from McGill, is about to begin.”
I was suddenly struck by the same overpowering sensation I’d had when I’d found myself hypnotized by the perfect curvature of this stranger’s collarbone as she’d driven me from the hospital to my home. As Woodson’s hair tumbled out of its ponytail, another jolt of desire shocked its way through me.
Woodson stared at me, and I realized it was my turn to speak. “Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you at the afternoon session?”
“I will see you then. Good luck, Professor Madden.”
“Same to you, Professor Waveland from McGill.”
* * *
I eventually left the office early as well, finding it impossible to concentrate on anything else except the upcoming sting operation that night. I checked on Katie and the girls with a quick call to Faraday, then drove home to prepare for the evening.
A shower (run just a bit colder than usual) cleared my head. I dressed the part of Professor Madden—tweed jacket, corduroy pants, and brown wingtips. I drove back into the city and parked near the convention center.
Once inside, I made my way through the main atrium, navigating crowds of scientists dressed in suits and dresses, some carrying cylindrical tubes containing their poster presentations, others scurrying off to the next seminar they wanted to attend.
I finally found the main auditorium on the third floor of the convention center. The lecture hall was a large room with two big projection screens flanking a podium. The lecture hall was already half full of scientists.
The audiovisual guy gave me a microphone for my lapel and seated me in the first row. I couldn’t help turning around to scan the initial sea of faces, but no one leaped out.
The two other speakers, Domenici Piralde from Harvard and Ruth White from Stanford, arrived together and took seats beside me in the front row. In typical chaotic fashion, Gary Turner, my friend from Tulane and the chair of the afternoon panel of talks, showed up only a minute or so before the session was scheduled to start.
“Dr. Lucas, how are you?” The Irishman’s unmistakable voice boomed out from behind me as he clapped me on the back.
“Fine, Gary, fine. And thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just glad to hear about this damnation signature everyone’s talking about!” He patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you on the podium in a couple of minutes; let me quickly say hello to the other speakers.”
He left, and when I turned around to take one last look out across the audience, I struggled to hide my surprise. The room had filled almost to capacity, with standing room only in the back. I feared that the sheer number of people attending this lecture might ruin our chance of identifying any outlier individuals in the audience.
I shifted uncomfortably and adjusted the ultrathin flak jacket beneath my shirt and suit coat. It served as a pretty dismal reminder that I hoped my behavioral profile to date was correct, and that SWK would never use a gun in a public place. And if I were wrong, that at least he wouldn’t go for a head shot.
* * *
A minute later the session started. The other speakers and I took seats on the stage, facing the audience. Ruth was the first lecturer. While she spoke, I scanned the crowd, trying to keep my gaze as professorial as possible. I located three of the five agents involved in the sting but couldn’t find Harmon—or Woodson, for that matter—in the crowd. During the debriefing we’d worked out signals: an eye rub from any of the agents meant that I should leave the stage and they would make a move on a suspicious suspect. A covered yawn from any agent meant that I could stay onstage but that they’d found someone of moderate interest.
Not a single yawn or eye rub from anyone. Things were looking pretty unpromising. No need to stop the show; not even a possible suspect at this point.
After Ruth’s presentation, Domenici spoke. In the interim I finally spied Harmon, sitting four or five rows behind his intended position. I made eye contact with him a couple of times, but like the other agents, he had no sign to give. All quiet on the Western front.
After Domenici’s talk ended, I almost didn’t hear Gary introduce me. I made one last run-through of the agents in the sea of faces, but no one made a move. I stood slowly and walked to the podium.
I hadn’t anticipated the lights on the stage. They were nearly blinding, and it was difficult to see the faces beyond the first few rows. I recognized that we weren’t going to find our guy in the lecture hall, and that our only chance would be at the reception. With a mounting disappointment that I struggled mightily not to portray, I launched into the lecture.
The least I could do was make good on our end of the bargain with the Society of Neuroscience.
* * *
After I finished my lecture and retook my seat beside the other presenters facing the audience, I held my breath while Gary asked the audience if they had any questions. I’d held out hope that even if we couldn’t spot him in the audience, the SWK (if in attendance at all) might not be able to resist the chance to pose a question.
Unfortunately, no questions were asked. Gary thanked the attendees and looked forward to seeing everyone at the cocktail reception at the Magnolia Mansion. A round of applause went up, and I walked slowly down the steps. All of that time, all of that effort, all of that money wasted.
I stopped short as Woodson materialized in front of me at the bottom of the stage.
I didn’t move, because I couldn’t stop staring. I hadn’t seen her for the entire lecture and had begun to wonder whether she was even there. Her long blonde hair was only loosely tied up with a black ribbon, instead of pulled back tightly the way she wore it on the job, and she wore a black working dress that exposed her muscular shoulders and lean arms. She even wore a fake pair of black-rimmed glasses that somehow made her sexier by hiding her blue eyes behind the frames. Though we were supposed to blend in, it wasn’t possible for someone as beautiful as Woodson.
