Twisted (40 page)

Elliot had been furiously taking notes as everyone around him shared facts, observations, and gut reactions. More and more he realized the awesome responsibility he held in his hands. This was no longer about proving the merits of his system. It was about saving lives—Sloane’s included. He had no intention of failing.

Tamping down his nerves, he began.

“I realize that what I’m about to describe to you is going to sound like a reach. But every technological advance once fell into that category. All I ask is that you listen with open minds, and an awareness that none of this is meant to diminish the contributions of law enforcement.”

With that, he went on to describe the basics of his system in a succinct and compelling manner, omitting as much “geek speak,” as Sloane called it, as possible.

He concluded by saying, “My computer model emulates the mind of a great detective. I spent countless hours working with New York’s finest to distill their knowledge, experience, and talent into my artificial intelligence system.” A faint smile. “Even with their instincts dulled by six rounds of beer at ‘choir practice,’ the cops I worked with are better than any computer could ever be at solving crimes. But, as I said, with their input, I think my program comes close.”

There were a few chuckles, after which Sloane asked Elliot about his progress.

“The data structure is almost complete,” he replied. “I’ll format the last of the information from this meeting and enter it tonight. From there, I expect to have to fine-tune the system—respond to its questions for direction, provide more information as needed. I can’t promise how long all this will take, and I can’t promise where it will lead us. But my hope is that it will be in the direction of the killer.”

Elliot paused, glancing from person to person. “And, should any of you still think is a bunch of crap, remember that it’s only serving as an augmentation to your classic ongoing investigation. Therefore, we have nothing to lose.”

“I can’t argue with that one,” Bill’s voice resounded through the speaker phone. “I say go with it.”

“I agree.” Bob Erwin nodded. “I was one of the cops whose brain Elliot picked. He’s a brilliant guy. And nothing he’s doing is like a scene out of
Alien Encounters
.”

Everyone chuckled at that one, and the light moment dissipated some of the tension in the room.

“Elliot’s point is well taken. We do have nothing to lose,” Larry said. “The rest of us will continue our investigation while Elliot runs his. It doesn’t matter who comes out ahead. We all have the same goal—catching this serial killer.”

“So we’re in agreement,” Derek concluded. “We have our marching orders. Let’s schedule a follow-up meeting.”

“Lillian’s retirement party is the twenty-eighth,” Sloane noted. “Let’s avoid that date since several of us are attending.”

“I’m off-site and unreachable all day on the twenty-ninth,” Bill supplied. “Does the thirtieth work for everyone?”

“We’ll make it work,” Derek stated flatly. “Same time and place?” He looked around the room for reaction.

Everyone voiced their assent.

“Maybe the meeting will be unnecessary,” Sloane murmured, not sure whether she was trying to convince everybody else in the room or herself. “Maybe by then, Elliot’s system will have nailed the guy.”

“Maybe.” Derek’s jaw was tight. “But until then, we’re tightening security around you.”

Office of Professor Elliot Lyman

John Jay College of Criminal Justice

New York City

9 P.M.

It had been a long day, punctuated by the sheer number of donut crumbs sprinkled around Elliot’s computer, not to mention in between the keys on his keyboard.

The meeting had finished up around four o’clock, after which Elliot had stayed on to talk to Sloane about the Penn State kidnappings, and to thrash around ideas on a search strategy for his program.

It was close to 5:30 by the time he got back to his office. He was operating on overload from all he’d ingested and all he’d explained, not to mention that he was worried sick over Sloane’s safety.

He needed time alone to recoup.

He’d shut his office door, taken two aspirin, and closed his eyes for a power nap. After that, his plan was to stuff a jelly donut down his throat for the energy boost he needed to get back to work.

He must have fallen into a deeper sleep than he’d intended.

He jumped up with the sense that too much time had passed. Sure enough, the clock on his desk said 8:40. Dammit. Three hours lost.

Automatically he checked his computer screen. Nothing yet.

Following his earlier plan, he made the rest of the Krispy Kremes his dinner. That did the trick. His mind jolted awake from the sugar high, and he was alert and ready to work.

Abruptly, the results window of his system popped up, displaying an early success using the test data he’d provided:

Strong linkage. Rapes reported March 13, June 23, September 3. Victims African-American women, ages 20, 27, and 30. Locations: Cypress Hills Houses, Blake Avenue, East New York section of Brooklyn, New York. Edenwald Houses, East 229th Street, Bronx, New York. 143rd Street, Jamaica, Queens.

These crimes were over three years old. The
NYPD
had arrested the perpetrator just six months ago. Imagine if they’d been able to solve the crime in three months rather than three years. How many women had that
SOB
raped in the intervening period? How many victims might have been spared the lifetime scars caused by this traumatic violation?

Elliot’s thoughts were interrupted by words scrolling across the screen:
Press Y to continue, N to Start a New Operation
. He typed
N
and pressed the enter key.

The latest kidnappings had been entered into the database.

Professor Helen Daniels and her daughter Abby. Two simultaneous victims. Lake near a college campus. Hypodermic needle. State College, Pennsylvania.

Carefully, Elliot checked his notes from the marathon debriefing this afternoon one last time, and circled the final key piece of information to enter. It was a tentative profile of the “Unsub”—as Sloane referred to him in
FBI
speak—that had been developed by the
BAU
. Carefully, Elliot added the target profile to his system.

White male. Mid-to-late thirties. Probably a loner. Can’t establish normal sexual relationships with women. Aberrant behavior most likely rooted in warped sense of male/female relationships developed during childhood. Targets prostitutes as high risk, high-visibility victims. Either eldest son or only child. Strong belief that he is more intelligent than the masses and exempt from social restrictions. Possible military background, stationed in the Far East. Knowledge of Mandarin and Fukienese. Chosen homicide method—cutting/stabbing/slashing. Copper coin with python on one side and goddess on the other left at each crime scene.

Satisfied that all the information had been properly structured, Elliot typed in the phrase:
constrain results using Skippy as target
.

Despite his worry over Sloane’s safety, he had to grin. She’d punch him out for using her nickname. Maybe that’s why he’d done it. Maybe he was grasping for something comforting, a touch of humor to cling to as the only semblance of humanity in this nightmarish ordeal.

The system responded:
constraining results using Skippy as target
.

Elliot then entered the final command:
find relationships using victims
.

The status window displayed:
thinking…

There was no point in sitting here, gaping at the screen in anticipation. The truth was, Elliot had no idea how long it would take his system to generate results. It could be hours, days, weeks before anything materialized.
If
anything materialized at all. He shoved that thought aside with a shudder. No way. He had to think positive.

The system’s progress would need to be monitored 24/7. A schedule had been created and posted online, with Elliot and his two most trusted grad students taking turns watching. Elliot would have his cell phone on at all times. Anything that showed up was to be reported to him immediately. The process was complicated. Sometimes the system presented a single search path, other times it presented multiple ones. In the case of the latter, decisions would have to be made—one branch, another branch, or all branches. Sloane and the team would provide the investigative instincts. Elliot would be responsible for the rest.

Time was of the essence.

So was getting it right.

DATE
: 28 April

TIME:
0800 hours

The anointment room has been scoured and readied.

The goddesses themselves feel the excitement in the air. They don’t understand what its cause is, but they will. Each of them has so completely transformed into her namesake that all their passages will be peaceful and natural. That’s as I intended it. I’m proud that I’ve done such a splendid job. I’d feared for Gaia. Now that fear is gone.

I’d also feared that Demeter and Persephone had arrived here too late to adapt to what was to come. Their progress astounds me, as does Demeter’s knowledge of plants, fruits, and vegetables and how they make the spirit grow and thrive.

What a profound contribution she’ll make to Mount Olympus as their new goddess of agriculture.

As for Persephone, she’s like the onset of spring. Young, fresh, rife with promise. She reminds me so much of what Artemis must have been like at that age.

It pains me that I wasn’t able to give Artemis this opportunity back then, when she was young and naive like Persephone is now. If things had been different, she wouldn’t have had to waste her life in this ignoble wasteland. Like Persephone, she could have embarked on womanhood as a goddess, rather than battling her way through a mire of depraved mortals before arriving at her final destination.

I’ll make it up to her. Here at New Olympus, I am Delphi. It’s the perfect pseudonym. Delphi, Apollo’s sanctuary, a shrine ultimately dedicated to him, but before that, to Gaia. Once I soar to the real Mount Olympus, I’ll take my rightful place as Apollo himself. My first order of business will be to have an elaborate temple built for Artemis—one that far surpasses the Temple at Ephesus previously dedicated to her. Everyone will worship at her shrine, just as they’ll worship Gaia at Delphi.

And I’ll be joyful. Because no one could ever revere either of those two goddesses more than I.

Ascension is almost upon us.

New Olympus will be gone, having outlived its usefulness. Our souls will have long since separated from and risen above the vessels known as our bodies. Those vessels will have been consumed in a glorious funeral pyre, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

My temporary monument to the gods will be no more.

The dust—all that remains of each vessel—will be written up in law enforcement files, and, eventually, forgotten.

But the goddesses and I will live on throughout eternity.

Now all that’s left is for me to bring Artemis here so she can take her rightful place among us.

Our enemies are still out there. Like the serpent Python, they’re set on killing us, and preventing our passage into eternity.

They’re fools. Nothing they do will matter. Artemis trusts me. She’ll come willingly.

For now, we share our special connection in my dreams.

In mere days, we’ll share it forever.

John Jay College of Criminal Justice

Multipurpose Room

New York City

7:05 P.M.

The austere, cafeteria-like room at John Jay College had been transformed into a warm party room. Dusk was just filtering in through the windows, creating a social aura rather than an academic one. Strains of classical music drifted through the room, which was filled with festive decorations, bowls of punch, platters of hors d’oeuvres, and trays of hot dishes. The setting seemed more like a private dining room at an exclusive club than an all-purpose room at a city college.

Twenty or so people—mostly faculty members, law enforcement colleagues who taught workshops at John Jay, and a few of Lillian’s close friends—were milling around, chatting and helping themselves to the food.

“This is lovely,” Sloane murmured as she and Derek hovered in the doorway. The party was business casual, so Sloane was dressed in a bright aqua silk blouse and black silk pants. And Derek was wearing a blue striped dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and navy slacks.

“It certainly is.” He voiced his agreement with a nod. But his penetrating midnight gaze was already scrutinizing the room’s occupants. “The school did a great job. And this private room is very conducive to keeping a close eye on things.”

“Derek, our Unsub isn’t a moron,” Sloane muttered drily. “He’s not going to burst into a public place, club me over the head, and carry me off. So could you please stop looming in the doorway like a mountain lion about to tear someone’s throat out?”

Derek relaxed, and his lips twitched at her analogy. “Point taken. I’ll leave the mountain lion at the door.” Another quick glance around, this time more relaxed and friendly. “Do you know everyone here?”

“Not even close.” Sloane shook her head. “A few casual acquaintances from my visits and workshops here.”

“There’s Elliot.” Derek tipped his chin in the direction of the buffet.

“Predictably standing next to the food,” Sloane noted, following Derek’s gaze. “The attractive redhead he’s talking to is Lucy Andrews. She’s a professor here in the sociology department, like Lillian. The two of them also coinstruct a Gender Studies course called Sex and Culture.” A pause, filled with sad realization. “I’m not sure if she’ll cancel the class now or run it alone.”

“She looks like a take-charge kind of woman. My guess is she’s perfectly capable of handling the course alone—if she chooses to.”