In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Twenty-Six

There was a tailback from a three-car accident on the 95, which delayed Cowley getting to Quantico. He detested being late for appointments, so there was an illogical annoyance, without a sensible focus. When he finally arrived, to the snap-crack-pop of agents practising on the training academy’s target range, the psychologist said it didn’t matter: he’d shunted into a car himself the previous week, so he knew what it was like. And the hold-up had given him a final opportunity to read through his assessment.

Despite the reassurance he’d received in Moscow, Cowley said: ‘I was worried there wouldn’t be enough to create the profile.’

‘That’s what we’re paid for.’ Peter Meadows was a small, intense man whose glasses seemed inadequate despite their thick lenses, because he constantly squinted and leaned forward to peer through them. He was in chino jeans and loafers: the roll-neck sweater was wearing thin at the left elbow and there was a definite hole in one sock. In contrast to the man’s outward neglect, the office in the Behavioural Science Unit was immaculate, the impression of near-clinical cleanliness heightened by the harsh, hospital-glare brightness of the artificial neon throughout a basement area with no natural light. Nowhere in the office were there any obvious personal or sentimental possessions, like family photographs or qualification certificates. Meadows smiled, brightly, and added: ‘But there are difficulties you must keep in mind.’

‘Such as?’

‘Russia,’ said the psychologist, simply. ‘Our assessments and profiles are predicated from an American society: certain basic characteristics that we calculate to be common, throughout. If your killer is Russian, some of those assessments might be a little off course.’

‘Some?’ pressed Cowley. ‘But not all?’

‘Not all,’ agreed the man. ‘General things first. I’m tagging him asocial. The most important thing about that classification fits in with where the murders and the failed attack took place, all in fairly close proximity. When you get him, he’ll live in the area: asocials attack close to their homes or workplaces because they feel most secure there. Usually asocials don’t know their victims: I’m not going to be dogmatic about this, but the victims are probably chosen at random, complete strangers to him. Asocials don’t bother to conceal their victims, after the crime, which again fits what you’ve given me.’

‘What about specifics: the shoes, hair and the buttons?’

‘One at a time,’ insisted Meadows. ‘The positioning of the shoes indicates obsessive neatness: the shoes are the most likely items to fall off, in an attack. So they must be restored. Putting them by the head could be taken as a plea for forgiveness, too: there’s no hate or dislike in the killing. But your asocial will knowhe’s doing wrong and that he’s causing pain. He’s saying sorry. But let’s not slip past the neatness. He’ll wear cross-over jackets: they’re smarter than single-breasted suits. He’ll wear suits on a Sunday: on a vacation. Always have a sharp crease in his pants. Always have clean shoes. The neatness could extend to personal cleanliness, although that doesn’t always follow. If it does, he’ll wash his hands a lot. Have clean fingernails.’

‘What about the hair?’

Meadows turned down the corners of his mouth, in a doubtful expression. ‘A lot of scope here. Could be he’s ugly: wants to make the people he kills ugly, too. Maybe he’s simply bald — could be medical baldness, from chemotherapy or nervous depilation — and just wants to make them look like he does. Certainly there’d be a connection to the obsessional neatness: so he won’t be completely bald. There’ll be hair that doesn’t fit his own idea of how he should look. Then again it could just be a souvenir. I’ve read that the hair is scattered about but he probably keeps some. Souvenirs are very important to them.’

‘So he’d have it, if we make an arrest.’

The bright smile came again. ‘That would make it all very easy, wouldn’t it?’

‘Which leaves the buttons.’

‘Nipple fetish,’ said the behaviour expert immediately. ‘Well documented, readily obvious. Ann Harris had bruised, bitten nipples: the Russian woman talked of her breasts being fondled.’

‘We think we know who bit Ann Harris. He was a lover who liked inflicting pain. He has an alibi.’

‘Russian?’

‘American.’

‘Does he fit the profile?’

Cowley tried to put the pieces together. ‘Similarities. They wouldn’t lead me directly to him. Are you saying it’s a sexual motive?’

Meadows came forward for better focus, forcefully shaking his head. ‘Not in the way that you and I would think of sexual gratification. There’s rarely penis penetration from an asocial attacker. The satisfaction is psychosexual. Where there’s a connection again. Asocials use sharp, pointed instruments: a penis substitute. Like the knife in this case. Never a firearm.’

‘Would there be a mental history? We’re obviously running institution checks.’

Meadows made another doubtful expression. ‘It’s always worth going through the system: your man could have shown disturbances involving one or all of the manifestations he’s now demonstrating. But don’t necessarily look for it progressing previously to murder. Killing is the final explosion: the ultimate towards which he’s been building. If you want to target, go for someone with a mental history that shows a nipple fixation: maybe actual mutilation that brought about his arrest and led to his being institutionalized. There’d be a progression there. When he mutilated the nipples before, he got arrested and locked up. Maybe because he was known to the women he attacked. Providing he evades capture, he’s not going to get locked up by killing them, is he? In fact he’s protecting himself by killing them. Cutting off their buttons is cutting off their nipples, a substitute like the knife is a penis replacement.’

Cowley wondered how Danilov would have reacted to this lecture. Despite the unquestionable eighty per cent statistical accuracy of behavioural profiles, Cowley found it easy to understand the Russian’s scepticism. ‘We seem to have shifted from generalities to specifics.’

‘Unavoidable,’ said Meadows, sharply. ‘Generalities again. Keep the murder area under surveillance. Asocial killers are often compelled to return to the scene. It’s another satisfaction for them, to relive the crime.’

‘Let’s revert to the sexual aspect, for a moment. Would he be heterosexual? Or could he be homosexual?’

‘Invariably heterosexual. I can’t recall a reference case where the man has been homosexual.’

‘So there would be a wife? Or girlfriend?’

‘Possibly. But not necessarily. An asocial is basically a loner: often someone abused in childhood. If there is a wife or girlfriend, he will have abused her breasts. If he’s unmarried, he might have employed a hooker, again to abuse her breasts. Probably wouldn’t have tried to screw her. I understand Moscow’s got a pretty active hooker fraternity. It would make a lot of sense to ask around.’

Cowley had the impression that he was learning and understanding a lot while at the same time discovering nothing of the man he was pursuing. Would Danilov be making any progress on his own in Moscow? Time, hopefully, to get back to specifics.

‘So when we find him he’ll be neat, his pants pressed, his jacket is cross-over, his shoes clean. He could possibly have a hair problem and be ashamed of it. He’ll live in the area we’ve already marked off. He’ll be a loner, although he might have a wife or girlfriend. He might also have used prostitutes, concentrating upon their breasts.’

‘Don’t tell me!’ protested the psychologist.

‘What?’

‘You know a hundred guys, just like him!’

Cowley smiled. ‘It is pretty general.’

‘I’m only sketching the outline: you’ve got to colour in the picture,’ Meadows insisted. ‘But let’s try a few more specifics. I’ve considered both autopsy reports: the Russian one was practically another attack, by the way. Your killer will be five feet eight inches tops, not less than five seven. Ann Harris was five feet five. The act of pulling her backwards, the way your killer attacks, would reduce that height by as much as five inches. So the knife goes in with just the slightest upwards bias. He’s right-handed, of course. And he’s strong. He’s not stabbing, giving himself some momentum to get the knife into the body. He’s pushing. That needs strength. And there’s strength in the hold over the mouth, leaving the nasal bruising. And that round chin abrasion is important, both on Ann Harris and on the woman who lived. Your man wears a ring, on the pinkie finger of his left hand. I read two things into those factors. He’s fit: maybe exercises. Although from the tobacco smell the Russian woman talked about he’s not fanatical about his health. And there’s a contradiction here to what I’ve already suggested. He’s not that obsessionally neat, to wash his hands a lot. If he’d washed his hands, he would have reduced that smell. From the way he clamps his hand over the mouth and nose he’s probably had some martial arts or military training.’

‘Something worries me about that known physical contact he had with the Russian woman, Lydia Orlenko,’ said Cowley. ‘I talked to her very soon afterwards: heard her describe it. She was revulsed by the hand. She said it was clammy, but not wet. That it didn’t feet like the skin of a hand. Neither was it any sort of glove. So what the hell could it be?’

Meadows frowned, surprised by the question. ‘I think it was a glove.’

‘But I just told you …’

‘… what about a rubber glove?’ Meadows broke in. ‘The sort of thing women wear in a kitchen. Even a surgical glove. Ever felt them, against your skin? Particularly the surgical type? It is a clammy sensation. But it’s not wet. Try it for yourself. I did, after the forensic guys back in Washington suggested it to me. Feels just like the woman described it.’ The man physically shuddered. ‘Nasty! And very clammy.’

‘If he wore surgical gloves, there could be some medical connection? The entry wound that killed both the man and Ann Harris went cleanly between the eighth and ninth rib. Which would indicate some medical knowledge.’

‘And the Russian woman was probably saved because the knife hit the rib. I’m a psychologist, not a surgeon. I would have thought in the circumstances — in a darkened alley, suddenly seizing a victim from the rear — it would be practically impossible even for a trained physician to guarantee getting between the two ribs.’

‘There’s something about the nipple fetish that worries me,’ said Cowley, speaking as the doubt came to him. ‘What about Vladimir Suzlev? Why would a man with a nipple complex attack another man? Unless our killer is homosexual.’

‘Whoa!’ cautioned Meadows, raising halting hands. ‘I said colour in the picture, not black it out completely! Surely there’s a much simpler explanation for the attack on Suzlev: it’s even obvious from the evidence you’ve already got. With Suzlev, no buttons were taken. Because your killer realized when he turned him over that he wasn’t a woman. Even though he wore his hair long enough to be mistaken for one, in the near-darkness and in the split second before the knife went in.’

Cowley nodded, taking the other man’s interpretation. ‘Lydia Orlenko talked about him feeling her breasts. At the time it seemed obviously sexual. But it could have been his assuring himself that she was a woman. In the bundled-up way people dress in Moscow at this time of the year, it would be difficult positively to decide anyone’s sex, particularly in a dark alley.’

‘I’d go with the confirming theory, rather than straight sex. Physical sex isn’t ever a factor in these sorts of murders.’

‘But he does know what he’s doing?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the psychologist, quickly. ‘And that it’s wrong. Asocial killers are invariably clever. And cunning. The game — challenging the authorities to catch them, keeping one step ahead — matters a lot to them. I’ve read Senator Burden’s complaints, about things being kept secret: a cover-up. Your killer would have been angry about that. He wants to know he’s frightening people: causing panic.’

‘How about using the media?’ suggested Cowley, again speaking as the idea occurred. ‘Could we evolve some way to challenge him back? Use his own madness to make him disclose himself? I think we could quite easily manipulate the Moscow media, which is what he’ll be reading and watching.’

Meadows gave another doubtful expression. ‘It’s been tried. Worked sometimes, but not often enough. And there’s a risk. You start playing mental games at a distance and you’re going to get all sorts of nuts coming out of the woodwork. You end up with copy-cat killings. And looking for more than one murderer.’ The man shook his head, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not at this stage, anyway. I know all about political pressure — that’s why I had to get the profile out as quickly as I did — but try everything else first.’

‘Anything else I should be looking for?’

Meadows pursed his lips, contemplatively. ‘General guidance,’ he offered. ‘He’ll probably have been neglected as a kid. Not properly know what love is. If he is married, their sex life won’t be good. As I’ve already said, asocials have trouble with the physical act. Fantasy plays a part, particularly with the violence. He’ll probably enjoy violent pornography: absorb himself fantasizing about it and carrying it forward into a definite attack. So look for pornography, when you make an arrest: it’ll be a pointer.’

‘You’ve helped a lot,’ thanked Cowley. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t rely upon it!’ warned Meadows, again. ‘The Behavioural Unit has had its successes, some pretty impressive. But it’s not a science: it never can be, despite a lot of people claiming that it is. At best it’s a psychological art, developed from experience. So it’s an aid to detection, not a replacement for it. You’ll still have to follow investigative procedure. And keep in mind at all times what I said at the very beginning: the profile might not be any good at all because you’re hunting a Russian, not an American.’

‘It’s still been useful,’ said Cowley.

‘I’ll be interested to see how close we made the fit, when you get him,’ said the psychologist.

‘When we get him,’ said Cowley.

The arrival delay was compounded by his spending more time than he’d expected at Quantico and even heavier traffic on the 95 returning to Washington, so he was quite late again getting to Judy Billington. Her apartment was less than a mile from his own shut-up flat, with a better view of the Washington Monument but nearer the airport: as he drove up, Cowley had a constant view of the commuter aircraft hovering for landing permission like predatory birds, waiting to plummet on to their prey.

The girl answered the door in a loose, figure-enveloping sweater, over jeans that in complete contrast were skin-tight. She wore loafers, although unlike the man he’d just left, Judy did not wear any socks, holed or otherwise. Her hair was so black Cowley decided it had to be dyed to deepen its natural colour. She wore it very short. The only make-up was around her eyes, and black again, as if she were trying to create an effect. He started to apologize for his lateness as he entered the apartment. She said it didn’t matter; she’d taken the entire day off, after the funeral. Cowley said he hoped it had gone OK. She grimaced at the remark, asking if funerals of murder victims ever went OK. Cowley decided he deserved the put-down.

‘You want anything? Coffee? Booze?’ There was a glass of white wine alongside a chair in which she had obviously been sitting before he got there.

Cowley declined, choosing his own seat on a couch which ran in front of the window with the panorama over the river. It was an unavoidable fact of murder investigations that a victim’s mail was read: that was how he’d located her. He was grateful, for her time.

Judy listened patiently, occasionally sipping her wine, a smile quite close. When he finished, she said: ‘Shocked by what you read?’

‘No.’

‘Hard-assed G-man, eh? You know you’re the first FBI agent I’ve ever met.’

She was trying hard with the repartee. ‘We come in all sizes,’ he said, quickly regretting his own effort, not knowing why he’d tried.

‘That must be convenient.’ The look was openly appraising, the smile finally forming. ‘I’d guess you’re the jumbo version, right?’

Why the hell was he letting this happen? ‘You and Ann were pretty close, from the letters?’

‘Close enough, I guess.’

‘I’ve only read one side of the correspondence: yours to her. Do you have hers?’

Judy shook her head. ‘She was like that at college. Kept everything. Theatre tickets. Programmes. Letters. Notes. A fucking magpie. I’m the opposite. Can’t stand clutter. Souvenirs bore me.’

Cowley guessed she said fuck to see how he’d react, which he hadn’t. He was thinking more about the point she’d made. There was a possible paradox in Ann Harris’s hoarding — neat though that hoarding had seemingly been — and her scrupulous cleanliness. ‘You didn’t keep anything?

‘Sorry.’

‘What about personal contact, while she’d been in Moscow? Any phone conversations? Vacation visits maybe?’

‘She came back, about a year ago, on home leave. There was always talk of my going to Moscow but I never got around to it.’ She appeared surprised that her glass was empty, rising with it in her hand. ‘You sure about not wanting anything? It’s Chablis.’

‘Positive.’ She clearly knew how good her body was: there was an exaggerated hip movement as she went into the kitchen annex. She would probably have been offended if she’d known what little effect it had upon him. He tried to look as if he were enjoying it as she returned, not wanting the performance to have been entirely in vain. ‘You see much of her, when she was back?’

‘Sure. Three or four times.’

‘Think back!’ demanded Cowley. ‘As much as you can. To the visit and to the letters. I want names … any name, Christian name or nickname. A lead, to the guys she went with. Anyone.’

Judy toyed with the glass, held before her in both hands. ‘No names,’ she said at last. ‘There was a guy who worked out at the embassy gym …’

Hughes. How much of that morning’s profile could fit the economist? Would the CIA polygraphs prove the alibis a lie, after all?’

‘… and one of the diplomats, although that was a one-night disaster …’ she giggled. ‘Got drunk, couldn’t get it up and cried. That’s what she told me, anyhow … Someone she called Mr Droop. There was a musical on Broadway: Edwin Drood. She got it from that.’ The smile widened. ‘There was one identity. The ambassador had the hots. Always used to touch her ass or her arm, supposedly easing his way past her at receptions or when they were in the same place socially: it’s the sort of things some guys do. Always included her in official things, too. But he could never bring himself to make the big pass. Ann thought it was funny. She guessed it would have been another hold-it-for-me-while-I-cry number.’

‘What about Russians?’

‘She couldn’t stand Russia!’

‘We’re not talking about the place: we’re talking about men. She didn’t hate men.’

‘No Russian men. And I think she would have told me.’

‘What about other embassies?’

There was an immediate nod. ‘Her first thing was with an attache at the French embassy …’ She looked up, pleased at the recollection. ‘And a name! Guy. His name was Guy. She was crazy about him at first: said he was fantastic …’

At last! thought Cowley. So it wasn’t a fruitless afternoon: he could get the complete identity of an attache named Guy in minutes. ‘You said at first. What happened?’

Judy regarded him curiously. ‘He went back to France, of course. Over a year ago. They kept in touch for a while but he was married, like they all are, so it kind of fizzled out.’

Cowley felt almost physically deflated, nearly as deflated as he’d been at the end of the interview with Hughes. Deciding to use what he knew about the economist and the dead girl, hopefully to jog Judy Billington’s memory of other things, he said: ‘The guy who liked to hurt her, in bed: you wrote to each other about it. Did she ever talk or write about feeling threatened by him? Or anybody? Ever imagine she might have been picked out?’

‘Stalked, you mean?’ For the first time the woman became properly serious.

‘She was, by somebody.’ At Quantico the psychologist had told him victims were invariably strangers to their killers. So why was he pursuing this point?

It took Judy longer this time to answer. She did so shaking her head. ‘Never that she thought she was being picked out. She didn’t mind the pain bit, not altogether. Just sometimes. Said they were all a bunch of kinky bastards.’

‘You’re absolutely sure she wasn’t ever involved with a Russian?’

‘If she was, she didn’t say a word about it.’

At least Quantico hadn’t been wasted, although so much of what he’d been told seemed to be information that would be useful after an arrest, not directly guiding him towards making one. About which the psychologist had warned him, he remembered: normal investigation methods had to come first. ‘You’ve been very patient.’

She frowned. ‘Have I helped?’

‘Sure,’ he lied.

The provocative smile came back. ‘You look better in the flesh than you did on television, from Moscow. You looked very pissed off there.’

‘It was a media event. There wasn’t any point.’

‘Can you believe what that asshole Burden did today? He posed for the photographers at the cemetery. And answered questions for reporters. Practically shoved Ann’s parents out of the way. She told me once how he dominated her mother and father, but I never believed it was as gross as that.’

‘I would have thought by now he would have run out of complaints about the way the investigation is going.’ Cowley paused. Cynically he added: ‘But then maybe I wouldn’t.’

‘The Washington Post said you’d been sent specially to Moscow.’

‘Yes.’

‘Other times you’re based here?’

Cowley just stopped short of saying his regular apartment was practically within walking distance. ‘Yes.’

‘When you get back — when it’s all over — why not call me sometime?’

‘Sure,’ agreed Cowley, with no intention of doing so.

He watched Burden’s cemetery media event on Live at Five, back at the hotel. The Senator said he intended to give the FBI the courtesy of a reply to his belief in a cover-up, before initiating a public debate in the Senate. A beautiful, innocent girl shouldn’t be used like a shuttlecock in some God-knows-what international diplomatic mess: it was too bad if Russia had something to hide.

Cowley sat shaking his head in disgust. It was all performance, he thought: Burden at the interment, Judy Billington after the same ceremony. Who was bothering to grieve for Ann Harris? He guessed her parents were: somebody had to.

The FBI Director saw Burden’s telecast, too, on the set in the Secretary of State’s office to which he had been summoned yet again.

‘It’s a direct Presidential order now,’ insisted Henry Hartz. ‘It’s got to be the whole truth, from now on.’

‘OK,’ said Ross. ‘He’ll get the truth.’

Paul Hughes was intercepted at immigration at Dulles airport. There were four men: the one who did the talking and produced the correct identification genuinely was from the State Department.

‘I didn’t expect this sort of treatment!’ said Hughes, settling comfortably into the back of the waiting limousine.

‘You probably don’t expect a lot of the treatment you’re going to get,’ said one of the CIA men. It wasn’t a chance remark: it was important for Hughes to start to sweat right away.

Petr Yezhov didn’t walk all the time. There were certain places where there were seats, dark places where he knew people couldn’t look at him, where he sat and rested. He stopped that night near the Chekhov House, on Ulitza Sadovaya Kudrinskaya, on a bench beneath a sparse collection of trees, wanting to get things clear in his mind, which was always difficult. His mother didn’t believe him. He didn’t care unduly about that: she never properly trusted him. He was worried about the men, though. They were official: people who had to be obeyed. People who had to be obeyed could lock him up again. He was very frightened of that happening.