PrivateSector

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

There were no vacant desks in the Detective Section of the Alexandria police station. All hands were on deck, to borrow a naval term, indicating that Lieutenant Martin and his grim flatfoots had escalated to full crisis mode. Phones were ringing, scores of people were being interviewed, detectives scurrying from desk to desk, trading tips and case notes and the odds on Sunday’s Red-skins game against the loathsome Dallas Cowboys. In short, all the trappings of a roomful of dedicated professionals working diligently to catch the bad guy before he struck again.

Anyway, Lieutenant Martin was in his glass cage, and appeared exhausted and wrung out; collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, thick bags under bloodshot eyes-a man with a world of shit on his shoulders. Also I noted Spinelli and a stranger in a gray suit seated side by side against the back wall. Black-and-white photos of dead bodies in gruesome poses were everywhere, taped to the glass walls, spread around desks, piled in stacks on the floor.

It has been my experience that the more flustered the cops become, the more they make up for lack of progress by fabricating the signs of frantic activity. Cops are very good at faking it. These shots of dead girls were a sort of picturesque camouflage, or perhaps guilty reminders. In any regard, a guy was still free and running around town who would likely regard the gallery as a fine testament to his prowess and handiwork.

Janet nodded at Lieutenant Martin, then turned in the direction of Spinelli and the guy seated beside him, and she froze.

The guy got out of his chair, smiled, and said, “Hello, Janet.”

“George.”

Uh-oh-it seemed I had heard that name before.

He crossed the floor and planted a kiss on her cheek.

He said to her, “I am truly sorry about Lisa. I’ve been angling to get on this case since I heard. Of course, I had to wait till it turned federal.”

She was staring at him like a corpse that popped out of a coffin. “You’re on the case?”

“As of last night. But the Director decided that since two of the victims lived in Alexandria and the third was deposited here, the overall lead will stay with the locals. I’ve just been appointed the SAC for the Bureau’s contingent.”

SAC, if you don’t know, is FBI-speak for Senior Agent in Charge. This is how Boy Scouts pronounce BMIC, Big Motherfucker in Charge, which would be more accurate, as the FBI tends to treat locals like idiots and leave lots of bruised feelings in its wake.

Special Agent George Meany, the guy who screwed his fiancee for a promotion, was tall and well-built, scrubbed and dressed like an overgrown choirboy, with clean-cut good looks and a John Wayneish way of moving and standing. Also, he looked remarkably like Eliot Ness, meaning a younger Robert Stack, right down to his cleft chin and scrunched-up forehead that seemed to convey eternal thoughtfulness and seriousness of purpose. Or possibly he had gas.

Anyway, he looked at me and held out a hand, which I took. He said, “I’m Special Agent George Meany. I assume you’re Major Drummond.”

“Well… somebody has to be.”

He regarded me more closely and said, “Janet and I are old friends.”

“Good for you.”

“Very dear old friends.”

I smiled at him, and in that instant we both, I think, concluded we weren’t going to like each other. With men, it often comes down to a sort of dog thing, some quick, visceral sniffs, and bingo, watch your ass when you piss on each other’s trees. But I knew why I didn’t like him. He screwed, and then fucked, my friend, and that’s disgusting. Plus, I didn’t like the way he referred to Martin and Spinelli as “locals.” It had a nasty, condescending ring, like he really meant yokels, and we should all kiss his angelic ass.

But why he instantly disliked me was the more intriguing question. The answer, I guess, was poised about a foot away, the tree, so to speak, who was still staring at George with her jaw agape.

And just to be sure we got things off on the right foot, I was about to say something really tart and nasty, when Janet intervened, saying, “George, I’m glad you’re here. Really. This is a very tough case and it’s obviously personal for me. I appreciate that you’ve asked to get involved.” Janet looked at me and added, “George is one of the FBI’s top field agents. We worked together in Boston.”

She had already told me this, of course. So I interpreted this to mean, Keep your nose out of this, Drummond. Well, I’m a gentleman, and it wasn’t any of my business, so I decided to comply with her wishes. I would behave perfectly toward George until I could think of a good way to stick my foot deeply up his ass.

Besides, Lieutenant Martin had suddenly begun apologizing for inconveniencing us again, and then flashed us photos of the most recently deceased. As Fox had reported, her nose had been hacked off, splattering the rest of her face with blood. A visual ID from these photos would have been difficult for her own mother. Regardless, Janet and I both said we didn’t recognize her.

Next, a black-and-white photo was jammed in our faces-same woman, pre-mortis, if you will, an office or passport photo, I guessed. A fairly attractive woman, I thought, but for her nose, a big knobby thing that overwhelmed every other feature. Again Janet and I confessed we didn’t know her.

“Her name’s Anne Carrol,” Lieutenant Martin grimly informed us. “The victim was single, gay, and a hotshot attorney at the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

So, this was interesting-two attorneys, an accountant, and a TV blabberperson. Roughly the same age, ranging from mildly attractive to very attractive, well educated, successful, single, and professional. Common threads, as we say in the trade. But was there some one thread in particular, some defining human essence that attracted a killer? Successful women? Attractive women? Right-handed women?

Well, it was a waste of time for me to hypothesize, because the FBI and local flatfoots were surely mulling the same comparisons, just as they were continuing to turn over every stone, judging by our presence here. I mean, here we were three murders away from Lisa’s, and still bouncing in and out of the Alexandria station every time a new corpse turned up.

Anyway, checking the block, Spinelli asked Janet, “Is it possible your sister knew her?”

“Possibly.” She thought about it a moment, then said, “She never mentioned her.”

“Carrol was done last night, ’bout nine,” Spinelli explained. “Shortly after ten this mornin’ the ghoul called Fox and said to peek in the Dumpster out back. We still don’t know where he did the job on her.”

I asked Spinelli, “You’re sure the killer made the call?”

“He said he tried to fix her nose.”

“Oh… right.”

Janet remarked to Spinelli, “The press are reporting that you suspect it’s the L. A. Killer.”

“That’s the prevailing opinion,” Martin confirmed. He then glanced over at Spinelli, and informed us, “Although he doesn’t agree.”

Janet asked Spinelli, “Why, Danny?”

The question wasn’t directed at him, but Meany bounced up and stated, “Janet, we’re nearly a hundred percent sure it’s him.”

“But not a hundred percent?”

“You know that level of certainty’s an impossibility. But I’ve looked at everything-it’s him.”

Janet glanced over at Spinelli and asked, “From the sperm on Fiorio’s body, did you get a DNA match with the other victims?”

“The sperm on her thigh matched none of the other specimens,” Spinelli replied.

“Well, isn’t that odd?” Janet asked, or suggested. “Three different sperm types.”

“It is a mystery,” Meany said. “But don’t read too much into it.”

“I’m not, George.” She then said to Meany, “I’m just curious. According to the news accounts, the L. A. Killer left his own semen.”

“Right. That is what we thought, at the time. We figure he realized that was a mistake and is covering his tracks better this time.”

Janet offered him an odd smile. “I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“The sperm on the corpses… whose is it?”

“Whose? We have no idea whose. Not his, obviously. In fact, we think he’s splashing specimens on the bodies.”

“Specimens?”

“Yes… specimens. We think he carries vials around, most likely obtained from a fertility clinic or a doctor’s office. Cuthburt’s murder suggests this guy’s an expert in B amp;E, and those types of facilities don’t have a reputation for great security.”

“But didn’t the L. A. Killer ejaculate his own sperm?”

“As I said, that was our opinion. He was never caught, though, so we never got a DNA match. Maybe he was splashing, too.”

“But you’re suggesting this guy splashes different people’s semen on the bodies. Why the difference?”

Meany crossed the floor and put a hand on her arm. “Look, think back to that first case we worked together. Or any case you’ve ever prosecuted. There are always incongruous threads in these things.”

I was about to ask Meany if by incongruous threads, he meant things like strongarming witnesses, illegal wiretaps, and so forth. But before I could make that helpful point, Janet replied, “For the sake of argument, assume you’ve already got the L. A. Killer’s DNA from the killings three years ago. Why would he hide it this time?”

Meany replied, “You said yourself, that’s an assumption. In any regard, we know the man’s a nut. Who can tell what twisted logic is driving him this time? The truth is, we won’t know till we catch him.” His hand was still on her arm as he informed her, “But we will catch him, Janet. Have no doubt about that.”

Janet faced Spinelli and asked, “Danny, what’s your view?”

“Mine?” He glanced pointedly at Meany and said, “We got a guy tryin’ to act like the L. A. Killer.”

“A copycat?”

He nodded. “That L. A. guy, he liked to squeal to the local news about the finer points of his handiwork, right?”

“So you’re suggesting a copycat might have a profile to fit into.”

“A fuckin’ textbook.”

“And what makes you think this isn’t just the same guy?”

“The sperm thing. The L. A. wacko didn’t toss somebody else’s. This guy’s jerkin’ us around.”

Meany, who was still holding Janet’s arm, said, “We of course considered what Spinelli’s suggesting. Look, the Director’s directly involved and our top people are on it. We’ve carefully, blah, blah.. .” He launched into this incredibly long spiel about how his all-knowing and beloved FBI looks at everything, similarities, differences, and so forth, and computes them into its assessments. I tuned him out.

Not that I don’t admire the FBI; I actually think they’re a wonderful bunch and all that, but if these guys were that good, how come they didn’t catch the Rosenbergs till after they gave the commies the blueprints for a nuclear device? I mean, you fry these two people after they already told the Sovs how to incinerate a hundred million folks? If there’s such a thing as postmature ejaculation, these guys had it.

However, Janet’s eyes never left his face, and, incidentally, his hand never left her arm. I found this annoying for some reason. The same guy who shoved a shiv in her back now shows up, all smiley and dimple-chinned, the white knight promising to slay the nasty old dragon. Give me a break-the only reason this jerk slapped on the kneepads and begged his bosses for this case was to wheedle his way back into Janet’s knickers. Surely she saw right through him. Right?

But there was this moment after Meany finished his FBI-knows-all tutorial where everybody just sat and pondered what he’d said. Or maybe, like me, they’d all tuned out so long that they needed a moment to restart their motors.

Janet finally said, “Thank you, George.”

Another moment passed before Janet suggested, “The theory was the L. A. Killer ejaculated. Either the torture or the act of killing got him off, right?”

Meany replied, “That’s what our profilers concluded. The victim abuse and killing were sexual fantasies for him. We believe he experienced orgasm at some point during the torture, then snapped their necks.” He added, “Roughly speaking, this case appears to follow the same model.”

“Then shouldn’t there be traces of his semen?”

“I know this is going to sound silly,” Meany informed her. “Our profilers hypothesize that our killer now wears a condom.”

Silly? I believe I mumbled, “Boy, it sounds so obvious now that you mention it.”

Meany stared at me-three demerits.

Janet faced Meany again. “And what about the increasing ferocity toward the victims?”

“Not uncommon,” he replied. “Success goes to their heads. We see it all the time. They start with certain inhibitions. The more they get away with, the more those inhibitions erode. Also, it gets harder to achieve sexual arousal. They push the envelope and experiment more.”

Janet appeared to ponder this point, then said, “And you think that accounts for it?”

“There’s a second theory we’re wrestling with. He may see this as a competition… a game. The women are pieces on the board. The provocative postures of the victims, the calls to the networks, the splashed semen as a calling card, the whole process of physical escalation could mean he sees this as a match. He makes the rules, maybe even alters the rules, and we have to play.”

Spinelli, I noticed, was hunched over, staring at the floor, feet tapping, a sort of sardonic expression pasted on his face. And it struck me that he and I, we had a few things in common. We both thought George Meany was an asshole. Also, this prolonged discussion about sperm and DNA made for great cocktail conversation-or possibly not-but nothing more. Debates about the queer habits of this ghoul weren’t going to catch him. Maybe it made everybody feel better, but it was a substitute for actually dropping this guy. The score was Killer 4, Cops 0; they’ve got no tangible evidence to tie him to the crimes, no idea who he is or how they’re going to catch him, and everybody’s trying to figure out whether he slaps a poolie over his pudley.

Eventually, even they drew the conclusion that the subject had been exhausted, and after a few more closing comments, special thanks from Martin for coming in, and so forth, the group began to break up. Hands were shaken, fond adieus were exchanged, and then Meany escorted Janet and me back through the warren of detective desks and out to the parking lot.

In fact, we were at my car when Meany said to me, “Excuse us, Drummond. Janet and I need to talk about a few things. In private.”

He then led Janet about thirty feet away. They squared off, about five feet apart, and faced each other. I had no intention of eavesdropping, because it was absolutely none of my business. I believe respect for others’ privacy is next to Godliness. However, the hearing in my left ear happens to be better than my right, and if I kept my head twisted just so, snatches of the conversation did inadvertently drift into my aural cavity.

For instance, Meany, in a whiny tone, complaining, “… and you just disappeared out of my life, walked out… without giving me any chance to explain.”

And Janet replying, “What did you expect, George? You shouldn’t have gone to my boss on me. You betrayed me.”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. My supervisors in D. C. made that call. I swear that’s-”

Well, the wind suddenly whipped up and there was a long exchange I couldn’t catch. But I have a good eye for body language. And Meany was bending toward her, appearing earnest, that scrunched-up forehead pickled with sincerity, his hands roving all over her arms and shoulders. Also, Meany was one of those guys who closes the airspace, and the gap had narrowed from five feet to a few inches.

Then the wind died down and I overheard Meany say to her, “… and I still love you.”

And Janet reply to him, “Well… I, uh, I’m confused about my feelings toward you.”

I mean, please. Wake up, Janet. The guy was lying. From fifty feet away I could tell that-his lips were moving.

Anyway, the wind whipped up again, and they chatted for another few minutes, and you could tell it was getting pretty cordial before they finally concluded the discussion and headed back in my direction. I wouldn’t say they were lovey-dovey or anything. But from their expressions and the relaxed, amiable way they moved, George had really twisted her ear and was back in some form of good graces.

In fact, Meany had his arm over Janet’s shoulder and was whispering something.

Geez, somebody had to do something, so I interrupted and said, “Hey, George, you mentioned you were sure you’d catch this guy. How?”

As I mentioned previously, cops hate it when you try to pin them down. Plus, somebody needed to bring Janet back to her senses and show her this guy was full of shit.

In fact, Special Agent Meany appeared not to appreciate my inquiry, because his eyes sort of narrowed as he said, “Good detective work, great technology, and brainpower.” He added, “Why? What business is it of yours?”

“Well, you know… curiosity.”

“Great. I love curious witnesses. I’ve got seventy-five agents working around the clock, the media, public relations people, and my bosses jumping all over my ass, and I’ve got all the time in the world to answer questions from some clown like you.”

Well, goodness. Janet gave George an odd look and said, “It was a perfectly fair question.”

He shot me a curt glance and replied to her, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t gotten much sleep since I took over this investigation. I guess I’m a little irritable.” He then leaned against the side of my car and said to me, “All right. You asked, so I’ll fill you in on what I’ve discovered. I’ve reconstructed the murder sites and reviewed every element of the evidence and crime reports. You should always do that, right?”

“Right.”

“Because sometimes… well, sometimes you pick up things others missed. Not that they’re incompetent, but in the heat of battle, as you people call it, certain details can slip through the cracks.”

I didn’t want another long tutorial from this jerk, and I said, “Well, this is very interesting, but-”

“And,” he continued, “with a second look you pick up some of those things. Here’s an example. Lieutenant Martin’s log says that on the night of Lisa’s murder you arrived at the Pentagon parking lot at 9:27 P.M. Martin’s people estimate she was murdered about thirty minutes prior. You told Martin you were supposed to meet her in that parking lot. You see the problem?”

I was starting to explain what the problem was when he added, with a nasty smirk, “Of course, I’m not blaming you, but I did wonder why Lisa was standing around in a big empty parking lot, late at night, vulnerable to this monster. She was well-known for being cautious, efficient, and punctual. Then I put two and two together. And, this is just a guess… but I concluded that her date didn’t have the courtesy to be on time.” He added, “In fact, had you been on time, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Janet was giving me a queer look.

I looked at her and explained, “I was late because I was getting a ticket from a cop.”

He slapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t make up excuses for my sake, pal. I told you… nobody’s blaming you.”

He turned to Janet and said, “Why don’t I give you a lift back to your hotel? It’ll give us a chance to catch up, and discuss our arrangements for dinner.”

It struck me, as I watched them drive away, that I might have underestimated Mr. George Meany.

Did I get my ass kicked, or what?