Seven ways to die

13

The crew, except for Vinnie Hue and Larry Simon, vacated the office quickly to follow their assignments. Wolf and Annie returned to the lab to clean up.

Hue was busy transcribing and editing the tapes that had been gathered in the four hours since Handley’s body was discovered.

Simon was at his desk toward the rear of the room, his eyes fixed on the screen, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of his computer.

If Vincent Hue was the nerve center of the TAZ, Larry Simon was its brain. Like Hue, Simon had an IQ that was off the charts.

From an early age, Simon, the youngest son of wealthy Jewish parents, mastered every subject his teachers threw at him with an ease that baffled them. Like a magnet attracts flux, Simon’s facile brain attracted information and retained it.

By the time he was sixteen, the eccentric, moody, loner was a senior in college, five-five, and slightly overweight; a baby-faced teenager with a brain eons older than his body and littered with encyclopedic fragments of knowledge, none worthy of his undivided attention. When a group of psychologists gathered to study the prodigious youngster, one diagnosed him as borderline autistic.

But a psychology professor at Harvard Medical School named Howard Reischman disagreed, observing that he showed none of the signs of autism. “There’s a big difference between frustration and rage and boredom and ennui,” he told Simon’s parents. “He just hasn’t found anything that holds his interest long enough to focus on.”

He enrolled Simon in one of his abnormal psych classes in order to observe his learning habits and his interaction with other students. He quickly noted that Simon had a devilish sense of humor, never voluntarily answering questions in class and, when called on, casually couched his answers either as abstractions or ingenious epigrams. He wasn’t challenging the other students, he was challenging Reischman.

Then, on a field trip to a mental institution, Reischman observed Simon taking copious notes while observing interviews with the inmates. Simon never took notes. Was he really that interested, Reischman wondered?

Simon did not appear in class for a week following the trip. Reischman was concerned until Simon appeared at his house one night with a book tucked under his arm.

“Do you have a minute?” Simon asked. The minute turned into a four-hour conversation. In that one visit to the institution, Simon had grasped the most subtle distinctions between psychopaths and psychotics and was comfortable discussing the subject in some depth.

“The psychopaths were pretty bright guys,” Simon said. “The look normal but one of them lied all the time about everything. Another one played with himself the whole time we were there and actually enjoyed it. Totally anti-social. What separates them from the psychotics is they aren’t nutty. They know right from wrong, they just don’t care. They don’t have a conscience.

“On the other hand, the psychotics are confirmed whackos. They hear voices and have visions that make them commit crimes. They’re like that David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, who claimed his dog made him do it.

“Thing is, we don’t know what motivates psychopaths, so we can’t stop them before they commit crimes.”

“That’s true,” Reischman answered.

“Classic psychopaths,” Simon said. “Knew what they were doing and they knew it was wrong but they just kept doing it until they got caught.”

Reischman was fascinated. He just listened. Simon had assimilated the history of serial killers and the range of iniquity that set them aside in a terrifying enclave reserved for the worst predators of society and the paradigm that distinguished them from the norm: They were not insane, they simply had no conscience.

They liked to kill and the more they killed the more they liked it. Their motives were unique unto themselves, so unfathomable, so bizarre, they defied analysis, common decency, and human empathy.

Reischman realized it was the enigma that hooked Larry Simon. There was no easy explanation for these awful crimes. They were obscene social puzzles and as such, had become worthy of Simon’s attention.

“I think I know what I want to do with my life,” he announced.

At twenty-two, armed with a strong recommendation from Reischman to Brooks and a confirming phone call, Simon was admitted to the FBI school and assigned to Brooks upon graduating. Simon would last five years before Brooks realized the young genius was getting antsy. He had been gathering data and talking to people in the field and he was getting bored. Brooks knew it was time for Larry Simon to hit the street.

Brooks called an old friend, Lou Stinelli, a commander in the NYPD, and for thirty minutes regaled one of Manhattan’s top cops with Simon’s unique qualities. Stinelli listened with more than casual interest. Brooks’ timing was perfect for Stinelli was in the process of putting together a unique project of his own: the TAZ.

“Why do you want to get rid of him?” Stinelli asked.

“I don’t, but he needs to leave now. He needs to be on the street. He needs to go after these people face-to-face.”

“Send him up,” Stinelli replied.

Needless to say, Stinelli was blown away by the man’s knowledge.

“So? What did you think of the session?” Cody asked Kate as they walked toward the little man.

“Fascinating. I gather you and Wolf think we have a serial killer on our hands.”

“Worst case scenario,” Cody said. “When you catch one like this it crosses everybody’s mind. So far we don’t have that much to go on. We have to follow what we do have and see where it leads.”

They reached Simon’s desk but he kept doing what he was doing and didn’t look up.

“Bet you a buck I know what you’re up to,” Cody said.

“That little birdy tell you?” Simon said with a wry smile, still pecking at the keys. “I know better. I always lose whether it’s a little bird, the big bad wolf, or an owl and a pussycat that’s been banging on your ear.”

Winters frowned but said nothing.

“Deep six on Stembler?”

The little man stopped typing and leaned back in his chair. “Just backing you up. I think that crack about him looking for a new candidate for a son-in-law is on the money. I did a probe on Handley. A guy in the company named Louis Nevins made the initial recruiting interview when Handley was a junior at Princeton. But Stembler himself went over there for the final interview and nailed him that day. I mean, he had Handley married into the family when he hired him.”

The little man looked up at Kate. “Welcome to hell central.”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking the hand he offered.

“Picked a great day to start.”

“So I gather.”

Simon looked back at Cody. “What did that birdy tell you?”

“Be careful but work fast.”

Simon chuckled. “Obscure, as usual.”

“You had to be there.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say. I’ve already run all the names we’ve gathered through the names and moniker base, including the maid and Nevins. No hits, they’re all clean. And no reference to the sister.” He chuckled a bit and added: “The Staten Island Fairy didn’t make the cut either.”

“You gonna run ViCAP or NCIC yet?”

“Maybe. What I like best is bleeding the guy. That’s a new one on me. I may start the trail by entering all three of Wolf’s findings. Death by piercing, double dose of drugs and exsanguination and see what happens.”

“How about the crime scene?”

“Probably bring up a lot of bondage hits. Handcuffing to the chair, blah, blah, blah. All that crap isn’t that uncommon.”

He paused for a moment or two staring at the screen.

“Maybe this wasn’t a sex crime,” Kate pondered aloud. “That what the birdy meant?”

“Maybe he meant be careful but don’t waste time. Maybe Androg would like to lead us down a blind alley at this point.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“This is your part of the show, Si. Play the hand you feel we’ve been dealt.”

“S.O.P.”

“I’m gonna get Kate straightened away and pick up Charley. I’ll be back in thirty, maybe we can grab a sandwich.”

“Roger that.”

Cody and Kate headed for the elevator.

“Do you have wheels?” He asked her.

“No. I rent when I need to go out of the city.”

“Now is as good a time as any to pick up a chair and lamp and anything else you want for the office.”

She smiled. “My lamp and chair are at my apartment. We’ve been together a long time.”

“That’s on the west side, right? Ninety-fourth just off West End near Riverside Park?”

“I see I have no secrets,” she laughed.

“It’s on your application,” he said. “You’ll need transportation and a strong arm. I’ll get you one of the vans and one of the guys in the garage to help you.”

“Thanks. Question?”

“Fire away.”

“I’m not sure I got everything you two were talking about back there.”

“You mean about the bird?”

“Well, yes. For starters.”

“Ah, that’s just Si speak. You’ll catch on. Everybody in this squad has strong instincts. That’s one of the reasons we’re here. He was verbalizing his.”

“Was he talking about the falcon?”

“He didn’t know we saw the falcon,” Cody answered as they got on the elevator.