Skin Deep

81

“It does looks like her,” said Jackie. “But it’s probably just an unfortunate coincidence.”

Steve was sitting at her dining-room table, the printout of the Essex River woman plus a photo of Dana sitting side by side.

Jackie sipped a glass of wine as she studied the two images. The last time she saw Dana was at a party three years ago and she didn’t remember her clearly. “But this is a digital reconstruction, so at best it’s generic—the heart-shaped face, the big eyes, the full mouth.”

“What about Farina?” he said, and laid a shot of her beside the other two.

Jackie studied the three images. “Again, only vaguely. At the right angles, lots of people resemble each other, like those funny separated-at-birth shots of celebrities—you know, John Kerry and Herman Munster, or Courtney Cox and the singer Nelly Furtado.”

“Me and Brad Pitt.”

“There you go—spitting images.”

She was probably right since there were differences in the fleshiness, the shape and length of the noses, the slant of the eyes, and, of course, the hair. Generic similarities crossed with paranoia. Nonetheless, Bowers’s reconstruction photo was disturbingly resemblant of Dana.

Jackie picked up the photo of Dana. “How long ago was this taken?”

The shot was of them at the pool bar in Negril, Jamaica. “Twelve years ago.”

“You have a more recent photo?” She peered over her glasses, wondering why he had brought an old photo.

“It’s the only shot I have. We’re separated.”

“Good heavens, I didn’t know.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me, too. But we’re working on it.” He sipped his Pepsi.

“And I hope for the best.” She glanced at the photos again. “If nothing else, there’s consolation in the fact that both these photos are of younger women, and our stalker’s hunting women about forty. Even if Dana has aged well, and I’m sure she has, it’s merely a coincidence.”

“But my guess is it’s the same killer. The chemical analysis says the stocking is the same material as the others. So it may be another Wolford.”

“And it looks like homicide since nobody commits suicide by tying a stocking around their neck, then throwing themselves into the ocean. It’s one or the other. Both look like murder, then cover-up.”

“That’s the consensus.”

“And, like you say, there are too many elements in common—the socioeconomic levels, their ages, marital status, their living situations—all single and living alone, most having just separated from men. Their appearances, body types plus the lack of any evidence of foul play, and the suggestion that the victims knew their killer. And, of course, the method of killing. I also think there’s some kind of progression in his MO.”

“Progression?”

“From outright murder of the Essex River woman to staged autoerotica.”

“Maybe he just got cagey. The Stubbs family and friends protested the suggestion that said it was suicide, saying that she had too much to live for and wouldn’t have intentionally taken her own life. It wasn’t her.”

“Oh. So you’re saying he decided after Stubbs to cover his tracks and make it look like accidental autoerotica.”

“Yes, but he still used the stocking.”

“Well, that’s the thing with serial killers. No matter how clever they are, they’re slaves to their core pathology and rituals. This guy’s MO may change: he may do it in the bedroom or bathroom or on a river; he may show up in the daytime or middle of the night—but he can’t escape the need to strangle with a black stocking. It feeds his needs. It’s his signature, technically his ‘personation.’ And it’s what links the deaths.”

“What I want to know is how they’re linked to him in life. How he finds his victims. What brings him to them.”

“Maybe the question is what brings them to him.”

What brings them to him. Steve felt a slight shift in the room’s coordinates. “Such as what?”

“I don’t know, but it might be an angle to consider.” She took a sip of wine.

He nodded. “What we’ve never gotten was a handle on his motive or intent. None of the cases showed any sexual activity, injury, mutilation—none of that.”

“You have to remember that serial killers choose their victims because something in their manner or appearance—body style, hair, eyes, facial characteristics, et cetera—something fuels perverse fantasies and drives them to attack. Essentially, their victims are nothing but props.”

“Redheads who resemble my wife.”

“Let’s just say attractive redheads.”

“And the driving mechanism is a combo of hate, revenge, rage.”

“All of that, and control. Given the weapon and circumstances, I’d say these killings were sexual even though some basics are missing. Most rise out of the quest for heightened erotic experience, generated by the physical and psychological torture and killing of a victim. A sick, dark pressure builds and builds until the perpetrator can only relieve the craving with another killing. So he pursues another victim out of a rising compulsion.”

Steve nodded as twenty years of classroom inevitably seeped out of her.

“Since deviant sexual behavior is often rooted in childhood trauma, I’d say this killer harbors a deep hatred of women, which suggests an abusive female guardian whose influence left him beset with a sense of impotence. And that traumatization has manifested itself as murderous rage.”

“So, the guy’s killing his mother.”

“Something like that. Analysts of the Freudian persuasion would theorize that intimate assaults like these represent a merging of homicidal and suicidal urges—that is, in murdering his victim he’s slaying that part of him that’s been damaged and, thus, restoring his masculine self-esteem.”

“Sounds pretty convoluted.”

“That’s Freud. But it all circles back to men either screwing and/or killing Mom and themselves.”

“And because Mom is probably dead, he’ll continue killing until he’s stopped.”

“Yes, because the compulsion is never satisfied.”

“But what about the lack of sexual abuse?”

“That’s unusual, I must say. But while the killings are technically sex-free, they’re still sexual—the nakedness, the bedrooms and bath, the sexy undergarment. It’s possible he’s a voyeur but not a rapist. That he gets fulfillment by simply killing.”

“Or maybe he can’t rape. Maybe he’s impotent,” Steve said. That was Neil’s theory.

“Maybe. It’s possible he experienced sexual rejection as a boy and loathes or fears sex.”

“Or maybe he can’t perform but is hoping to with each victim.”

“All sorts of possibilities,” Jackie said. “Whatever drives his obsession is a disease that almost never goes away. It’s like compulsive eaters, gamblers, drinkers, people hooked on pornography. Studies show that certain areas of the brain become stimulated under compulsions—none more powerful than sex, which combines a complex of emotional needs with the persistent drive for the next orgasm. It’s pure biology, which in the extreme kills.”

“It’s the next one we want to prevent.”

“Yes.” She looked at her notes. “Unfortunately, the intervals between these give no indication when he’ll need to kill again. Sometimes they kill in spurts, sometimes they wait years.”

“What does he do between killings?”

“He leads a normal life. Goes to work, plays with his kids if he has any, makes tee time and school committee meetings. And nobody knows that behind his exterior lives a brutal predator.”

“Ted Bundy.”

“Yes, and hundreds like him.”

“What else do you see?”

“As you know, profiling isn’t an exact science. That being said, I’d say he’s a white male between thirty-five and fifty-five, physically strong, smart, college-educated. He probably lives alone, is alienated from family and friends. But given the lack of evidence at the crime scenes, he’s very clever and has a strong sense of control and the ability to fabricate a good image.”

“A good liar.”

“Yes. Given how he probably knew the victims, I’d say he’s a charmer, maybe good-looking and a good talker—enough to lure women to bed then strangle them. And that suggests someone with good standing in the community since some of his victims were upper-middle-class, fashionable women.”

Steve nodded and let her go on.

“He’s not particularly mobile. Unlike the common myth of someone who travels the country looking for victims, most serial murderers kill close to home. In this case eastern Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire. So he probably lives and works within a hundred miles of Boston.”

“That’s our thought, too.”

“Another thing, you might want to look into the medical history of the suspects. Some researchers argue that many serial killers suffered some form of brain damage when young, usually to the right hemisphere, which accounts for lack of empathy. So if you can get access to early medical records, look for any brain trauma—blows to the head, repeated concussions—or neurological abnormalities.”

Steve nodded. “Back to his MO shifts. On the third killing the guy gets cagey and decides to set a stage for suicide, maybe because of the Novak protest. It’s possible he knows something about police procedures.”

“Hard not to. Serial killers today know about crime scene forensics. They’re C.S.I.-savvy. They’ve seen the shows and movies. They’ve read books. They know police work. They know how to cover their trail and disguise the scene.”

“As opposed to the killer who leaves his signature to taunt the cops, to say, ‘It’s me.’”

“Yes. This one isn’t playing hide-and-seek with police. He just can’t help but leave his signature behind.”

“Yet he stages a suicide—intentional or accidental—to cover that the deaths are serial murders. And that’s what I keep circling back to—what I don’t get.”

“I’m not sure. Unless there are other elements he didn’t want discovered.”

“Like a telltale signature—something that is all his and he doesn’t want found.”

“Possibly. And maybe that’s what you’ll have to figure out to stop him.”

“So I’m looking for someone whose mother had red hair, wore black stockings, and who knocked him on his head a lot.”

She laughed. “Now, aren’t you glad you stopped by?”

He gave Jackie a hug. “Thanks never comes close.”

“It’ll do.” She squeezed him back.

Steve closed the door behind him. The evening was warm and a crescent moon made a crooked smile over the trees. He headed for his car, thinking that under that moon was a killer who hunted women who looked like his wife.

As he pulled away, Jackie’s words reverberated in his head: “Maybe the question is what brings them to him.”