Leaving his office, Frank wondered why she didn't feel more victorious. In the squad room she told her detectives to have a good weekend because they were going to be spending the rest of their careers going door to door in Culver City.
A couple of hours after their shift ended, Noah and Frank were creeping along Manchester Boulevard. An injury accident had shut down two lanes of traffic on Florence, and Manchester was getting clogged with the overflow.
The detectives were on their way to interview the last rape victim. Five out of the eight families had consented to having their daughters reinterviewed, which Frank considered pretty good odds. If the testimony of the remaining victim was similar to that of the other girls, it would corroborate what they already knew: it was looking more and more like the same man was responsible for both the rapes and murders.
But where are you?
Frank had taken to spending downtime inside this guy's head.
She'd fallen asleep last night on the couch in the den, imagining him lurking in the park, patiently waiting for just the right girl to hit on. While Noah drove, Frank again indulged in her new pastime.
We've established a lack of confidence, so you're probably not going to be economically successful. But you do have a car. Have to the way you're moving these girls around. It's probably an older car, a practical model. You're a young man, so maybe it's your parents' car. Probably not a sibling's car—that would be harder to get hold of. You need more dependable wheels. We've ruled out friends and girlfriends. I bet you're a loner, that you spend more time with fantasies than people—
"Hey," Noah interrupted, "did I tell you Les made two jump-shots last night?"
It took Frank a moment to pull her thoughts together.
"What?" she asked, rather dreamily, and Noah cut her a quick glance.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I don't know. You look...weird."
She ignored him even though she felt weird. Frank was trying to clear her head by studying the two men in the car next to her. A song with a hard bass line beat inside their car. She wondered what percentage of hearing loss they were incurring. The driver felt her staring and turned to glare. Frank's arm was resting out the open window, and the driver rolled his window down too.
"What you lookin' at, bitch?"
He had two blue teardrops under one eye and a partially shaved head with a gang tat on the back. Frank grinned widely, showing teeth, and smoothly pulled her hand in under her jacket. The cholo must not have liked what he saw in Frank's eyes because he just sneered and looked ahead, but he made sure to roll his window up.
"Friend of yours?"
"They're all my friends, No. I'm sworn to protect and to serve."
Practice hadn't gone well, and his father had snarled at him all the way home.
"You think you're smarter than me now, don't you?"
"No, sir."
"Think you know more than your old man?"
"No, sir."
"Well I'm not too old to take you on and you're not too big."
They pulled into the garage. His father tossed the keys at him.
"Wait for me in the office," he growled before slamming into the house.
Had it not been for dread, the boy wouldn't have felt anything as he dragged himself into the little locked room. He'd stopped crying years ago and had never imagined fighting. His father joined him after ten long minutes, his scowl replaced by an excruciating smirk.
13
Richard Clay welcomed Frank with a gentle handshake and an honest, open appraisal. Frank respected Clay. He'd been with the Behavioral Science unit for a long time and knew a lot. Unlike some of the other head-shrinkers who were just crawling toward their pensions, Clay was genuinely helpful.
"I appreciate your time, Dick."
"This sounds like an interesting fellow you're chasing. I'm curious to see what you've got on him."
"Well, not much. That's part of the problem."
Frank outlined their perp's MO, showed Clay all their photographs, and briefly justified her reasons for tying the eight rapes and four murders to the same perp. He asked a few questions, then took his time studying the information.
Clay was soft-spoken, and Frank had been sitting on the edge of her chair to hear what he said. Now she relaxed, absently observing him. Although Clay was close to retiring, he looked fit and wiry. Trim white hair encircled a tan bald spot. His eyes, behind wire-framed granny glasses, were warm and dark. Frank had consulted with him before and enjoyed his thoughtful collaboration. As was his habit, he wiggled a pen through his fingers like a drum majorette manipulating a baton. Frank wondered if he did magic tricks for the grandchildren lined up in photos on his windowsill.
After examining the data, he cleared his throat and proceeded to quietly enumerate his thoughts. He corroborated Frank's theory that their man didn't have a lot of confidence, ticking his justifications off on his fingers. Clay paused and asked, "Are you following my train of thought?"
Frank summed up: "A physically indistinct person can indicate an emotionally indistinct person which may indicate a lack of confidence."
"Exactly."
"Which," she continued, "supports his blitz style of attack. He doesn't have the confidence or charisma for a direct confrontation."
"Yes."
Clay looked slightly disappointed that Frank had already reached that step. He was a methodical man and liked laying theories out in baby steps.
"I think this might be one of your greatest insights into his character. If we agree your fellow has a lack of confidence, we can make a number of generalizations about him."
Clay put down the pen and started counting on his fingers again. He listed things Frank had already considered, such as low income and average intelligence. Probably no higher education. If he worked, Clay suspected, it would be at menial jobs, and probably alone or with few others around him. Clay didn't think he'd have good social skills, and partly because of this, he'd be single, though he might have a girlfriend. He suspected that any mutual sexual encounters would probably not be satisfactory for either partner, more discouraging than fulfilling.
Neatly aligning the victims photographs, Clay scanned them through the lower half of his bifocals. Frank was taping their conversation, but she glanced up from the notes she was scribbling as he asked, "Has anything I've said meshed with your calculations?"
"A lot. It's hard to slip him into a specific category—organized/ disorganized, nonsocial/asocial—because his characteristics overlap. But I agree with your assessment of his personality. It fits well with his basic MO."
"Did you submit a report to the FBI?"
"It's not back yet. I know an agent there who's going to work it up their list, but it'll still take a couple of weeks."
"Do we have that long?"
"Hey, you're the doctor."
Clay smiled, then looked perplexed as he picked up Nichols' picture.
"I wouldn't think she fit in here."
Frank explained why she thought Nichols had been done by the same suspect and asked Clay what he made of the preference for clothed victims.
"That's an interesting aspect." Clay swiveled his profile to Frank, furiously working the pen in his hand. "Why would you keep clothes on an assault victim?"