“Gee, I hadn't thought of that,” she joked before saying good-bye and hanging up.
THIRTEEN
We may easily fail to pity the sociopath and psychopath for their ghastly evil, but we must surely pity them for the unremitting lives of apprehension they lead.
The following Monday, Jessica joined yet another general meeting called by Chief Inspector Boulte, this one limited to Scotland Yard detectives alone. Every single detective on the force had long before been put on alert regarding the case of the Crucifier, but now with the additional information concerning new findings in the autopsy reports brought about by Dr. Jessica Coran, findings which could not be ignored, Boulte wished for his entire team to be “well-versed and further enlightened by Dr. Jessica Coran herself.”
Why am I getting the idea Boulte hates my guts? she asked herself. At Sharpe's request, the man had contacted her superiors in D.C., who had in turn contacted Quantico, who had in turn contacted Eriq Santiva, who had contacted her. Obviously, Boulte saw her competence as a personal rebuff to him. In his zeal to demean her, he had pushed professional courtesy to its limits. Either that or worse. Perhaps he'd gotten wind of the budding personal relationship between her and Richard and he didn't like it. Worse still, he saw it as an opportunity to hurt Richard.
Still, Boulte remained in charge when he now asked Jessica, “Will you share further profile information, anything developed by you and Sharpe, for instance, with the rest of us.” His tone made clear that he knew the two of them had slept together, and somehow she'd become yet another prize in the continual battles of the two men. Just how Chief Inspector Boulte knew remained a mystery, but Jessica suspected Erin Culbertson. Damn her.
Jessica nodded, taking the podium, and after saying good afternoon to some sixty or so assembled inspectors, she listed the likely characteristics of the killer again, adding, “We, first of all, we believe to be a they-at least two men. They have a religious fixation, an obsession with the crucifixion, likely find replicas and paintings of it everywhere they spend time. They will likely lead exemplary lives, purporting to be model citizens, even religious experts or leaders among their acquaintances. They will likely be in their mid-twenties to upper-thirties, and are most likely white men. They will be married, working steady jobs, likely lower-income, blue-collar, raising families and/or caring for aged parents, all the duties of sons, fatherhood, and husbands part of their facade, and part of the pressure they live under. We've also developed some threads of connection among the victims. The victims are middle-class for the most part, white-one reason we suspect the killers to be white. Each victim led a life generally uneventful, devoted to an effort at finding peace and comfort in organized religion and within themselves. They had little else in common save religious devotion. This doesn't tell us much, but it does suggest that they may have met their attackers in their quest for religious answers.”
A characteristically wry Falstaff-looking British detective interjected, “Not exactly lookin' for love in all the wrong places. But perhaps looking for God in all the wrong places? Heh, Doctor?”
“You could put it that way, yes.” Her smile relaxed.
“So, we seek out any and all bizarre-o cults in London? That's a gargantuan task in itself,” said one inspector.
“Take us till bloody doomsday,” added another. Jessica went on the defensive, her tone firm, saying, “Actually, sometimes, if a law-enforcement official shows up at the doorstep of a guilty person, he automatically confesses and asks, 'Why'd it take you so long? I've been waiting for you.' “ After the meeting, Boulte said to Jessica, “A news conference is set to go. I'd like you to be beside me when I inform the press of our most recent findings.”
Near her wit's end, Jessica exploded, “My God, Chief! Another meeting?”
“Meet the press time, Doctor,” came his simple response.
“You don't intend to give them the details surrounding the tongue brandings, do you?”
“That bit of news may shake someone from apathy, may open someone's mind to the possibility of a neighbor's strange habits and lifestyle.”
“It could also jeopardize a conviction, if and when the killer's apprehended. We need to keep some information in-house.”
“We owe it to the public to be open and honest with them at this point, and… well…”
“And that's the image you wish to portray, but that information isn't news! It must be withheld. It could prove invaluable as a tool in interrogating viable suspects later, and it can certainly rule a suspect out quickly, if skillfully used to-”
“We need to tell the press something now, today, and it has to be something new, Dr. Coran, and it has to be concrete evidence.”
“I see. Then no amount of persuasion on my part will change the course you've chosen.”
“No, it will not.”
Jessica followed alongside Boulte, Sharpe, and Copperwaite to the news conference. Surprisingly, Stuart Copperwaite appeared animated over the prospect of cameras and microphones pushed into his face. She chalked his enthusiasm up to his youth, his inexperience with the press. He'd soon enough learn the pitfalls of dealing with the “free press.” Sharpe, by comparison, appeared sullen, perhaps angry. She wondered if he and Boulte had already had it out over this matter. The two men, obviously, were not speaking to one another at the moment.
Suddenly Richard said to Boulte, “This is shoddy police work, sir, and I choose not to participate in your little circus.” Sharpe stormed off to Boulte's, “You come back here, Inspector, right this moment, or I will be forced to take sanctions against you for insubordination. You force me to remove you from the case and it will be on your head, Richard! Richard!”
“Do that!” Sharpe shouted over his shoulder.
“Damn that fellow,” bellowed Boulte at Copperwaite. “You'll have to buck up, Stuart. You are, for the moment, the lead investigator on the case of the century.”
Copperwaite blanched and didn't smile, but he almost saluted and he might have clicked his heels, Jessica thought. “I shall do my level best, sir.”
A far cry from his back-stabbing comments of only a few days ago, Jessica thought. Now Copperwaite's lapping at Paul Boulte's boots. She momentarily wondered if Sharpe had been given Copperwaite to mold and fashion for some insidious purpose such as his keeping a close eye on Sharpe's activities. It fleeted past like a shy shadow, but the intuitive feeling certainly sat squarely before Jessica now that Boulte nodded appreciatively at his junior inspector and said, “I knew I could count on you, Coppers.”
Copperwaite's lips pursed in an unassuming smile, while his eyes sought out Jessica, sending a silent and unspoken message that clearly read: What else am I to do? Storm off like a child, like Richard? What will that accomplish?
Copperwaite read nothing in Jessica's return gaze. She allowed nothing to be transmitted. Still, the coldness of her gaze, the neutrality of it, brought about a painted smile that flit birdlike across Stuart's countenance, gone almost as suddenly as it had come. As the press conference began, a pencil-thin, sharp-edged woman calling herself the new public prosecutor promised the usual political improbables. But Boulte worked the center ring with Copperwaite to one side of him, Jessica to the other. Since her way to London had been paid for by Boulte's department, she felt she must do as the man requested of her. But she volunteered nothing. Reporters had to pry the new forensic evidence from her with one leading question after another. Jessica finally and reluctantly told the press about the branding of the tongues, only at Boulte's insistence. However, the exact wording was withheld and would be kept internal so that investigators could know when a suspect is viable or simply a crackpot wishing to confess to the crime.