‘Will he kill again?’
‘Of course, when the mood takes him. He must be feeling good — he has to know that the police have nothing. Even the press has died down.’ He paused, then went on, ‘This is his sex life, his action, and it’s connected to his own sexuality. He will get no pleasure from masturbation, he’s probably impotent so his masculinity is warped. He is both male and female, and he is killing as a man. We know this because the anonymous caller gave a good description of what he was wearing. So we’re not looking for a man who dresses as a woman and then kills. We’re looking for a man who consistently wants to kill. Just as you said, I too think he wants to kill the woman inside him.’
Fellows sat on the arm of his chair, swinging one leg. ‘You killed a boy, Rooney told me. He said you were drunk on duty.’
Lorraine felt as if she’d been punched. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.
‘Do you remember what it felt like?’
He had to strain to hear what she said. ‘I had to kill a number of people in the line of duty and you never forget one of them.’
‘You did not answer the question. I asked if you recalled what it felt like to kill that boy.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘of course I remember.’
He stared at her intently, knew she was lying but he was astonished at the way she held his gaze and didn’t flinch away.
‘But you were intoxicated.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you remember.’
She broke his gaze and he knew she was in trouble. Lorraine stood up, pulling her skirt straight. ‘It’s not something I’m likely to forget.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it must be fucking obvious why. The boy was innocent and I was drunk.’
‘Even though you were intoxicated, you remember. As you said, you never forget. What exactly don’t you forget?’
Lorraine sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t see the point of this.’ She inhaled deeply, let the smoke drift, was about to take another drag when she paused and, without any emotion, described the boy’s jacket, the yellow Superman stripe, the way he fell, as if in slow motion, the way his body folded, the way his head rested against his outstretched arm, the way his soft hair fanned out, the way his body jerked a few times before he became still. Once she had begun she couldn’t stop, remembering Rooney pushing past, ordering her into the patrol car, displaying in his filthy handkerchief the boy’s Walkman, the tape still in the deck. That there had been no gun, that she had fired six times. She fell silent. Fellows had expected her to break down and weep.
‘What about afterwards?’ he asked softly. She intrigued him.
Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, becoming annoyed that he had swung their meeting over to her life rather than the killer’s.
‘I felt fucking angry, desperate, disgusted, and all I wanted was to forget it.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘With booze, of course.’
‘And did it block it out?’
She shook her head. ‘Yes. I suppose you want me to say no, that it was always there, that it always will be. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, I don’t think about it.’
Fellows picked up a paperweight. ‘But you were drinking before this boy. What made you dependent on alcohol?’
‘I was just addicted to it, like my mother. It’s supposed to be inherited, isn’t it?’
‘Why did you drink, Lorraine?’
‘I guess I liked the way it made me feel, the confidence it gave me — not having to think or feel. Now, can we get back to the reason I asked to see you?’
‘What main thing did you not feel?’ He looked into her eyes, with an expression of concern, almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’
She laughed. ‘Can’t help yourself, huh?’
He gently touched her cheek. ‘You’re a clever woman, a strong woman — possibly the strongest I’ve ever met. I’m sorry to delve into your private life but I’m trying to get you to think like him, understand him. Like you felt the compulsion to have another drink, he will feel this compulsion to kill. He will be in a kind of torment because maybe something happened to him that twisted him, hurt him, and the only way he is able to live in society and carry on in a state of apparent normality is like this. When this consuming pain takes hold of him like a rage, he will control it, contain it, and release it when he hammers a victim to death. Only then does the rage subside and calm or normality’ return.’
Fellows paced up and down his banks of books, all of which were serial killers’ histories, and slapped each in turn. ‘I have pinpointed the rage syndrome in so many of these cases. It manifests itself in an overpowering need to wound, to destroy, to hurt, to inflict pain. Time and again it is sexuaclass="underline" stalking, peeping, watching and knowing what they were about to commit will be exquisite, relished — and enjoyed. Many collect the newspaper cuttings to gloat over. The fact they are clever enough not to be detected adds to the overall feeling of enjoyment. And when it’s over they integrate back into their homes, their work. Their secret is like a lover, precious, nurtured, controlled until the pain starts again. It’s a horrific vicious circle that cannot be broken until the killer is caught.’
Lorraine put her cigarettes and lighter into her purse. ‘I really must go. Would you call me a cab?’
Fellows reached for the phone, and started to punch the buttons. Seemingly intent on his task, he asked calmly why, if she wanted to assist in the inquiry, she hadn’t admitted that she was the woman the killer picked up.
‘Because, Professor Fellows, I am not.’
He ordered the cab and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I know you were a prostitute, I know the address you’ve just given to me for the cab tonight was also close to the area where the witness was dropped off by a cab driver. Ex-cop, it was you who called the station, you who gave the description. I just don’t understand why you’re lying.’
‘I’m not.’ She stared at him.
‘He said you were one of the best he’d ever worked with.’
Lorraine snapped that Rooney had a big mouth, but he knew nothing about her life since she’d left the force.
Fellows became equally tetchy, opening a file and pushing it across the desk. ‘I’d say this is pretty informative.’
She pursed her lips as she saw the copy of her record. ‘The bastard,’ she said, and then she deflated, slumping into the big leather chair. ‘Does he know? Rooney?’
‘No, in fact I wasn’t sure, until I met you, talked with you. You’re in a very precarious position, my dear.’
‘How did you work it out?’
‘I just took one almighty guess.’ He snickered. ‘I threw in a wild card.’
She laughed, tilting her head back, a deep, warm laugh that made him smile.
‘The description in the files fits — tall, blonde — except the missing tooth.’
‘I had it capped.’
Fellows sat on the arm of her chair. ‘I can’t see any need to tell Rooney, unless you’re holding anything else back?’
Lorraine took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and then looked up into his face. ‘I’m not holding anything back, Prof. Just wish I had something else to get me fifty bucks a day when Rooney’s off the case. I doubt if anyone else would trust me.’
‘They’re fools. Does that mean the FBI will take over?’
‘Yes, within the next forty-eight hours. What about dates? Is there anything in the dates the killings took place?’
Fellows frowned. ‘I doubt it. He just kills when he feels the urge, no specific date code.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help but if I sift through the files again, find something, can I call you?’
She nodded.