She folded her notes and looked out into the crowd. “I can take a few questions now.”
Again, the hands flew upward. Susan scanned the gallery. She’s looking for something, he realized, but what? A familiar face? A friend somewhere in the valley of the vultures?
She pointed.
“Lieutenant Pulaski, do you have a description of the killer?”
“I’m not prepared to provide that information at this time.”
“Does that mean you don’t? Because if you do-”
“I’m not prepared to provide that information at this time.”
He supposed she was hesitant to reveal the description he gave her when he was disguised as Ethan. Very smart, Susan. He hadn’t given her enough detail to make it possible for anyone to find the killer (even were it accurate). Revealing it now only risked potential embarrassment if (when) it turned out to be wrong.
“Do you have a psychological profile of the killer?”
“We are developing and refining our profile every hour of every day. I am not authorized to provide details of the current profile to you.”
An anorexic reporter in the front row cut in. “You know, Lieutenant Pulaski, that will lead some to speculate that you have no valid profile.”
Such thinly disguised calumny. Susan was doing a good job of masking her reaction, but he felt it, all the same. “I can assure you, ma’am, that my colleagues and I are more than able to perform our jobs, and as I mentioned, we have been working in consultation with federal specialists. But we do not feel it would be advantageous to reveal everything we know about the killer at this time.” She apparently couldn’t resist adding, “Use your brain. It isn’t hard to figure out why.”
“What’s his motive?” someone else asked.
“We can only speculate. Certainly we do not believe there is any rational motive, such as greed or jealousy. Given the vagaries and inconstancies of the psychotic mind, determining what delusion motivates him can be extremely difficult.”
He felt a flash of anger-psychotic?-then checked it. No, he told himself, don’t blame her. She doesn’t understand, not yet. She couldn’t possibly know.
A handsome middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee spoke up. “Jonathan Wooley, Vegas Courier.”
He inched forward. Wooley had written all the best pieces he had pasted into his History.
“Ms. Pulaski, I respect that you don’t want to reveal everything you know-you don’t want to force the killer to change his MO, and you probably need some undisclosed details to distinguish crank informants from people with actual knowledge. But surely you can understand our position. Basically we’re asking: are we safe?”
“The LVPD is taking all possible steps to ensure-”
“Pardon me, but you weren’t able to stop the previous killings and you’ve given us no reason to believe you can prevent any future ones. Are the citizens of Las Vegas safe?”
He noticed that Susan’s fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly, on the lectern. He knew what she was thinking. She wanted a drink.
“The LVPD is advising citizens to take extreme caution until the assailant is apprehended, particularly young women who are-or look-ages fourteen to twenty.”
“Should we close the casinos? Are the discos safe? How can people protect themselves?”
The hesitation in her voice-first time yet-told him this was something that had been discussed before the conference. He suspected that she favored telling people to lock themselves in their homes and shutting down the whole city. But of course the powers that be would never permit that.
“We have to keep our heads on straight and not let fear get the best of us. For the most part, people should proceed with their normal lives. But they should exercise extreme caution, particularly those in the target gender and age group. Don’t travel alone. Have someone walk you to your car. Don’t speak to strangers. And most especially, don’t get in a car-or truck-with someone you don’t know.”
“But how can we know what situations create jeopardy, when we know so little about the killer?” This Wooley was relentless. He supposed that was why the man was a successful reporter, but it was beginning to wear a bit thin. “Are his victims chosen at random?”
“I’ve said all I have to say on the matter,” Susan replied firmly. “Now if there’s nothing more, I-”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering this question, Lieutenant Pulaski. That is, former Lieutenant Pulaski.” A camera pivot revealed a woman barreling her way through the heart of the assembled press corps. “Are you qualified to work on this investigation?”
He edged toward the television. It was that woman, the TV host. Annabel’s mother.
Susan cleared her throat. “Mrs. Spencer, as I think you know, Lieutenant Granger is in charge of the investigation. I’m only consulting on-”
“You’re the behavioral expert. The only one on the force.”
“Actually, I’m working with a representative from the FBI who-”
“But so far, you haven’t come up with anything. My daughter’s killer is still at large. And I am outraged.”
The reporters drank up this unexpected bit of conflict. Pens scribbled madly. The minicams shifted their gaze from the podium to the aggrieved mother.
“Mrs. Spencer, everyone at the LVPD is sorry for your loss-”
“But not sorry enough to do anything about it, apparently. Why hasn’t this man been caught? Why aren’t you doing more?”
Solipsistic firebrand. Quarrelsome quidnunc. She had no right to embarrass Susan in public. She was just trying to steal the limelight, the glory hound. Everything Annabel had said about her was true. She was unworthy, as was this behavior. She’d be better served to consider how her daughter could be with child and in Las Vegas without her knowing about it.
“Again, let me make it clear that everyone is doing their best-”
“But that’s not good enough, is it?” The mother stepped up on the raised platform. “I am publicly calling here and now for a clean sweep of the LVPD team and full federal assumption of this investigation.”
“That isn’t even constitutional and it wouldn’t-”
“Talk is meaningless. We’re looking for a deranged killer, a psychopath. We’re not going to catch him with these Deputy Fife officers.”