There’s a collective release in the room. It’s on everyone’s mind.
Me, I’ve never been a big fan of the copycat theory. These guys either want fame-in which case, why be known as some other killer’s imitator?-or they are deranged and have their own issues to deal with.
But there’s no denying the first two kills, patterned after the second verse. There’s no denying what he wrote-“I’m not the only one”-on the bathroom mirror.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why sixteen years later?”
No one has an answer for that, of course. Hell, they’re looking to me for the answers.
“And why,” Stoletti adds, “are people associated with those murders dying now?”
Another one nobody can answer.
A woman sitting on a desk, her feet on a chair, asks me, “Were Burgos’s victims random?”
I tell her, Burgos always wanted us to think they weren’t. He could ascribe a particular sin to each of the women he murdered. “But I don’t think these victims are random, either.”
McDermott shakes his head, but he’s agreeing with me. We both thought that, last night-too coincidental to be random. Evelyn Pendry was at Ciancio’s crime scene, seemingly troubled. And we know from the phone records that Ciancio had called Evelyn just before he was murdered. Then there was the conversation that I had with her, where she pretended to be interested in Senator Almundo’s prosecution but, in fact, seemed much more focused on the Burgos case.
She seemed, if memory serves, particularly interested in why Harland Bentley hired me so soon after I prosecuted his daughter’s killer.
“Does this remind you of Burgos?” some cop asks me. A big Irish guy. I think they’re all Irish. I think it’s in the union contract.
I make a face. The answer is, not really. “Burgos, he wasn’t careful at all. He brought them to his house. He had unprotected sex with them, leaving his bodily fluids inside them. He left evidence of the women all over his house. He left evidence of himself all over the auditorium basement. This offender has performed two perfectly executed kills. He came in and out without a trace, controlled them and the scene. This offender feels like a pro. Burgos was not. That’s what I can tell you about Burgos. This offender, I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“And you’re our expert on serial killers,” Stoletti says.
I shake my head. “Understand this, everyone. I’m no expert. I’ve never solved a serial killing-not in the way you’re thinking. We found six bodies and caught our offender within an hour. That’s what I mean about him being sloppy. We found Ellie Danzinger dead, first thing we did was go after the guy who had been stalking her so intensely that she got a restraining order against him. This was also a guy, by the way, who had worked for the last few years as a maintenance man in that same auditorium where we found the girls. And when we went to see him-boom!-there it was. It was all there. So don’t confuse me with someone who knows how to track a serial killer. Burgos left bread crumbs all the way to his door. This guy’s notleaving anything for us.”
“Except notes,” someone says.
“And his murder weapons. But that’s intentional,” I answer. “No doubt, he wants us to make the connection. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to let us catch him.”
McDermott runs his hands through his hair and groans. “I’m supposed to ask you if you’ll work with us on this.”
I smirk. He couldn’t have been less enthusiastic. It isn’t his call, I can see. It’s Carolyn Pendry’s. The police commander is not stupid, not so naïve that he can’t recognize the utility of an ally in the television media. Carolyn wants, Carolyn gets.
“If I have a question,” I say, “you answer.”
His smile is tight, forced. “Whatever you say, Counselor.” Then he moves to the center of the room. These are his detectives, I assume, though I didn’t catch a title from him. He reads from a clipboard. “Kopecky, Collins. I want to know every newspaper article Evelyn Pendry worked on for the last year. Especially crime, but whatever. And talk to everyone at the Watch. See if Evelyn dropped some hint about what she was doing. Pittacora, I want you to listen to every song that Torcher ever released. Find the lyrics. They’re probably on the Internet somewhere.
“Speaking of Internet,” he continues, “Sloan and Koessl, look at every Web site devoted to Terry Burgos. The chat rooms, especially. Anything looks interesting, get a subpoena from Judge Ahlfors and get the URLs. If this guy had a Burgos fixation, maybe he decided to drop a line or two.”
One of those two, either Koessl or Sloan, a guy who’s paying too much attention to his hair, asks me, “Any idea how many Web sites we’re talking about?”
“No telling. Dozens, probably.” I snap my fingers. “You better look at Web sites devoted to Tyler Skye and Torcher, too. He wrote the lyrics, after all.”
“Good.” McDermott nods. “Yeah, especially any cross-reference between Torcher and Burgos. Grab as many uniforms as you need. We need that fast. We need all of this fast. Okay.” He scans his list. “On that same note, Ashley and Knape, hit the DOC. I want to read every letter that anyone ever wrote to Burgos in prison. You will definitely need uniforms for that. Keep in touch with Koessl and Sloan. Again, a cross-reference would be great.”
“You can probably skip the marriage proposals,” I add, getting a laugh. At least three women proposed to Burgos while he was on death row. I don’t get people. Or maybe my problem is, I do.
“Saltzman, Bax,” says McDermott. “On Fred Ciancio. Follow up with this guy, Wally Monk, that Riley was talking about. The guy at the security company. I want to know where Fred Ciancio was working back then. I want to hear from everyone who worked at Bristol Security with Ciancio. Anyone who worked side by side with him, or had a beer with him, or ever smelled one of his farts. And look at everyone assigned to Mansbury College back then.
“Williams and Covatta, also on Ciancio. Find his daughter. Talk to neighbors. Find his safe-deposit box. Anything that could tell us why he might have some secret. And find out who this goon in the background of this photograph is.” McDermott takes a photograph, which I can’t see, and hands it to one of the cops. “Tell me why Ciancio had a copy of this photo,” he says.
I crane to look at the photo but can’t see it.
“Powers and Peterson, Ciancio used to work at Ensign Correctional. I want to know about him there. I want to know if he was a good guard or a bad one. And take a copy of this photograph”-he hands another copy of the photo to the nearest cop, who hands it down, again avoiding my eyes-“and see if the goon ever did time at Ensign.
“Kinzler,” he adds, dropping the clipboard to his side. “Look at recent releases, especially violent offenders.”
Recent releases from prison, he means. A good thought. That might explain the sixteen-year gap in the murders.
“Look at mental institutions, too,” I add.
McDermott points at the guy who must be Kinzler, who writes it down.
“Yeah, he’s probably a whack job,” says Kinzler.
McDermott winces, like someone swatted him in the face. The room goes silent a moment-why, I have no idea.
“Jann, Abrams, Beatty.” McDermott, his face colored now, checks off another box on his list. “Recanvass both crime scenes. Maybe Evelyn Pendry talked to Ciancio’s neighbors. I want to know what she was asking them.”
“Everyone keeps this quiet,” Stoletti says. “Our anchorwoman out there”-she gestures toward Carolyn, I assume, wherever she is-“is willing to keep a lid on this for now. I don’t think she’ll give us long. But let’s keep it down as long as we can.”