“Yeah. ME says severed spinal cord at L-one/L-two,” Hughes said. “Damn,” he said, almost involuntarily.
“It’s just a little thing,” Jazz said modestly.
Little things can mean nothin’ or little things can mean everythin’, Dear Old Dad whispered. And the only one who knows for sure is me. Ain’t that special?
“Yeah, but what does it mean?”
“Mean?” Jazz shrugged. “It probably means he was tired of them kicking and getting blood all over the place while he gutted them. Just making his job easier, is all.”
“Just making his job easier?” Hughes blew out a long, exasperated breath, and Jazz finally saw the annoyance and anger that had been lurking under the surface. “Just making his job easier? So I’m looking for a lazy serial killer? Is that it? It just doesn’t make any sense. None of it makes sense.”
It makes sense to us, Billy said. And that’s all that matters. Don’t matter what anyone else thinks.
“It makes perfect sense to him, though,” Jazz said. “It’s probably the only thing in the world that makes sense to him, actually.”
“Look, I could…” Hughes hesitated, as if he knew what he was about to say could be explosive. “I could arrange for you to meet some of the victims’ families. If you want to. If that would help.”
Jazz stared at him far longer than people usually stare. “Why on earth would I want to meet the victims’ families?”
“Sometimes it makes it more real,” Hughes said.
“It’s plenty real. Don’t worry about that.”
The two of them glared at each other until Connie cleared her throat and brought them back to the task at hand.
“Not to interrupt this macho stare-down, but I’m wondering… why hats and dogs?” Connie asked. “And why alternate?”
“He doesn’t alternate,” Hughes said quickly. “He did for a while, but if you look at the chart we put together, you can see—”
“He alternates until victim seven,” Jazz said. “He gives her and the next victim hats, then switches back to a dog. Does the same thing later—two hats in a row before a dog.”
“Why?” Connie asked.
“Don’t know.” Jazz leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Hats are for gentlemen, Billy said quietly. My daddy wore a hat every day of his life. Pictures of Jazz’s grandfather floated in his mind’s eye. “Hats are for gentlemen,” he murmured.
“But he put hats on women, too,” Hughes complained.
“Top hats,” Connie specified. She had dragged a chair over and sat with them now, part of the group. “At least, that’s what they look like. They’re actually pretty good. I mean, when you consider they’re being cut into someone’s skin and all.”
“Ever seen prison tats?” Hughes asked, and Jazz’s memory flickered for a moment, remembering the words LOVE and FEAR tattooed across Billy’s knuckles at Wammaket. “A lot of those are done with just a paper clip,” Hughes went on. “Or even a staple. It’s possible to get some real consistent art just with—”
“Hats are for gentlemen,” Jazz said again, interrupting, “and dogs are for…”
“For bitches,” Connie said with finality.
They stared at each other, then over at Hughes.
“No,” the detective said, shaking his head emphatically. “He hatted women and he dogged men. It doesn’t track—”
“It’s not about their actual gender,” Jazz protested. “It’s about how he sees them. It’s about his perception of them. Maybe he decides which they are before he kills them—maybe that’s part of what sets him off. Or maybe he decides based on how they die. How they act. Like this one…” He flipped through data on the tablet. “Look—victim six. A woman. Elana Gibbs. A dog. He raped her, but the ME found less vaginal tearing and fewer bruises than the hat, Marie Leydecker, he raped three weeks later.”
“So if they fight back, they’re a gentleman, and if they don’t they’re a bitch?” Hughes said doubtfully. “You’d think that’s the opposite of how it should be.”
“Yeah, to you,” Jazz said. “To you, it makes sense to go the other way—a woman who fights is a bitch. But what if after that second victim struggled, he learned he liked it? That the resistance arouses him even more? If they struggle, he has an excuse—justification in his mind, a rationale—to hurt them more, to be more violent with them. So they’re giving him what he wants, which makes them gentlemen. Hats.”
Connie shivered next to him. Her face had gone ashy. “I think I’m gonna go get some more ice from the machine. And maybe a Coke. You guys need anything?”
Jazz and Hughes both glanced at the six-pack of Coke Hughes had brought, half of which was still unopened. The three cans sat next to a nearly full bucket of ice.
“That’s a good idea,” Jazz said after a moment. “Stretch your legs, too.”
After the door closed on Connie, Hughes shook his head. “Can she handle this?”
“She’ll be okay.” I hope. “What’s this thing in here on the fourth murder? The bit about a flashing light?”
“Yeah, that’s the only real bit of eyewitness testimony we have. Witness saw a bright flash down on the subway tracks where we later found the body. Thought it was a train at first, but it was coming from the wrong direction.”
“He took a picture….” Jazz mused.
“Yeah, that’s what we think. His trophy.”
“But that doesn’t… that doesn’t quite track.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, he already has a trophy. The penises.”
Hughes rubbed his eyes. “He doesn’t always take them. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t.”
“Yeah, but…” Jazz frowned. “Why two different trophies? It’s not unheard of, but it has to mean something.”
Hughes took the last piece of pizza. It was cold and stiff, like rigor mortis. “I wish I had more to tell you. But this is why I wanted you involved.”
“I?”
“I. Me. We. Whatever. I was the one who lobbied to bring you in, is all.”
Hughes ate the pizza, chewing with a thoughtful look on his face. “Okay, look, let’s do the rundown one more time. The things we know for sure, all right?” He started ticking facts off on his fingers as he spoke, reciting from memory. “Based on the direction and angle of the slashing wounds, as well as the footprint we found at the third crime scene, he’s between five-ten and six-one, probably something like a hundred ninety, two hundred pounds. He’s right-handed. Most likely white. He’s escalating and he’s smart, so he’s older—mid-thirties. Very organized, so he may be married. Most likely in a stable relationship of some sort. His kill zone seems to be centered on the Red Hook/Carroll Gardens area, but he’s killed as far away as Coney Island. His comfort zone is clearly Brooklyn, which makes him a local. That’s what we know for certain.”
“Wrong,” Jazz said. “Those aren’t things you know for certain. Those are things you think you know for certain. For all we know, those are things he wants you to think you know. Staging the scenes to maximize your confusion. Like here”—he pointed to a photo—“this scene. This murder. He dumps the guts into a KFC bucket. Why do that? Just to mess with you, I guarantee.”
“Or he just likes KFC, ’cause he did the same thing with another one a little while later. Not everything can be faked,” Hughes scoffed.
“Wrong,” Jazz said again, insistent. “Everything and anything can be faked. Billy avoided capture for decades. Every time he killed, some cop somewhere sat down and said, ‘Well, here’s what we know for certain.’ And every time, they were wrong, and Billy lived another day.” Livin’ another day is what it’s all about, Jasper, m’boy, ’cause every day we live is another chance to kill.
Hughes slumped in his chair, defeated. “I’ve spent months chasing this bastard and you’re telling me I’m no closer than the first day.”