“You said sex psycho. What about the violent sex crime? Where does he fit into the scheme of things?"
“He's usually a guy who's afraid of women for whatever reason and expresses this in sadism, or hostility, or in the most violent psychos—murder. Typically he's schizzy or immature or homosexual, or in the exceptional cases such as you have to deal with, a total psychotic personality. The most dangerous breed: the paranoid-schizophrenic."
“But if your schizzy dude is a passive-type offender, what pushes him to the point of violence? Any sort of stress?"
“You can't generalize. Too many possibilities. But it might be his inadequacy is manifested in some kind of unacceptable sexual misbehavior—he's a deviate. Or maybe he's simply malicious. He wants to strike out, and when the opportunity and the feeling of inadequacy occur at the same moment, that in itself could precipitate a violent act."
“All right. Now try this one. A guy is killing women in some psychotic fashion. He forces them to go down on him, and when he ejaculates, WHAM, he stabs them. He leaves his calling card. The old iceman strikes again—"
“And that factor is in fact his signature. He's telling you something about himself. That's why I first asked about the icepick to the eyeball M.O.—it's the classic retaliation of a disfigured man. He's striking out at women who attract him, but whom he knows he repulses—so he'll fix that, he'll put their eyes out. That's a simplification but—"
“You mean I might look for a disfigured killer?"
“Well,” Dr. Geary said in his high screech, “FIGURATIVELY disfigured has a lot of definitions. The disfigurement can be both literal or figurative. Emotional disfigurement, say. He could think he repulsed women, for example, by his infantile penis, or by a SENSE of ugliness, or by an awareness of a sexual equilibrium so out of balance that IT was revolting to the fair sex. You see? Anything that might make him want to symbolically keep them from seeing his true self. In fact, the punishing aspects of this M.O. are so strong. I don't think you can make any definite...” Geary trailed off into space.
Jack thought he sounded older, tireder than he remembered him. We're all older and tireder, he thought.
“So this guy could be ugly, like scarred or deformed, or just emotionally unbalanced and be physically Robert Redford?"
“Of course. You know what mass murderers look like, they're as likely to be movie-actor handsome as hideously ugly. It could be anything. He could be a cripple, or he has an underdeveloped penis, or he's out of whack in some manner, his sexual dysfunction is so severe he must strike out at these women he wants, punish them or blind them. He could be very good-looking in the conventional sense, but he sees himself as inadequate or repulsive by his own standards."
“And let's say he's the most dangerous type ... I always get this confused, is he the sociopathic type or the schizzy type?"
“Jack, that's the paranoid-schizophrenic. You need to look at your DSM-III. It's got all that broken down for you."
“Your what?"
“Oh, your Diagnostical Statistical Manual, roman numeral three. And if you can get a three-slash-R. Revised update. Give you the definitions for all the terms."
“All right. Okay. Now. We're back in Texas or wherever, and we're ugly or we have an infant-sized penis or whatever. When the moon is full we go out and get a woman, force them to go down on us, then we strangle them or stab them with an icepick. Let's say we symbolically blind them or punish them. Right so far?"
“Right—defacing, Jack. Think DEFACING. That one shot with the icepick to the eye—that's the textbook classic. Keeps them from seeing him, you understand, and he's defacing THEM, too, as well. Get it?"
“Yeah. All right. Now suddenly we stop. For twenty years we don't kill again. Then, suddenly, another killing. Why do we stop? Why didn't we keep killing? Why did we start up again? Give me some scenarios, can you?"
“First off, he's not your same killer. He didn't stop. The first factor you can take to the bank is this: NOBODY stops. Serial killers don't stop. Not ever. You're the expert. You tell me. When did you ever hear of a serial killer who stopped?"
“Zodiac."
“Hmm?"
“Zodiac. Dude out in California? We never caught Zodiac. He stopped."
“No, Jack. He was caught. Or he was killed or he died or was imprisoned. By caught I mean for something completely unrelated. For a theft, let's say, and he goes to jail. He's imprisoned. Well, there would be one scenario. Your man is imprisoned for twenty years. He got out and resumed? Huh?"
“I wish thieves DID go to jail for twenty years, but that's another story. Yeah, I've been over that ground a little. The mental institutions and all."
“Sure, could be institutionalized for twenty years. That's one scenario. But you take my meaning. Unless something like that happens, nobody stops. They like to kill too well. Unless they mess up, get too cocksure of their own invincibility, and the coppers take them out of the game, they keep on going. But twenty years, Jack? No, a more likely scenario is that he died, or what might be is he got murdered himself. Violence begets violence. Make your own scenario but keep one factor in mind. Nobody ever stops. You can't count on that happening. These persons are deeply deranged and they kill till they get caught.
“He's also telling something about himself in the demographic profile of the victims. Look at the age group of the women you just read off to me. Now a younger woman. But that could be so consistent, you see, because HE'S older, so he relates to the victim in a different way. There might be a clue in the victims’ profiles. That's where to begin."
“Yeah. Listen, Doc, while I've got you. On another subject. I just wanted to get your thinking. I realize this isn't your line, but let's say you got a murderous psycho and he has a child. Genetically, is there any way of determining whether, you know, the kid is going to have any inherited traits, er, ah—"
Geary took over and lost Jack after the “DNA stepping stones,” and when he paused, Jack said “Okay,” and thanked him.
But there weren't no okay to it this time.
North Buckhead
“You smell delicious,” he told her, his arm pulling her close.
“Oh!” Thunder struck again and she shivered. Diane was sitting on his bed beside him. She felt small and she was glad she wasn't spending the night alone.
“Are you afraid of a little thunderstorm?” he whispered softly, cuddling her.
“Uh huh,” she said, like a little girl. It had been a weird night with Nicki, the secretary calling for her. All businesslike and somewhat brusque. Making her bring a suitcase, of all things, helping her pack, which she kind of fought until it was explained that he was planning some kind of nutty surprise. He was going to take her somewhere ... But what about the bank? All taken care of, they assured her. Something very weird going on here. A surprise vacation? She had put in for three long weekends and a week in the spring. But he was being groomed for the board at the bank and was on a first-name basis with her boss. He played golf with her boss, he assured her, which she didn't believe at first. HOW? she wondered.
“You don't have to worry about a little thunder, baby. You're safe and cozy,” he purred to her. He had given Nicki instructions. Bring this. Bring that. She was packed for a longer stay than a weekend. He promised he'd tell her later. Then there were the crazy notes. He made her write this nonsense note to Bonnie, and a note to somebody without a salutation much less an address. Notes on postcards. A gag, he said. Some sort of practical joke.