Of the city’s many outstanding restaurants, the Emerald Room was the best, and it had class without being stuck up, unlike certain other restaurants down on the Square. Immediately a stunning hostess smiled despite Jack’s attire, then noticed the shield clipped to his belt. He wore faded ink-stained jeans and a ratty dark raincoat through which his Smith.38 could easily be seen. “I’m here to meet a Ms. Panzram.”
“She’s right over here. Follow me, please.”
Jack had never actually met Karla W. W. Panzram, though he’d spoken to her many times on the phone. She was chief psychiatric consultant at the Clifford T. Perkins Evaluation Center. This was where all state criminals were evaluated for psychological profiles; whether they would be considered criminals or mental patients was decided here, and Karla Panzram was the one who did the deciding. She also consulted on the side for many outside police departments. Jack had couriered the TSD summary (of which there was very little) and the Barrington case file (of which there was even less) to Perkins that morning. On a psycho case, moving very quickly was very important, even when there was little to move with.
The voice on the phone had always showed him a large, even Amazonish woman. Reality showed him the opposite: delicate, if not frail, a petite woman. She had coiffed, steelish blond hair, and looked about forty. She wore a plain gray skirt and white blouse.
“Captain Cordesman, we finally meet,” she said, rising to shake hands. Her hand was cool, dry. “You don’t look like a cop.”
“I know. I look like a hippie who sleeps in a cement mixer.”
“Oh, but, you could never do that. You’re a claustrophobe.”
Jack flinched. This was true. “How did you know that?”
Her smile showed small even white teeth. “The way you walked to the table. As though something were hovering over you.”
She’s psychoanalyzing me before I can even sit down.
“You’re also sad about something,” she said.
Jack sat down. He was tired of everyone telling him about himself. “I appreciate you doing this for me on such short notice.”
“And whatever it is you’re sad about, confronting it, to yourself, or to others, makes you feel insecure.”
Jack laughed feebly. “Tell me about my killer, not me.”
“I think I can do that, Captain.”
“I know a little bit about the ins of these kinds of things, but you know the ins and outs.”
“You’ll probably never catch him,” Karla Panzram offered. “And you won’t luck out with a reactive suicide or a guilt-reversion.”
“You’re telling me he’s stable, right? And smart?”
“He’s very smart. Very ordered thought patterns, high IQ, and an attention for detail. He’s logical, and he’s a planner.”
Lots of sex killers had high IQs, well past genius levels. But this was ritual, and Jack knew nothing about that. “He’s not psychotic,” he said more than asked.
“No, and he’s not paranoid, psychopathic, or unsystematized. He’s not even acting like a sociopath.”
Jack let that one sit. The Emerald Room was not only known for the best food in town but also the best service. When their waitress arrived, a beautiful redhead in black pants and white blouse, Jack said, “Order whatever you want. Tab’s on the county.” This was a lie, however: Jack was picking this one up himself. Olsher could justify consulting fees but not dinners. Dr. Panzram ordered steamed mussels, crabmeat flan, and grilled Muscovy duck for appetizers, and blackened prime rib. Where’s she going to put it all? Jack wondered. He ordered a dozen oysters.
“Cocktails?” the waitress asked.
“I never drink on d—” He beamed at his watch: 4:01 P.M, “Fiddich, rocks, Dr. Panzram?”
“Just a Coke,” she said.
When the waitress left, Karla Panzram added, “You drink too much.”
Jack gritted his teeth. First Olsher, then Randy, then Craig, and now this woman. They knew more about him than he knew himself. “I haven’t even had one yet, and you’ve pegged me as—”
“Retraction of the mimetic muscle groups and lid margins, fluctuation of the frontalis and lateral pterygoid, and the usual facial inflections. It’s the best lie detector. It’s also a wonderful way to gauge subconscious excitement. Your face lit up like a pinball machine when you looked at your watch and saw you were off duty.”
This depressed him, but what else was new? When the waitress brought his drink he had to fight not to touch it.
“Let’s call him Charlie,” Karla Panzram said. “Let’s make him human instead of a shadow. Charlie is erotomanic but not in the same way as your usual sex killer. He’s not a sadist, a sexual sociopath, or some horny nutcase with the wrong levels of FSH and LH in the brain. Charlie’s compulsions are not founded by cerebral defect or biogenic deviations. He’s very…passionate. Passion, I think, is a key word here. He’s also deflectional.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means he didn’t want to kill the girl.”
“He did it for an outward reason, you mean? The ritual angle?”
“Yes, and whatever the ritual is, it’s not an unsystematized symbol or an idea of reference. Charlie’s very level-headed. The only way he’ll fuck up is if he lets his passion get in the way.”
Hearing this delicate woman use the word fuck unnerved Jack, like knocking over a vase in a crystal shop.
“Passion,” she repeated. “Remember that. It was his passion that allowed him to go through with the murder.”
Passion, Jack thought. He lit a Camel. Here is my love.
“It’s not the ritual itself, but his association with the ritual that’s important. It involves some personal belief mechanism that allows him to vent his passion. Did you run the M. O. through triple-I?”
“Yeah, nothing yet, but they’re working on it.”
“What about Interpol CCCS?”
Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t bother. You think he could’ve done this in another country?”
“Sure. Look where we are.”
“A seaport,” Jack acknowledged. He felt instantly stupid.
“If I were you, I’d be calling every port city on the coast. And run the M.O. with Interpol too.”
“Good idea. I’m also getting a researcher to try and get a line on the ritual.” But as Jack spoke, his eyes kept flicking to his drink.
“It’s calling you, Captain.”
Up your ass, he thought. He liked this woman, but he didn’t like the truths she made a point of rubbing his face in. The aroma of the Scotch was almost erotic. He took a sip, then sighed.
“Charlie is very conative; there’s something in his life that’s turned a hesitant impulse into a free act. He’s probably never even come close to a reality break. He knows right from wrong as clearly as you do. His passion is purposive.”
Jack wasn’t sure if he got that. “You mean the impetus, right? And you’re saying it’s objective?”
“Yes, er, at least to Charlie it is. And that’s the funny part. Heavy purposive fantasies generally have roots in a very deep delusion. But Charlie’s not deeply delusional.”
“Neither are sociopaths, but you say he’s not sociopathic.”
“You know a lot more about these cases than most cops, but you should also know that a sociopath wouldn’t have drawn the symbols, and he would’ve terrorized the girl. Charlie didn’t. He even blindfolded her so she wouldn’t see what was coming. Sociopaths like to see the terror in their victims’ eyes. They have no feeling for them, but Charlie did. I may be wrong about some of this, but I’m not wrong about that. Plus, a sociopath would’ve turned the place upside down for valuables, and he would’ve taken her money. Whatever Charlie’s delusion is, he’s got it under complete control.”