My second call was to Dr. Sidney Berns.
Later that afternoon, after fighting cross-town traffic, I pulled up in front of the UCI Neuropsychiatric Center in Orange County. Leaving my car in a twenty-minute parking zone, I entered the white, three-story building. After receiving directions from an elderly receptionist, I proceeded down a hallway to the right, arriving at an outpatient waiting room. There I tapped on a glass partition window, flashing my badge at a nurse on the other side. “Dan Kane to see Dr. Berns,” I said.
The woman slid the window open and checked her schedule. After finding my name partway down, she told me to take a seat and that Dr. Berns would see me when his patient schedule permitted.
Obstinately, I remained standing. Resisting the impulse to pace, I turned my attention to a TV bracketed high on one wall, idly watching a daytime talk show host schmooze her afternoon guests. Fifteen minutes later Dr. Berns stuck his head into the waiting room. “Detective Kane,” he said. “Come in.”
I shook the psychiatrist’s hand, noting his grasp was surprisingly strong. “I know you’re busy,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“Glad to help,” replied Berns. “We can talk in my office.”
I followed the psychiatrist through a residents’ lounge, arriving at an eight-by-twelve cubicle with a window opening onto a cement patio. Berns settled behind a desk cluttered with files, a photograph of an attractive woman in her late thirties, and an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes. With a wave of his hand, he directed me to a chair opposite the desk. “Quite unexpected hearing from you,” he noted dryly.
“I suppose,” I said, taking a seat. “Look, I was out of line at the first task force meeting. When it comes to certain subjects, I have a tendency to shoot off my mouth before I have all the facts.”
“Apology accepted.” Berns opened a drawer, withdrawing a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He shook one out and lit it. “I assume from your presence that you want my assistance on something.”
“I do have a couple things I want to run by you,” I admitted. “Confidentially, of course.”
“Of course. You understand I’m no longer being retained on your investigation? My involvement was a one-shot deal requested by Ken Huff. I did the FBI followup pro bono.”
“No. I didn’t realize that.”
Berns shrugged. “Money’s tight down here in Orange County. As long as you realize I no longer hold an official position on the case, I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”
“Two things,” I said, ratcheting up my assessment of Berns several notches. “First, I think that in addition to stalking his victims, our man is reconnoitering their houses prior to his killings. It’s a belief not shared by some of my colleagues.”
“Lieutenant Snead?”
“For one. Nonetheless, Huff is backing me up, and working on the prior entry premise, we’ve been investigating selected cases of breaking-and-entering. Recently we discovered an instance that looks to me like the work of the killer. A maid surprised a man while he was in the house. She wound up in the hospital. We got a composite drawing from a family member of the guy who probably did it, a picture you probably saw later on the news. The drawing generated a rash of calls, but unfortunately nothing ever panned out. We also put surveillance teams on the family’s residence, hoping the intruder would return. So far he hasn’t. What I want to know is this: If this guy’s our man, is he coming back?”
Berns thought a moment. “Several factors are at work,” he said. “On one hand, I believe your killer is fixating on a victim. Once he’s selected her, he feels progressive pressure to complete his fantasy and make it real. In the instance you’re describing, he might also view his interrupted reconnaissance as a failure, something to be rectified.”
“On the other hand,” I interjected, anticipating Berns’s train of thought, “the more time goes by, the more likely he’ll be to select a new target. So what’s the bottom line? Is he coming back?”
Berns crushed out his cigarette. “Bottom line, I don’t know. It could go either way. I do know that the guy you’re looking for is smart, and as I said previously, I believe he’s done this before-maybe in different places and operating under different rules, but he’s done it before. Given that, I suspect that as he feels more pressure from the police, he’ll eventually disappear and resurface someplace else, possibly with a new method of finding and killing victims.”
“Putting us back to square one.”
“Correct. Let’s see, it’s been, what-three weeks since the Welsh murders?”
“Twenty-two days.”
“The interim between the first and second murders was twenty-five days; the period between the second and third lessened to fifteen. Assuming the killer’s calendar is decreasing, he’s overdue.”
I nodded. “Which brings me to my second question. At the first task force meeting you mentioned there might be triggers that set him off. Could you expand on that?”
“For one, other cases of violence can act as stressors to push these types of individuals over the edge. A particularly brutal murder reported in the media often spawns a series of repeats across the country.”
“Like worms surfacing after a rain,” I noted. “What else? Anything specific that applies to our guy?”
“The murder of the Welsh family followed almost immediately after the arrest of that auto repairman,” Berns said thoughtfully. “As I said, it’s possible someone else being credited with the killer’s crimes enraged him, causing him to accelerate his schedule.”
I leaned forward. “What else would piss him off?”
“Anything that conflicts with the elaborate self-image he’s erected for himself,” answered Berns. “Typically someone like him cannot tolerate ridicule, especially if it’s directed at his psychological weak points.”
“Which are?”
Berns regarded me curiously. “Aside from feeling rage toward families in general and women in particular, your killer probably has an unconscious desire to prove his masculinity,” he answered. “Based on his treatment of the husbands, I suspect he’s confused concerning his sexual identity and may have repressed homosexual tendencies. In addition, he prides himself on commitment, views himself as infallible, and has an overwhelming compulsion to be in control. He would find anything contradicting these things extremely threatening.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, rising from my chair. “I appreciate your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You’re going to attempt to goad him into action, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re going to try to force him to move up his timetable. You hope he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake.”
I didn’t respond.
“Be careful, Kane. Be very careful.”
I walked to the door, then turned. “No matter what I do, he’ll kill again anyway, right?”
Berns nodded. “You said it earlier. He’ll keep killing until he’s caught.”
I did some last minute Christmas shopping that evening, including a visit to the Jewelry Mart downtown. Afterward I stopped at the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin, one of my West Los Angeles drinking haunts from years past. A throwback to earlier days of deep-red carpets, navigational charts laminated onto tabletops, and photos of sailing schooners with colorful jibs decorating the walls, the restaurant had prospered over the years by offering clientele reasonably priced steaks, chops, and seafood, as well as providing an honest drink and a friendly ambiance for any thirsty patron happening to wander in.
Taking a spot in the back, I peered around the dimly lit bar. With the exception of restaurant staff, I failed to see anyone I knew. Minutes later a young waitress wearing a short white apron and even shorter plaid skirt approached. I ordered a Coke and nursed it for the next quarter hour, wondering whether there had been some miscommunication. By the time I’d finished my drink, chewed the ice, and nearly decided to leave, I saw Lauren Van Owen standing by the hostess station.