Tassos didn't seem surprised. 'And where would that be?'
Andreas stared at him. 'In churches looked after by Father Paul.'
Tassos nodded and smiled. 'You mean your original point three?'
'Wiseass.' He really does know me, thought Andreas.
They spent the next several hours poring over Andreas' Internet research trying to agree upon a profile for their suspect. They concluded the killer was at least forty and acting alone. Based upon the sheer size of the victims, if their killer were female, she'd have to be tremendously strong or have help, and since statistically most were men acting alone, they went with the percentages. They pegged his age to the fact one victim was murdered fifteen years ago and most serial killers don't start killing until their mid-twenties.
How much older than forty he might be, they couldn't guess. The literature said serial killers act when they feel a 'compulsion' they must satisfy — usually driven by 'power-to-control or sexual urges.' There are 'cooling-off periods' of years or weeks between killings, but when they get the urge, they have to feed it — and the longer they kill without capture, the more frequent their need. The killer could go on killing for as long as he had the strength for it.
Much of what they read seemed consistent with what they'd seen. 'The extreme, sadistic urges of many serial killers are typically expressed in bondage, mutilation, and torture of a sexual nature' — the twine, shaved hair, and tampons — 'and killing victims slowly over a long period of time.' Suffocation in a crypt was certainly that.
They agreed on a description to distribute to their cops, being as careful as they could not to make it sound too much like the list of characteristics in Tassos' pocket.
'A forties-plus male, in reasonably good physical condition. Intelligent, possibly a little kinky or sadistic, with a bad family history. May have a police record,' read Andreas.
'Covers a lot of guys on this island,' said Tassos.
'Let's add "more than fifteen-year resident or tourist on Mykonos."'
'Sounds good to me.' Tassos looked at his watch. 'It's almost eight-thirty. I better head to the port if I want any chance of getting back to Syros before it's totally dark.'
'Thanks.' Andreas reached out to shake hands but Tassos embraced him in the traditional Greek fashion of goodbye between friends.
Tassos gave him an extra pat on the back. 'Speak to you tomorrow… my friend.' Andreas sensed he wanted to say more.
After he left, Andreas looked over the notes of his conversation with Father Paul. He'd scribbled down the names of the churches the priest had rattled off, but he knew for sure he couldn't find all of them on his own. He'd have to come up with some innocuous way of getting that contractor Pappas to help him. For sure that would earn him a 'favors beget favors' lecture, but what the hell, sometimes you have to deal with the devil to catch a sinner.
That was something he'd learned from his father.
5
The massive ferry made its traditional, midnight grand entrance into the harbor. The town looked more alive than Annika remembered — lights and people everywhere. She couldn't wait to get off. As she stepped out onto the open deck, her honey-blond hair whipped across her face. She liked the way it felt: free and unhampered. Meltemi winds blew only on late-summer afternoons, she thought, but then again, this was the island with windmills as its symbol. She quickly ran her fingers through her hair to pull it off her face and thought to grab a sweater out of her backpack but didn't. Once out of the wind, she'd be fine.
She'd chosen a loose-fitting beige T-shirt, matching khaki cargo shorts, and sneakers for the trip. She wanted to look like every other backpacker. At just under six feet tall, that wasn't possible, especially when the straps of her backpack pressed her already ample bosom into the realm of wow. Nothing she could do about that. Nor about virtually every Greek man and adolescent boy around her taking part in a running gag all the way from Patmos as to how best to find and devour karpouzi. Since there were no watermelons anywhere to be seen, she had a pretty good idea of the melons that held their interest but acted as if she didn't understand a word of their conversations. She was being true to her father's favorite lecture: 'Don't let strangers know you understand their language. It gives you an edge.'
She'd decided not to let anyone but her cousin and aunt know she was here. She wanted to be anonymous for as long as possible — just a poor little Dutch girl in search of a good time on Mykonos. She'd let the Greek boys take a shot — maybe one would get lucky. No, maybe I'll get lucky, she thought. Time to take charge of my life and do what I want to do, not what pleases some dickhead. She knew she still was angry, but she couldn't help it.
She waited until the boat docked before going down the stairs. From experience she knew hurrying to get off in the first huddled rush meant a pressing crowd of anonymous groping hands. By the time she stepped onto the concrete pier a crowd had gathered about fifty yards away. That would be where the hotels solicited customers. She walked over and looked for someone holding a sign with the name of a hotel she recognized but where no one would know her. The one she liked had a Greek couple and a gray-haired, fiftyish man engaged in the traditional haggling over price. After five animated minutes they reached a deal. Now it was her turn.
The gray-haired man smiled and asked her in English where she was from.
'Holland,' she answered in English.
He smiled wider. 'Oh, we have many guests from Holland.' Then he said to her in Dutch, 'I have a wonderful room with a private bath and a view of the town, and because you are from my favorite country — next to Greece of course' — with a yet broader smile — 'I will give you a special price.'
She smiled courteously. 'What is the price?'
'One hundred eighty euros.'
It was more than twice what he'd agreed upon with the Greeks for a double room.
Annika replied in Dutch, 'That's very kind of you, sir, but I can't afford that much.' She turned to walk away.
He grabbed her arm. 'No, no please, I understand. What can you afford?' He let go of her arm.
She smiled. 'Oh, I'm sure it's far too little for such a wonderful room.'
'I'll let you have it for a hundred euros.' He looked at her in a way that made Annika wonder if more than the price of a room was on his mind.
She thought of walking away but decided to haggle. 'Forty.' If he accepted that lowball offer she definitely would walk away.
'Seventy-five.'
'No.'
He paused. 'Sixty.'
Sixty was a fair price, and it was late. 'Including breakfast?'
A new smile lit across his face, and he gestured for her to come. 'Agreed.' He led her toward where his van was parked — with his hand ever so lightly pressing on her hip as if to steer her in the right direction.
She didn't make an issue about his hand even though she was pretty sure it wasn't offered purely for guidance. She smiled as she remembered overhearing her mother once tell a girlfriend, 'Something about Mykonos makes every man think he has a chance at every woman.'
He said the ride from the harbor to the hotel would be less than ten minutes and took the narrow two-lane road circling the original town. It was filled with partiers stumbling along the uneven concrete roadway trying to navigate a maze of illegally parked cars and motorbikes. Crowds constricted parts of the road down to a single lane, but the man didn't seem to care. He never slowed down unless forced to by an oncoming driver. Whether they knew it or not, these pedestrians were not protected by the gods of Delos; they were on their own, and for those not prepared to expect the unexpected from a Greek driver, there were ambulances.
Things came to an abrupt stop at a four-way inter section with an even narrower road. It was the busiest corner in Mykonos, for this was the main portal to the island's 24/7 lifestyle. To the left, the road went up a hill toward the airport; to the right, to what the locals called the bus station.