“ Probably hears voices in the damned wind.”
She nodded admiringly, continuing the game of automatic thought. “Violence could also be triggered with a sudden problem- finances, job, marriage, or a romantic relationship.”
“ Alcohol and/or drugs are apt to figure in,” Parry added, casually rising to the challenge. “A person who's usually no threat, nothing to take a second look at, socially capable, visibly acceptable, but he doesn't stand out.”
“ Approaches his victim in an open area, uses a non-threatening manner in a friendly, even familiar place.”
“ Picks 'em up at malls, in shops, at the bus station.”
“ Prefers verbal manipulation to physical force as he hunts for his prey. From the police reports, sounds like Linda may have known him from an earlier time, didn't want to go with him, and so he had to resort to physical force to get her off the street and into the car.”
“ Exactly… she knew him, and perhaps some of the others also knew him.”
“ Control over his victim is a vital part of what he does, and fantasy-”
“ Ritual dominates his actions; the murder itself an acting out of a long-held fantasy, I know.”
“ He brutalized Linda. It was no pure accident the geyser sent her arm up from the spray.”
Parry looked quizzical. “Whataya mean?”
“ Close examination of the tear shows that it was sliced off at the shoulder, not torn off by natural forces.
There're striated marks at the bone.”
“ Bastard…” he said.
“ He transports the bodies in a vehicle,” she said, continuing the unofficial killer profile they'd begun together.
Parry, pacing now, nodded and said, “Yeah, and his car's in fairly good condition. He won't risk being pulled over or caught with a dead engine, especially after Koko Head.”
“ Still, something about his car that night attracted the HPD cops.”
“ Kaniola.”
“ What?”
“ Alan Kaniola first noticed the car… called it 'suspicious- looking.' I've only listened to the dispatch tape a thousand times.” Parry's obvious anguish over the case showed through. “There's nothing there. They never called in a plate; never had the chance.”
“ Look, I think the killer takes souvenirs from each victim, squirrels them away, possibly clothing and jewelry, but most assuredly the hands.”
“ Cut at the wrist?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes boring into him. “He… he takes his trophies out later… re-counts them, relives the fantasy over and over, until he does it again. And one more thing. He likely enjoys reading about the accounts of the missing girls and any news coverage devoted to their disappearances.”
Parry nodded. “He's always out there looking for prey, the girl who looks like Linda Kahala.”
“ He knows what he likes… what he wants, and he feels comfortable doing it here. He's on his own turf. He knows the terrain well.”
Parry agreed. “And when he sees that look-alike victim, he strikes.”
“ He ensnares, perhaps with words at first.” Parry thought of the Shakespearean sonnets he'd picked up from Linda's room, taken home and glanced over.
“ Then he renders his victim helpless,” she went on, “as when a snake sends venom into a mouse, immobilizing it. We found traces of a drug called curare, not present in the usual street drugs.”
“ I see…”
“ He next assaults, kills and disposes of his victims.”
“ And he hunts nightly during the trades, looking for his victim of opportunity.”
“ Exactly,” she agreed. “And when he fails to find her, he goes home and opens his box of precious collectibles-a collection of keys, hairpins, lipstick vials, underwear, earrings, necklaces and body parts.”
“ HPD has a lot of red-eyed detectives back out on the streets, particularly along Ala Moana, Kalakaua, Kuhio and the Ala Wai, interviewing pimps, johns, taxi drivers, employees in stores and restaurants in the vicinity, you name it. My own people have already logged three hundred man hours out there and zip. It's like this guy's a magician; makes 'em disappear before everyone's eyes.”
“ Yeah, I saw how crowded the streets were the other night when we were strolling. He meets her at a bus stop or a supermarket, convinces her that he has something she needs, that they have to go to his place to get it.”
Parry grimly replied, “He has that lethal combination of desire, passion, lust and an inability to satisfy that need through any normal means.”
“ Impotence,” she agrees. “Dysfunctional, and squeamish over the thought of pain and suffering-his own, that is-and the sight of blood-his own, that is. But at the first sight of blood from his first slash when he lost control with his first victim, he learned that the feel of anguish and torture, and the sight of blood streaming down the body of a helpless victim, creates in him an epiphany of pure pleasure, an orgasm like nothing he has ever experienced before, that for the first time in his miserable life he is sexually fulfilled.”
“ Yeah, understood… not only does overpowering a helpless woman give him an erection, it makes him ejaculate.”
“ Blood and pain… that's what he's into, and whoever this guy is, he's slowly come around to the conclusion that murder's not only easy, it's sexually gratifying,” she continued. “The sight of blood, the struggle against him, the ultimate empowerment he feels, his goddamned erection, it all combines when he cuts into his victim and dangles her life over the edge.”
“ Her life or death in his hands alone. Makes him feel like God, I'm sure.”
“ For once in his life he's in control. That's what matters to him.”
Parry swallowed hard, thinking of young Linda Kahala, of her father and mother, of how he was going to break the news to them that their daughter was now, for a certainty, the first positively identified young woman of the many missing who were all assuredly dead. It followed that since the last of the missing was murdered, the others were more than likely just as dead. There was no telling how many bodies this madman had accumulated below the waters of the Blow Hole.”Not so sure I can eat lunch now,” admitted Jessica.
“ How about a stiff island drink?” he suggested.
“ That I can't refuse.”
“ Maybe after a drink, you'll feel like something to eat, maybe a sandwich. I know a place close by.”
She got up, grabbed her cane and came around to where he'd remained standing. “You're certainly taking good care of me.”
“ Zanek's orders,” he said casually.
“ Is that it? And what did Paul tell you about me?”
“ Only that you're the best, and now I understand why he says so.”
She stripped away her lab coat, put her jacket over her shoulders, and tapped with her cane ahead of him, privately pleased at his attentions. In D.C. she had a reputation as something of a cold “cutter,” a typical M.E. rubric. Some there still called her the Scavenger-always on the hunt for clues. People, and men in particular, were usually standoffish, unsure around her, often threatened by her. The irony of it was that, despite her education, her medical training and her time at the FBI academy, and despite the fact she was an excellent markswoman, she thought herself the least intimidating person she knew. At least, she didn't intentionally intimidate men; still, like an aura one is bom with, she was seldom viewed as anything other than Dr. Jessica Coran, M.E., FBI. There had only been a handful of men in her life who had gotten beyond their initial hangups about her qualifications and degrees, and even this usually required close working conditions and long hours to reach what ought to be an easily accessible plateau.
Interestingly, this hadn't been the case with Inspector James Parry. Here, with him, she'd been treated like a lady from the moment they'd met.
“ You seem to do pretty well without the cane,” he commented when they'd gotten into the elevator. “I looked in on you earlier. You were busy in the lab, so…”
“ Sometimes I need it more… depends on how long I've been on my feet,” she managed.