“We knew that. Everyone knew that. But you battled yourself and won.”
“My file must be popular reading.”
“It’s not in your file.”
“But the Bureau knows.”
Karen shrugged. “They know you’ve caught people no one else could find. They know you’ve been in situations no one else would have survived. They know you’re the best hunter in the FBI, with more skill, more courage, more intelligence, more… what should I call it? More ‘understanding’ of the mind of serial killers than anyone in the Bureau.”
“Call it ‘fellow feeling.’”
“I won’t call it that and I don’t see what good it does you to do so. You’ve never done a thing that wasn’t in the line of duty and perfectly justified by the circumstances.”
“Thank you. I feel so much better now. You’ve helped me to see that I’ve been beating up on myself for no reason at all.”
“Gold thinks you’re ready to work again.” Karen said.
“Good of him. The alcoholic is sober so take him out and buy him a beer.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
“Possibly because he has his head up his ass. Hard to see things my way from that position.”
“I would think that is your position,” Karen said.
Becker laughed.
“But for me it’s a normal posture.” He touched her hand with one finger, drawing it slowly from wrist to fingertip.
“I’m sorry I jerked away from you a minute ago,” he said. “I’m not used to being touched.”
“You used to be very receptive.” she said. She noticed that the pilot and owner had stopped talking. She did not look at them.
“That’s when you were single,” he said. He lightly pinched her ring finger where a wedding band should have been. “Did you take it off just for me, or don’t you wear one for professional reasons?”
“The file is out of date,” she said. “I’ve been divorced for four months and separated for three years before that.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Not at all. But thanks.”
She pulled her hand from his fingers, glancing toward the pilot. The pilot was staring too innocently out the window. He appeared to be discussing the clouds with the owner.
“I’m really not here to stir up any old flames. John. I’m here to get your help.”
“So tell me about it,” he said.
“About what?”
“The case that was so important you needed a helicopter to find me. That’s an expensive item compared to a phone call.”
“Did you have a phone on the mountain with you? Wish I’d known. Besides. I thought you weren’t going to help me.”
Becker shrugged. “I’ll help you if I can. I’m not going to get involved. If I can do anything useful while I’m sitting here. I’m happy to help.”
Karen placed a folder on the table in front of him. He abruptly put his hand on it.
“Don’t start with pictures of the victims,” he said.
“All right.”
“That was always hard to take.”
“I don’t enjoy it either, but how do you know they’re that kind of pictures? This is kidnapping.”
Becker removed his hand from the folder.
“Kidnapping ends up one of two ways,” he said. “The victim is released or the victim is dead. You didn’t come to see me about victims who have been released.”
“There’s a third alternative,” Karen said. “Sometimes the victims stay missing.”
“Those are kids who are taken by one of the parents in a custody dispute and packed off to a different state. You didn’t come to me for that kind of thing, either.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not where my talents lie.”
Karen nodded. “Okay.”
“And it cost you too much personally to seek me out and talk to me again,” he continued.
“Did it?”
“You may not be as guileless as I am, Karen, but that doesn’t mean that you’re unreadable. Whatever this case is, you felt it was worth the price, which means it means a lot to you.”
“Yes. It means a lot.”
“Save the pictures. I’ll look at them if I have to, but first just tell me about it. Let me get a feel for the case without the emotional load of the pictures.”
Karen blew softly and silently through her lips before starting. “It’s kids,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Some son of a bitch is killing kids.”
Karen was surprised and embarrassed by the sudden flood of emotion. Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears. Becker reached out to comfort her, but she pulled back from him and shot her chin up. When she spoke again she sounded angry, but there was no sound of tears in her voice.
“Kids-boys-have been missing from New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts. Connecticut. They’re gone for a time, a month or two-the longest was eleven weeks-and then they are found dead.”
“How many?”
“Six-that we know about. The first that suits the pattern was a nine-year-old boy named Amell Wicker, who disappeared from a shopping mall in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Eight months later it was a boy from Bethpage, Long Island. Last seen in another shopping mall. His mother let him go for a slice of pizza while she was shopping for shoes. He never came back. They found his body in a garbage bag alongside the highway thirty miles from Bethpage two months later.”
“When was the next one missing?”
“Eight months later. Peabody, Massachusetts. Body discovered six weeks later.”
“How long had he been dead when he was discovered?” Becker asked.
“Less than forty-eight hours. Again it was in a garbage bag, alongside a highway.”
“This one taken from a shopping mall, too?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve checked all the employees to see if any of them worked in more than one of the malls.” It was not a question; Becker knew the answer.
“One employee in common. Peter Steinholz was the manager of a cookie franchise in Upper Saddle River and in Stamford, Connecticut, where the fifth boy was snatched. He’s a family man, wife, two kids.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.”
“No prior arrest record except one DWI three years ago. Reasonable alibi. He checks out pretty clean.”
“Sales reps? Suppliers? Service people? Anybody who might have been at all the malls? The guy who fixes the cookie maker’s ovens, for instance.”
“A few overlaps, six or seven, but the timing is wrong on all of them. You know it wouldn’t be that easy or we would have found him already.”
“I’m just asking out of habit. I know you’ve done all you could or you wouldn’t be here. Tell me about the fourth one.”
“Ricky Stine, Newburgh, New York. Disappeared from a schoolyard during recess. Went out to play with the rest of the kids, never came back. They thought maybe he’d just wandered off, had him listed as a runaway for a couple of weeks until they found his body.”
“Why a runaway?”
“He was hyperactive, always into trouble of some kind. Not a bad kid, just hard to control. His parents said he’d had a history of running away from home, showing up again in a day or two. This time he didn’t show up again.”
“How long was that after the kid from Peabody was found?”
“Ricky went missing six months later.”
Becker nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on the folder as if reading it through the cover.
“Significant?” she asked.
“Not yet. How long till number five?”
Karen looked at her notes. “Four and a half months.”
“He’s getting more frequent. There was an interval of eight months after the first two, then six months, then four and a half.”
“Because he’s getting away with it? More confident?” Becker shot her a glance.
“He’s not thinking about getting away with it, not when he snatches them. Later, when he has to dispose of the body, he might think about details then.”
“What is he thinking about when he snatches them?”
“He’s not thinking at all. He’s feeling.”
“Feeling what?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know what he does with them.”
“When I tell you what he does with them, will you know what he’s feeling?”
Becker heard the trace of contempt that Karen could not hide and looked up from the folder. He leaned back in his chair.