“Please don’t say UNSUB.”
My comment brought a small but welcome smile. “Killer. So I’ll see you there?”
I didn’t reply.
“Pat?”
“I’m thinking.”
I realized that, given the choice between sitting through a briefing led by Jake Vanderveld and swimming through a pond full of leeches, I’d be looking for my bathing suit. But I didn’t mention that. It didn’t seem like the polite thing to say.
“OK, I’ll see you at one. That should give me enough time. There’s something I want to look into.”
“What’s that?”
“The newspaper articles pinned to the wall at the ranch house all concerned Richard Devin Basque. Since John obviously knows about Basque, I want to find out if Basque knows about John.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to have a little chat with my old friend.”
67
Ten minutes after leaving the hospital, I was in my office in the federal building. I turned on my computer’s video chat camera, phoned Ralph, and told him that I needed to do a video conference with Basque. As soon as I’d explained why, he said, “I’ll take care of it. I’m about ten minutes from the jail. I’ll get things rolling; call you back in twenty.”
He called me back in twelve.
“It’s good to go,” he said. “I didn’t mention the subject matter, though. I figured you could bring that up.”
“Good. What about Basque’s lawyer?”
“He said he doesn’t have anything to hide; that he doesn’t want her there. He already signed a waiver.”
Basque was so addicted to control that I wasn’t surprised he didn’t want Ms. Eldridge-Gorman sitting next to him, telling him what to say.
“It’s a power trip for him,” I said to Ralph. “Just knowing that I’m asking for his time probably makes him feel important.”
“Is that profiling I’m hearing from you, Pat?”
“That’s not profiling. It’s called induction.”
“Sounds like profiling to me.”
“It’s not profiling.”
“Pat the Profiler. That’s gonna be your new nickname. Wait till I send out the memo.”
“Could we just focus on the case here?”
Then, through the phone, I heard the sound of a door opening. “Wait,” Ralph said. “I gotta go. They’re ready.”
“I wasn’t profiling,” I said, but he’d already hung up.
Anticipating that I might want to take notes during my conversation with Basque, I positioned a notepad next to my keyboard, directed the camera on my face, and then clicked “record” so I could keep a digital record of our conversation.
By the time I was done getting ready, I heard my computer beep. A gray jail cell wall appeared on the monitor.
Ralph’s head filled the screen. Then the image swung to the left as he centered the computer’s camera on an empty chair. He looked into the camera again. “Almost got it, Pat the Profiler.”
“Could you tilt your head to the side?” I said. “I’m getting an awful lot of glare on this end.”
“Ha. Very funny. Laugh all you want.” His face appeared again. He slid his hand across his head. “It drives Brineesha crazy.”
“Just buy me some sunglasses.”
The image of Ralph’s face was grainy, and because of the delay between the audio and video, I guessed they were using someone’s older, slower laptop. Then I heard the rattle of leg irons and Ralph said, “Here he comes.”
There was a moment of blurry movement as Ralph moved back, then Basque situated himself on the chair and faced the camera.
68
Today, Basque wore an orange prison jumpsuit and not the hand-tailored clothes he’d worn at the trial, and for some reason that brought me a small degree of satisfaction. The door clanged shut as Ralph left.
“Hello, Richard,” I said.
“Agent Bowers.” Even though he was handcuffed, he looked as confident and at ease as ever. “I’d like to thank you again for saving my life. I wouldn’t be here today if you hadn’t responded so quickly.”
My natural response to a comment like that would have been to say, “You’re welcome,” but I held back and simply said, “Yes.”
“Did they find out how Celeste’s father was able to load the gun before it was brought into the courtroom?”
“They’re looking into it.”
“I’m sure they are.” He paused, folded his handcuffed hands on his lap. “Does this chat concern the recent string of murders in Denver that I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“It does.” After the attempt on his life I should have guessed he’d be following the news. “I think you might be able to help us find the killer.” I stopped for a moment and evaluated whether or not to say it. Went ahead: “He reminds me of you, Richard.”
Basque was silent. Finally he nodded slightly. “So, I’m guessing it isn’t motives you’re interested in. What are we hoping to find out here today?”
“He knows about you. We found newspaper clippings of your crimes. He collected them.”
Basque straightened up. “Clippings?”
“Yes. I’m wondering if he ever contacted you.”
Like so many serial killers, Basque had reached celebrity status among a certain aberrant segment of society. From my pretrial briefing with Assistant State’s Attorney Vandez, I knew that thousands of people had written to Basque over the past thirteen years. Last I’d heard, nine women had asked him to marry them when he was released.
I figured I’d give Basque one small clue to see if it helped jog his memory. “This killer, he likes Renaissance literature.”
I’ve only met a few people in my life with a memory as sharp as Basque’s, and now it looked like he was mentally sorting through all of those thousands of letters he’d received in order to identify the man I was referring to. At last, a look of recognition crossed his face. “Giovanni.”
That’s Boccaccio’s first name, the Italian form of John.
“Tell me what you know,” I said.
“Well for starters, I don’t know who he is. Giovanni’s almost certainly not his real name. I never wrote him back.” Basque was as consummate a liar as he was a killer, and even though he sounded like he was telling the truth I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. He must have noticed my skepticism. “You can confirm it with the warden,” he said. “Giovanni wrote to me six times, I never replied.”
I would contact the warden as soon as I could, but for now I wanted to find out as many details as possible from Basque himself.
“What did he write to you about?”
Basque wet his lips, stared directly into the camera, and said, “You.”
69
My heartbeat seemed to stop for a split second, and when it picked up again it was faster than usual. “What did you say?”
“Giovanni wrote to me about an FBI agent he was recruiting to play a crucial part in his story. Someone he was planning to bury alive at the climax. Someone he admired.”
I shook my head. “That’s not enough. It could be any number of people.” I could see the gears turning in his mind. It appeared there was something he wasn’t telling me. “What else?”
He tapped a finger slowly against his leg. “I’ll help you if you do something for me.”
“I’m not here to cut deals.”
“Hear me out. It’s not a deal like you think. It’s a favor.”
I was tempted to end the call immediately, but then remembered that nothing I’d done so far had slowed down John-or Giovanni or whatever his name was. He always seemed to be one step ahead, just like Basque had been thirteen years ago in the months leading up to the slaughterhouse. In the months so many women died.
Cold, whispering lips.
Basque’s victims.
And now, Giovanni’s.
So many innocent people, calling to me from their graves.
Basque stared at me from the cell in Chicago, waiting for my reply.