“Five years ago a priest in the Boston diocese was relieved of his pastoral duties due to allegations involving a number of altar boys. He made some kind of deal with the bishop, blamed his inappropriate behavior on alcoholism, went to a long-term rehab, dropped out of sight, end of story.”
“What the hell was it with the Boston diocese?” sneered Blatt. “Whole goddamn place was crawling with kid-fuckers.”
Hardwick ignored him. “End of story until a year ago, when McGrath was found dead in his apartment. Multiple stab wounds to the throat. A revenge note was taped to the body. It was an eight-line poem in red ink.”
Rodriguez’s face was flushing. “How long have you known this?”
Hardwick looked at his watch. “Half an hour.”
“What?”
“Yesterday Special Investigator Gurney requested a northeast-states regional inquiry to all departments for MOs similar to the Mellery case. This morning we got a hit-the late Father McGrath.”
“Anyone arrested or prosecuted for his murder?” asked Kline.
“Nope. Boston homicide guy I spoke to wouldn’t come out and say it, but I got the impression they hadn’t exactly prioritized the case.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The captain sounded petulant.
Hardwick shrugged. “Former pederast gets himself stabbed to death, killer leaves a note referring vaguely to past misdeeds. Looks like someone decided to get even. Maybe the cops figure what the hell, they got other shit on their plates, plenty of other perps to catch with motives less noble than delayed justice. So maybe they don’t pay too much attention.”
Rodriguez looked like he had indigestion. “But he didn’t actually say that.”
“Of course he didn’t say that.”
“So,” said Kline in his summation voice, “whatever the Boston police did or didn’t do, the fact is, Father Michael McGrath is number five.”
“Sí, número cinco,” said Hardwick inanely. “But really número uno-since the priest got himself sliced up a year before the other four.”
“So Mellery, who we thought was the first, was really the second,” said Kline.
“I doubt that very strongly,” said Holdenfield. When she had everyone’s attention, she went on, “There’s no evidence that the priest was the first-he may have been the tenth for all we know-but even if he was the first, there’s another problem. One killing a year ago, then four in less than two weeks, is not a pattern you normally see. I would expect others in between.”
“Unless,” Gurney interjected softly, “some factor other than the killer’s psychopathology is driving the timing and the selection of victims.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I believe it’s something the victims have in common other than alcoholism, something we haven’t found yet.”
Holdenfield rocked her head speculatively from side to side and made a face that said she wasn’t about to agree with Gurney’s supposition but couldn’t find a way to shoot it down, either.
“So we may or may not discover links to some old corpses,” said Kline, looking unsure of how he felt about this.
“Not to mention some new ones,” said Holdenfield.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was becoming Rodriguez’s favorite question.
Holdenfield showed no reaction to the testy tone. “The pace of the killings, as I started to say earlier, suggests that the endgame has begun.”
“Endgame?” Kline intoned the word as though he liked the sound of it.
Holdenfield continued, “In this most recent instance, he was driven to act in an unplanned way. The process may be spinning out of his control. My feeling is that he won’t be able to hold it together much longer.”
“Hold what together?” Blatt posed the question, as he posed most of his questions, with a kind of congenital hostility.
Holdenfield regarded him for moment without expression, then looked at Kline. “How much education do I need to provide here?”
“You might want to touch on a few key points. Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, glancing around the table and clearly not expecting to be corrected, “but with the exception of Dave, I don’t think the rest of us have had much practical experience with serial murder.”
Rodriguez looked like he was about to object to something but said nothing.
Holdenfield smiled unhappily. “Is everyone at least familiar in a general way with the Holmes typology of serial murder?”
The assortment of murmurs and nods around the table was generally affirmative. Only Blatt had a question. “Sherlock Holmes?”
Gurney wasn’t sure whether this was a stupid joke or just stupid.
“Ronald M. Holmes-a bit more contemporary, and an actual person,” said Holdenfield in an exaggeratedly benign tone that Gurney couldn’t quite place. Was it possible she was mimicking Mister Rogers addressing a five-year-old?
“Holmes categorized serial killers by their motivations-the type driven by imagined voices; the type on a mission to rid the world of some intolerable group of people-blacks, gays, you name it; the type seeking total domination; the thrill seeker who gets his greatest rush from killing; and the sex murderer. But they all have one thing in common-”
“They’re all fucking nuts,” said Blatt with a smug grin.
“Good point, Investigator,” said Holdenfield with a deadly sweetness, “but what they really have in common is a terrible inner tension. Killing someone provides them with temporary relief from that tension.”
“Sort of like getting laid?”
“Investigator Blatt,” said Kline angrily, “it might be a good idea to keep your questions to yourself until Rebecca finishes her comments.”
“His question is actually quite apt. An orgasm does relieve sexual tension. However, it does not in a normal person create a dysfunctional downward spiral demanding increasingly frequent orgasms at greater and greater cost. In that respect I believe serial killing has more in common with drug dependency.”
“Murder addiction,” said Kline slowly, speculatively, as though he were trying out a headline for a press release.
“Dramatic phrase,” said Holdenfield, “and there’s some truth in it. More than most people, the serial killer lives in his own fantasy world. He may appear to function normally in society. But he derives no satisfaction from his public life, and he has no interest in the real lives of other people. He lives only for his fantasies-fantasies of control, domination, punishment. For him these fantasies constitute a superreality-a world in which he feels important, omnipotent, alive. Any questions at this point?”
“I have one,” said Kline. “Do you have an opinion yet on which of the serial-killer types we’re looking for?”
“I do, but I’d love to hear what Detective Gurney has to say about that.”
Gurney suspected that her earnest, collegial expression was as phony as her smile.
“A man on a mission,” he said.
“Ridding the world of alcoholics?” Kline sounded half curious, half skeptical.
“I think ‘alcoholic’ would be part of the target-victim definition, but there may be more to it-to account for his specific choice of victims.”
Kline responded with a noncommittal grunt. “In terms of a more expanded profile, something more than ‘a man on a mission,’ how would you describe our perp?”
Gurney decided to play tit for tat. “I have a few ideas, but I’d love to hear what Dr. Holdenfield has to say about that.”
She shrugged, then spoke quickly and matter-of-factly. “Thirty-year-old white male, high IQ, no friendships, no normal sexual relationships. Polite but distant. He almost certainly had a troubled childhood, with a central trauma that influences his choice of victims. Since his victims are middle-aged men, it’s possible the trauma involved his father and an oedipal relationship with his mother-”