“To continue: The crimes had a sexual gratification component. That gratification comes from sexual excitement generated by two things: a feeling of control and power over the victim, and the presence of blood. The sex of the victim is less important. The lack of the presence of semen may only mean the killer did not climax or did so clothed. The latter is common.”
D’Agosta shifted in his chair. That doughnut wasn’t looking quite so appetizing now.
“Another commonality is that this type of serial homicide involves a large ritual component. The killer receives gratification from killing in the same way, in the same sequence, using the same knife, and inflicting the same mutilation to the corpse.”
D’Agosta nodded again.
“He has a job. Probably a good one. This type of killer only operates in an environment he knows well, and so we may find that he is either an ex-employee or, more likely, a former guest of both hotels.”
“We’re already running the guest lists and employee lists against each other, and against a description of the perp.”
“Excellent.” Gibbs took a deep breath. He certainly was a talker, but D’Agosta wasn’t about to stop him. “His expertise with a knife is high, which means he may use one in his profession or simply be a knife aficionado. He has a lot of self-confidence. He’s arrogant. This is another prime characteristic of this type of killer. He thinks nothing of being caught on security videos; he taunts the police and believes he can control the investigation. Hence the messages left behind.”
“I was wondering about those messages—if you had any specific theories, I mean.”
“As I said, they are taunting.”
“Any idea who they’re directed at?”
A smile spread over Gibbs’s face. “They aren’t directed at anyone in particular.”
“Happy Birthday? You don’t think that was directed at anyone?”
“No. This type of serial killer mocks the police, but doesn’t as a rule single out individual investigators, particularly in the beginning. We’re all the same to him—the faceless enemy. The birthday is probably generic or might refer to any anniversary—perhaps even that of the perp himself. Something you also might look into.”
“Good idea. But isn’t it possible these messages might be directed at someone who isn’t a cop?”
“Highly unlikely.” Gibbs patted the folder. “There are a few other things in here: the aggressor was probably abandoned by his mother; he lives alone; he has poor relationships with the opposite sex or, if he is homosexual, with his own sex. Finally, something happened very recently that set him off: rejection by a lover, loss of a job, or—this is most likely of all—the death of his mother.”
Gibbs sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.
“That’s your prelim?” D’Agosta asked.
“We’ll refine it considerably as we feed in more information. The database is extremely powerful.” Gibbs looked D’Agosta in the eye. “I have to say, Lieutenant, you certainly have done well bringing us this problem. The BSU is the best in the world at this. I promise, we’ll work closely with you, tread lightly, respect your people, and share everything on a real-time basis.”
D’Agosta nodded. You couldn’t ask for more than that.
After Gibbs had left, D’Agosta sat in the armchair for a long time. As he chewed thoughtfully on the Caramel Kreme Crunch, he thought about what Gibbs had said concerning the killer and his motive. It made sense. Maybe too much sense.
God, he could really use Pendergast right now.
He shook his head, polished off the doughnut, licked his fingers, and with a supreme act of will shut the box.
14
D’AGOSTA BLEW OFF THE DOOR MAN BY FLASHING HIS BADGE and walking right on past the pillbox, not even making eye contact, the man hurrying behind with a “Sir? Sir? Whom are you visiting?” D’Agosta called out Pendergast’s name and apartment number loudly and headed for the interior courtyard.
The elevator operator proved to be a little more stubborn, requiring an overt threat about obstruction of justice before he reluctantly closed the old-fashioned grillwork doors and ascended to Pendergast’s suite of apartments.
D’Agosta had been in the Dakota many times before, and he was usually struck by the scent, a mixture of beeswax polish, old wood, and a faint overlay of leather. Everything about the place was genteel and old-fashioned, from the polished brass of the elevator knobs and trim, to the hushed carpeting, to the lovely travertine walls with their nineteenth-century sconces. He noticed very little of this now. He was sick with worry about Pendergast. For days he’d been waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the pressure cooker to explode. Nothing. And that was probably worse than any explosion.
The doorman had called up, of course, so when D’Agosta pressed the buzzer the intercom came quickly to life.
“Vincent?”
“I need to talk to you. Please.”
A long, long silence.
“On what subject?”
There was a strange quality to Pendergast’s voice that gave D’Agosta the creeps. Maybe it was the electronic rasp of the intercom.
“Could you let me in?”
Another odd pause.
“No, thank you.”
D’Agosta took this in. No, thank you? He sounded bad. He recalled Hayward’s advice and decided to give it a try.
“Look, Pendergast, there’s been a couple of murders. A serial killer. I really need your advice.”
“I’m not interested.”
D’Agosta took a deep breath. “I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I’d like to see you. It’s been a while. We need to talk, catch up, I need to find out what’s been going on, how you’re doing. You’ve had a terrible shock—”
“Pray leave the premises and do not bother me again.”
His voice sounded even more cold, stilted, and formal than usual. D’Agosta waited a moment, and then said gently, “That’s what I’m not going to do. I’m going to stand here, annoying you, until you let me in. I’ll stay here all night, if necessary.”
That finally got through. After a long moment, the locks began turning, one after the other. The door opened slowly, and D’Agosta entered the foyer. Pendergast, dressed in a black dressing gown, had already turned his back and uttered no greeting. D’Agosta followed him into the reception room, the one with the bonsai trees and the wall of water.
Moving listlessly, Pendergast turned and seated himself, folding his hands in front, and raised his head to look at D’Agosta.
D’Agosta froze. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The man’s face was collapsed, gray, his normally silver eyes as dull and heavy as old lead. His clasped hands were shaking, ever so slightly.
He launched in gamely. “Pendergast, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about Helen’s death. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m one hundred percent behind you—however you want to go about nailing the bastards.”
There seemed to be no reaction whatsoever to this.
“We need to get a… ah, death certificate, determination of homicide. We’ll need to exhume the body, go through the legal crap with Mexico. I’m not sure what’s involved, but you can bet we’ll expedite the hell out of it. We will get her a decent burial in the States. And then we’ll launch an investigation hammer and tongs—FBI, of course, they’ll back up one of their own. There’s NYPD involvement, too, and I’ll make damn sure our resources are deployed, big-time. We will get those scumbags, I guarantee it.”
He stopped, breathing heavily. Pendergast’s eyes were lidded; he seemed to have gone to sleep. D’Agosta stared. This was even worse than he thought. As he looked at his old friend and partner, a terrible realization dawned on him, hitting him like a shock of high voltage.