Mark said, “I thought you and she might be in group together.”
“And why is that?”
“The Violent Crimes Support Group meets at St. Dimpna’s. That’s where Jordan was institutionalized, and she’s a likely candidate.”
“And I am, too.”
Mark shrugged. “It’s the only support group of its kind in Cleveland.”
Elkins nodded. He seemed to be buying it.
“Detective, uh, Pryor, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have a certain loyalty, you know. Group members. There’s a confidentiality that’s understood, like at an AA meeting.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“And since Jordan hasn’t talked to you, I shouldn’t either.” Elkins sat back in the chair, but did not push back to make it recline.
Mark felt he’d blown it — gosh dang it!
Then Elkins said, “At least not about her case. If you want to ask about my family, I might answer your questions.”
“That would be very helpful, sir.”
“So ask. Listen, how new at this are you?”
“I’ve been a detective a few months.”
“So I should cut you some slack.”
Mark grinned. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Elkins grinned back at him. “Well, I’m not going to. You said five minutes, and we’re almost there.”
No more stalling.
“You were gone when the attack occurred?”
“You already know that.”
“And no one, none of your neighbors, saw anything unusual that night?”
“Come on. You know that, too. I thought you were going to present your theory.”
Funny — he seemed testy and good-natured at the same time.
“Yes, sir. I started thinking about it back in high school, with Jordan’s family. There just didn’t seem to be any explanation for what happened to them, nothing beyond just... random evil at loose in the world.”
“Nice phrase, son,” the writer said. “But get to it.”
“The more I studied, the more likely this seemed to fit the classic mode of a serial killer. I know, I know that they are rare, no matter what our pop culture puts out there. And there were problems — one was that he left Jordan alive. Another was that there was no even vaguely similar attack, at least not until your family six years ago. Some killers of this ilk will take a hiatus between episodes... but six years seems inordinately long.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“As I got older, studied more, learned more, it finally occurred to me that this predator’s hunting ground might be a far larger one than just the Cleveland metro area.”
Elkins set his glass down and sat forward again. “And where did that thinking take you?”
“Eventually, all across the country.”
The writer’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. Some here, in this region, but... well, I think I can tie together at least a dozen family murders to this one killer.”
Now Elkins leaned forward so far he was almost off the chair, his prayerfully folded hands dangling between his legs. “And no one else has put these pieces together? The FBI has profilers and investigators working on just these kinds of rare cases.”
“Maybe so,” Mark said, “but there’s no indication of that. My captain would be in the loop if the FBI was investigating the Cleveland-area homicides.”
“So why hasn’t the FBI noticed this killer?”
“Our predator is highly intelligent, maybe genius level. He knows not to have an immediately recognizable MO, so his methods vary — there’s always extenuating circumstances that make the crimes look like something other than textbook serial killings.”
“Such as?”
“Home invasions, primarily. One instance on the East Coast was made to look like a mob hit. He takes an approach that I would call diversionary.”
“Where nationally have you tracked these cases?”
“Providence, the Bronx, the Midwest. So far, never the South, but with several out west.”
Elkins was mulling it. “One man operating on that kind of scale — is it even possible?”
“For a suspect who travels a lot — with his business perhaps — it would be feasible, even fairly easy.”
Elkins got up, leaving the beer bottle behind on an end table, and began to pace, to prowl.
“How would he go about targeting families?” the writer asked. “Randomly? My God, that’s somehow more horrifying than thinking your family had been targeted. Even a warped reason is, at least, a reason.”
Mark had no answer for that. He asked, “No one ever found a commonality between you and the Riveras, did they?”
“Not really,” Elkins said, returning to his chair, perching himself on its edge again. “We both had six-figure incomes, but that was about all.”
“Didn’t your daughter study gymnastics?”
“A couple of lessons — she was just a beginner. Why do you ask?”
“Jordan took a few gymnastics lessons, too. Just to build a foundation for her cheerleading. This never came up in the investigation?”
“Not that I know of. You seem quite conversant about Jordan, Detective Pryor. How well did you know her?”
“Not well, but we were friendly. The gymnastics aspect I learned from talking to several of our mutual friends from back in high school.”
Elkins was no dummy. He wrote about crime, and the research that required gave him a leg up; and he created densely plotted thrillers, which meant he could put things together. Still, his next question jarred Mark.
“You’ve got a suspect, haven’t you, Detective?”
“Well... suspect might be too strong a word. Let’s say... person of interest.”
“That’s a stupid phrase,” Elkins said, with a sneer that hinted at the man’s underlying anger. “I hate that it’s entered the law-enforcement lexicon. What the hell is a ‘person of interest,’ anyway?”
“A person who isn’t a suspect yet, but is under consideration.”
Elkins scowled. “I know that, Detective. It was a rhetorical question. Mine isn’t — who is your ‘person of interest’?”
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not a novice in these matters. You know I can’t share that with you.”
“Why don’t I tell you then?”
“Sir?”
“Basil Havoc.”
That didn’t jar Mark — in a way, getting Elkins to identify Havoc as a suspect had been his intent, bringing up the gymnastics tie. But he was more and more impressed with the writer.
Mark asked, “Why would you mention Mr. Havoc as a possible suspect?”
Elkins returned to his beer for a sip and leaned back in the recliner, again not reclining. “Havoc was in charge of the gym where Akina went. He’s a publicity hound and a prick. But not a killer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why a publicity hound and a prick? He used my daughter’s death to get on the news and talk about how much promise she had, as if she’d been his star student, which she most definitely hadn’t been. It was nothing but a publicity grab for him and his gymnastics school.”
“But he did coach Akina, right?”
Elkins grunted. “He may have worked with her once, maybe twice. Hell, he was barely ever at that ‘school’ of his. His flunkies actually trained the kids. Oh, he might have worked his magic with the best and the brightest, but the beginners’ class? He might come over, say hello on the first day, give a little pep talk, then fade away.”
Mark had watched video of Havoc’s interviews again and again. The coach always made it sound like the girl was practically his protégé.
Elkins said, “He couldn’t have picked my daughter out of a lineup of any six girls in that dump. If, as you say, Jordan wasn’t serious about gymnastics, the chances of her having much personal contact with him are next to nil.”