Authors: David Wiltse
“You conducted the interviews, Karen?”
“Some of them.”
“The second in command of Kidnapping is in the field doing interviews in person?”
Karen shifted uncomfortably.
“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m pretty good at it.”
“I don’t doubt it. Normally.”
“What do you mean ‘normally’?”
“If you’re not too involved.”
“Of course I’m involved. I’ve been working on the case for seven months. I want to hang the bastard by his balls.”
“You were doing interviews in the field in Stamford after the fourth boy’s disappearance. That was after you’d been on the case for only about five months.”
“Five months is a long time.”
“Not really. Certainly not long enough to drive most Deputy Directors out of the office and onto the street. Every one of them I’ve ever known has been more than happy to give up field work. It doesn’t look leader-like, poking around amongst the common folk, asking questions any agent could ask. It doesn’t help someone with ambitions to lay her reputation on the line by going back on the street. It’s a dumb move, Karen, especially if it doesn’t pay off. It makes you look like a poor agent and a lousy executive. That’s why I say too involved.”
“That’s why I came to you.”
“Maybe. Although I doubt that you’d come to me just to save your ass, even assuming I could do it. Or would do it ... How old were the victims. Karen?”
“Four of them were ten years old, two were nine.”
“Your file says you have a child. A boy, isn’t it?”
“Jack.”
“About ten?”
“He turns ten in three weeks.”
“Does that have anything to do with your extra involvement?”
“That’s fairly simplistic reasoning, especially coming from you. I don’t see that my son has anything to do with it.”
“You have custody?”
“Of Jack?”
“Someone got custody after the divorce, right? Is it you? Or is it your ex-husband?”
“What the hell does the status of my custody arrangement have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“I don’t think you’d be asking a man this question. Would you need to know Hatcher’s ‘extra involvement’? No, you’d just treat him as a fellow professional and get on with it.”
“I happen to know that Hatcher doesn’t have enough creative imagination or sensitivity to get involved in anything other than his own career. You are very different, Karen, although you’re still ambitious as hell. You have both the imagination and the emotional proclivity to get involved.”
“Emotional proclivity? Come on, Becker. Speak English, you’re among friends.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t. And I never did. You wanted me to have some twisted involvement in the Bahoud case. I thought I understood why, back then. You were sleeping with me. We were about half in love. I guess. You wanted someone to share what you were feeling about the case because it frightened you and made you lonely, so you imagined I was the same way. But I wasn’t. I almost wanted to be, just because of our relationship, but I’m not that way. I’m just not. Why you need to think I’m that way today is frankly beyond me.”
Becker stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair. The pilot and owner stopped talking and watched him.
“What?” she asked.
“Tell me about the sixth victim,” Becker said.
“Are you going someplace?”
“I’m listening.”
“Why do men always do that? The minute a problem comes out in the open, the very second you have a chance to discuss something, off you all go. Out of the room, out of the house. Don’t want to talk about it, case closed.” She glanced at the pilot, who was watching with interest.
“I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“You’ve got one foot out the door already.”
“I’m right here. I’m just standing.”
“One foot out the door, one eye on the television.”
“I don’t remember you being quite so much fun to work with the last time,” he said.
“That’s because you were so busy humping me.”
“Humping you? I thought we were ‘half in love.’ ”
“Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t,” she said. “I just said that.”
“Were you?”
Karen shrugged. “Half, a quarter, an eighth. Some, John, okay? Some.”
“So then what’s with the humping?”
“That’s what we did on the bed.”
Karen met the pilot’s gaze directly and defiantly. The pilot looked away as if he had just been casually surveying the room. Once his back was safely turned he grinned at the owner.
“I get the impression I’m being blamed for that part,” Becker said. “For you it was being some fraction in love and for me it was humping. Is that how you remember it?”
“To tell you the truth, John. I scarcely remember at all ... Oh, yeah, I did nearly get killed and spent a month in the hospital. I remember that part. What do you want me to say? Something that lets you off the hook? You’re off the hook. You’re not responsible for any of it.”
“Graciously done.”
“You’re not responsible for seducing a twenty-six-year-old rookie agent. You’re not ...”
“Seducing! Seducing? What kind of archaic notion is that?”
“I said you didn’t.”
“Does seducing mean I tricked you into doing something that you didn’t want to do? Is that what that means? You’d already been married and divorced by twenty-six. How did I seduce you? Put drugs in your drink? Did I charm you out of your pants? I think we’ve already established that I don’t have any charm.”
“I believe we agree on that point, yes. The pilot is laughing at us, if that interests you.”
Becker turned toward the pilot, who was now openly staring and trying unsuccessfully to assume a straight face.
“Can you imagine anyone seducing Deputy Assistant Director Crist?” Becker demanded.
The pilot coughed and turned back to the owner again. They became suddenly involved in a weather chart. In fact, the pilot had spent the better part of his trip to the mountains trying to figure a way to make a move on Deputy Assistant Director Crist without endangering his career. If Becker had ever seduced her, the pilot would have loved to know how. So would most of the men in the Bureau. If the Deputy Director had had any private life at all following her divorce, it was exceedingly private. Her brief affair with Becker ten years ago was well known, of course, because Deputy Director Hatcher had flirted briefly with the intention of making an issue of it. But, as with most things involving Agent Becker, this case had fallen into a special category. Becker, it was rumored, literally got away with murder. Like most of the other agents, the pilot did not hold it against him.
Still fuming, Becker strode to the soft-drink machine, kicked it, and returned to the table. The owner thought briefly of saying something, but a glance from the pilot persuaded him otherwise. Becker sat abruptly.
“Feel better?” Karen asked.
“Soda’s bad for your teeth, anyway,” Becker said.
Fighting a smile, Karen said, “I’m supposed to command these people, John. It doesn’t help if you have these little tantrums and involve me in them.”
“Is that the voice you use to keep your son in line? Stern but reasonable?”
“Jack doesn’t kick things,” she said. “And he doesn’t embarrass me in public.”
“Sounds like a dull kid.”
“Never say that to a parent,” she said sharply. “Not if you want to continue the conversation. Jack is a wonderful child, a bright and sensitive and creative boy who doesn’t need to get violent to express himself.”
Becker muttered something unintelligible and then, with an effort, gave her a wan smile. “Sorry,” he said.
Karen straightened the file so that it was directly parallel to the edge of the table. “We seem to have drifted a bit from the point.”
Folding his hands on the table in a parody of a well-mannered schoolboy, Becker relieved himself of a shuddering sigh.
“Ready.”
“The sixth victim ... ” Karen said, pausing until Becker dropped his overly attentive act. She knew that when it came to work, Becker was serious and unemotional, but he was seldom detached when it came to her. The trick was to keep herself out of the work while still directing and controlling it.
“Number six,” she continued, “was Craig Masoon, who vanished from a school trip to the natural history museum in Quincy, Massachusetts.”
“How soon after the previous victim?”
“Two and a half months.”
“Christ. He’s not just hungry anymore. He’s ravenous. How long did he keep this one?”
“A month.”
“And how long ago did you find the body?”
“A week.”
“He’s about due to strike again.”
“That’s another reason I’m here.”
“You expect me to stop him before he takes another kid? You don’t need me, you need a miracle. Try prayer.”
“I have,” she said. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“Glad to hear He helps someone.” Becker said. “What kind of profile do you have on the kids?”
“All boys, nine or ten years old. Caucasian, brown hair, eyes either blue or brown—four brown, two blue. All boys next door.”
“Next door to whom, though? You’ve seen their pictures, I mean the ones from home, not the morgue shots. What do they look like, Karen? Are they ethnic-looking? Beautiful, male model types? Tall, short for their age; do they all wear glasses, were they all wearing baseball caps? Give me something to work with.”
“They’re white-bread,” she said. “Norman Rockwell kids, snub-nosed, freckle-faced—without the actual freckles, if you know what I mean. Nice-looking, nothing extraordinary. None of these kids were living in a slum, they weren’t runners for drug dealers, they weren’t gang members.” A bitterness had crept into her tone. “They look wholesome, if you remember what that’s like. Hell, John, they look sweet. They look innocent.”
There were tears in her eyes, but Becker heard no trace of them in her voice.
“They look the way you probably looked as a kid,” she said.
“At that age, I looked scared,” Becker said.
Karen paused. Then, gently, “I know, John. I remember you told me. These kids must all have looked awfully scared for the last weeks of their lives, too.”
Becker nodded, looking at the table, his vision turned inwards.
“You survived it,“ Karen said, her voice still low and gentle. “They didn’t. In a couple of weeks another one won’t.”
“Cause of death?” Karen thought his voice sounded brittle, as if it might crack at any moment, and he with it. He was still looking at the table.
“Asphyxiation.”
Becker came to himself abruptly. “Asphyxiation? Not the beatings?”
Karen shook her head. “Medical thinks the prolonged and repeated trauma must have brought them pretty close to death, but at the end he smothered them.”
“Smothered, not strangled?”
“Medical thinks it was probably a pillow, blanket, something like that. There was no real sign of struggle at the end. But then there wouldn’t have been any hair or skin or blood under the nails, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“They were washed thoroughly after death. ‘Cleansed’ is how Medical put it. Nails cleaned, hair combed, bodies scrubbed. Not a fingerprint on them, not a trace of anything.”
“Hair combed?”
Karen nodded. “Parted and combed ... And cut.”
“Cut? He gave them a haircut after he killed them?”
“It looks that way.”
Becker thought for a moment. “He may be saving the hair. We may be looking for someone with a bag full of trimmings.”
“What does he want with them?”
“How the hell do I know. They were sexually abused, I assume.”
Karen shook her head. “It puzzled all of us, but no. No sign of sexual abuse.”
Becker was silent for a long time. Karen watched his face but could read little there.
“I assume the Investigative Support Unit is involved? Have they given you a profile of the guy?” he asked finally.
“Sort of. It isn’t much help yet. They don’t have a lot to work on and they seem to be thrown by the lack of sexual abuse.”
“Did Gold have anything to offer?”
“Gold was a bit confused.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“He is a good man, Becker.”
“I know, I know.”
“What do you expect from a shrink, after all?”
“Miracles, mostly. If he’s your own.”
“He’s helped you, you’ve said so.”
“Allow me my own twisted response to my shrink, if you don’t mind. What was he confused about?”
“He thought it was very unclear, he was getting conflicting signals from this guy. At least Gold was frank enough to admit it.”
“He’s as honest as his profession will allow,” Becker conceded. “So the psychological profile isn’t much use?”
“As usual. You can give us a better one.”
Becker looked at her, smiled ruefully.
“We know why that is, don’t we?”
She chose to ignore his remark. “I’ll let you see Gold’s profile, of course. I can put everything we have in your hands in less than a day.”
“How much do you have on the man himself?”
Karen cleared her throat. She glanced at the pilot and owner, then back to the file on the table in front of her.
“Nothing,” she said finally.
“Partial description?”
“No one has ever seen him.”
“He took six kids away from public places, once from a schoolyard, once from a school outing at a museum—and no one saw him?”
“No.”
“He just walked off with them? No protests from the kids, no foot dragging, no struggles, no tears. Nothing to make anyone notice? Nothing to even make someone imagine they saw something peculiar? There’s always someone around who’s willing to make up something in exchange for attention from us. No lonely clerk who likes having the FBI talk to him as long as he can fantasize what he thinks we want to hear?”
“Nobody, John.”
“Who is this guy, the Invisible Man?”
“The agents are calling him Lamont Cranston. Apparently there was an old radio show called ‘The Shadow’ about this man, Lamont Cranston, who could cloud men’s minds and become invisible ...”
“I remember,” said Becker.
“Before my time,” said Karen.
“Your loss,” said Becker. He fell into a deep announcer’s baritone. “ ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? ... The Shadow knows.’ ”