Private Sector (16 page)

“Approximately nine o’clock last night.” He stared down at Miss Cuthburt’s photograph. “She was having plumbing problems, and her landlord let himself into her apartment this morning.”

Janet suggested to him, “Implying the killer knew where she lived. Just as he knew Lisa’s car?”

“Don’t assume it’s the same killer.”

“But you obviously think it’s the same man?”

“Don’t stretch the similarities.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and insisted, “
Any
conclusions would be premature at this point.”

Which was copspeak for, Yes, same guy. Martin struck me as decent and honest, and his studied reticence, or, in civilian parlance, his bald-faced lie, was understandable. If the general public learned a murderous sex maniac was on the loose, his job would get a hundred times harder.

“Evidence in her apartment?” Janet asked.

“That’s the odd thing,” Martin commented. “He cleaned up after himself. He wiped down the tables and even vacuumed the floor. But the forensics people did find some clothing fibers, some rape debris—semen, to be specific—and leather in her fingernails. The lab’s doing a workup. We’ll have his DNA type in a few days, then we’ll look for a match.”

Janet glanced in Spinelli’s direction and said, “So he wore gloves?”

Martin said, “Yes. Deerskin gloves.” Bingo—same guy.

I said, “And you’ll obviously forward the lab results to the FBI?”

“Standard procedure in cases of this nature.”

“The rape?” Janet asked. “Just vaginal?”

“We’re not sure. Swabs from her orifices are at the lab.” He pointed down at her photo and added, “There was semen on her back. Right there.”

Janet suggested, “Indicating that the rapist may have masturbated on her? Or perhaps had an involuntary ejaculation?”

“Or dripped, or missed. You could manufacture many possible explanations. We’ll know when the lab’s finished.”

I said, “In the meantime, you’ve got two murders in three nights. The attacks occurred at roughly the same time, and the broken necks and deerskin gloves suggest it’s our guy.”

Martin replied, “That’s circumstantial. It’s still too early to draw conclusions.”

“Indicating,” I persisted, “a pattern with ugly possibilities. Our killer could be on a spree. He might have a number of victims lined up in advance—”

“There’s no reason to—” Martin said.

“And,” I said over him, “if he’s a creature of habit, and 9:00 P.M. is his witching hour, in thirty minutes or so, a repeat performance could be in the offing.”

Spinelli, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, stated, “That stays in here.”

“Unless he decides otherwise,” I pointed out.

From the looks Spinelli and Martin exchanged, they’d already had this conversation. If another female was murdered, the public would have to be informed and the fun would begin—single women freaking out, politicians banging the drums, Feds rushing in, task forces forming, hourly press conferences, and a bunch of befuddled cops trying to look and sound confident, which is nearly always a mask for cluelessness.

Janet walked over to the desk, picked up the picture, and studied it again. She asked, “How did he get into her apartment?”

Spinelli scratched his nose. “He picked her locks.”

“Can you be more detailed?”

“Miss Cuthburt had two locks. He employed a special tool to get past the tumbler lock . . . a bolt cutter to get past the chain.”

“Thank you.” She very insightfully asked, “And how did he keep her silent?”

Martin explained, “A halter . . . like a modified dog halter with a strap for her throat and a bit that went into her mouth. The killer seems to be into bondage, humiliation, and possibly sadism.” After a moment, he added, “An FBI profiler will be studying the case in the morning.”

Janet threw the photo back on the desk and concluded, “You’ve got the worst nightmare possible.”

“Why’s that?” asked Spinelli. But I suspected he already knew.

“At both murder scenes he left a paucity of evidence. He wore gloves so you couldn’t match his prints, indicating this was a matter of concern to him. But he knew you’d get his DNA, indicating confidence that he’s not in your, or the FBI’s, DNA database. Nor will he likely be found in your sex offender databases. But his fingerprints could be on file. You should think about what that means.”

“Maybe he’s just stupid,” Spinelli replied.

“You know he’s not.”

“Do I?”

“Danny, the man’s a planner. He studies his targets and prepares. He somehow manages to get close to them. He brings along a rape kit, all the right tools, and he knows how to use them. He’s a sexual predator, but when his prey bucks his scenario, he shuts down his sexual impulses and coldly terminates the problem.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’s done this before. And his ability to control his urges and rages is worrisome.” She observed, “You don’t see many like that.”

It was a very impressive display of conjecture. Both cops nodded appreciatively. I also was impressed. But I was even more mystified. In case you haven’t noticed, her sister was murdered three days before, and she shows up, cool and icy calm, and insinuates herself into the investigation. Now she’s professionally hypothesizing about the guy who may have brutally murdered her sister, her emotions completely in check, her brain firing on all cylinders.

Weird? Right.

But a knock on Martin’s door showed three impatient detectives waiting for us to exit so they could enter. We had fulfilled our purpose, and aside from the normal troubles and nightmares the Alexandria Police Department had on its hands that chilly evening, with two women murdered by a maniac, clearly Martin and Spinelli were busy staring off the edge of a cliff.

Janet and I found our own way out, leaving Martin with Spinelli, which I regarded as less than a favor.

Outside, I asked Janet, “You eat yet?”

“No. And I’m famished.” She was shivering and had her coat pulled tightly around her body. It was cold, but not that cold.

I said, “Me, too. And I know the perfect place.”

In truth, Julia Cuthburt’s photo had ruined my appetite. When you’re in a cop station everybody’s working hard to keep it light and insensitive. Part of that’s just macho horseshit, but also passion and emotion cloud up logic, logic solves crimes, and there’s this forced, almost competitive effort by all parties to treat the whole thing like a clinical discussion. It’s all phony. Under the surface, I think we were all picturing the final hour of Julia Cuthburt’s life and feeling a bit green in the gills. The killer had turned a living, breathing human being into a vulgar calling card to say, Fuck you, I’m here, I’m very good at this, and I’m not through.

So we needed to decompress and clear our minds, and I knew a great place with brick ovens, genuine pan-baked pizza pies, and a nice mix of artery-cloggers you could pile on. We both kept it light on the short drive over.

Bertolucci’s, by the way, is a popular establishment, very the matic, though some of the locals seem to feel it goes a little overboard; in fact, the walls are painted with guys in funny clothes shoving around gondolas, and Venetian palaces, and spewing volcanoes, a collage of another world and another place, so wildly ridiculous that it almost works. But, like everything in the suburbs, it is part of a strip mall. Also, the waiters and waitresses speak with these goofy, half-baked Italian accents and call one another Dom This and Dom That, which adds to the hilarity because they’re all local teenagers with names like O’Donnell and Smith. Only in America. But it was late and the usual family crowd had thinned out, so no line, and no squalling kids, and we ended up at a nice quiet table by the roaring fireplace.

I ordered a bottle of vino as we got settled. A kid showed up, said, “Buon giorno, signores, my name is Dom Jimmy Jones, and I’ll be your sommelier and waiter this evening,” uncorked our bottle, poured our glasses, and took his Disney act somewhere else. At least the pizza’s real.

Janet took a few deep sips of wine, then asked me, “What do you think about Julia Cuthburt?”

“There’s no dignity in death.”

In a sort of rushed tone, she said, “I know this sounds odd, but maybe Lisa was lucky. If she hadn’t forced his hand—”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t have stood it if she died like that.”

“Amen.”

“A bunch of strangers sitting around . . . studying her photo . . . naked . . . that way Julia Cuthburt was posed—”

“Drink some wine. Dream you’re in Italy.”

She drank some wine. After a moment, she asked, “Did you ever try a case like this?”

“No. Our serial killers have chests filled with ribbons and are called heroes. Some of our graduates make a big name for themselves after they leave the service, but Army life tends to discourage them from acting out their fantasies.”

“But you’ve handled rapes, sex crimes?”

“Yes. A few.”

“What about Lisa?”

“Probably. The JAG Corps likes us to be well-rounded. Great efforts are expended to round out our trial experience.”

“Could she have been involved in a case with her killer?”

It was an insightful question, one I should’ve thought of. I replied, “I wouldn’t rule it out. She couldn’t have handled many violent sex crimes, because we do generalize. It shouldn’t be too difficult to back-check her case records.”

“That would be helpful.”

“Maybe not. Even if Lisa and the killer met in connection with her legal duties, it wasn’t necessarily a sex crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re familiar with criminal profiles. Those who would commit murder and rape have a disdain for all laws. He’s as apt to have been prosecuted for DUI, shoplifting, military disciplinary problems.” I added, “I’ll check her record on sex crimes, but don’t hold false hopes.”

But since she’d raised the subject, I also suggested, “You know, now that it appears Lisa’s murder was at the hands of a serial killer, there’s not much you and I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. The customary motives of jealousy, greed, revenge, and cover-up have just been eliminated.
Why
she was killed is no longer the mystery. Catching serial killers requires strong procedural police work.”

“Are you suggesting I should go home?”

“Yes. Grieve with your family. Wait for the cops to find this guy.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “And if it wasn’t a serial killer?”

“If it . . . Didn’t I just hear you tossing theories at Martin and Spinelli about this guy?”

“What if they’re wrong?”

“But you agreed with them.”

“You didn’t listen carefully. I neither agreed nor disagreed. I speculated.”

“All right. Do you have a reason to suspect something else?”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

When I said nothing in reply, she added, “Consider the differences between Cuthburt’s and Lisa’s murders. Cuthburt’s was inarguably a sexual assault. We’re
presuming
that was the motive with Lisa. Cuthburt was attacked in her home, Lisa in a public parking lot. I could go on.” She paused, and then added, “In fact, the only similarities were pieces of the victim profile and the broken neck. That could be coincidental.”

She was right. But she was not convincing. I said, “I would think an assistant DA would have confidence in cops.”

“Really? I thought it made us experts in their mistakes. I’ve lost more cases off their blunders. Also, they’re human. When a live person is around every day checking on their progress, they keep the case on the front burner and pay attention to the details.”

Okay, I appreciated her logic. Spend a few years as a defense attorney exploiting cop screwups, or as a prosecutor trying to wallpaper over them, and you’ll be damned sure to lock your doors and sleep with a gun under your pillow. Truth and sincerity, however, are different things.

But Dom Jimmy Jones arrived with our pizza pie and the awful Italian accent he had lifted from
The Godfather
or something, and I said, “Grazie,” and he looked back with a dumbfounded look until I clarified, “Thank you.” Mamma mia—welcome to the suburbs.

Janet laughed and commented, “Maybe it’s your pronunciation.”

“No wonder I had such a lousy time in Italy. I was there with your sister, in fact.”

“I don’t think she ever mentioned it.”

“A few years ago. We were taking statements from some soldiers who were being kept in a jail there.”

“Oh, the Kosovo thing. She did tell me about that. She called right after you returned, in fact. She was smitten with you.”

“Smitten?”

“It’s how we say it in polite Boston society. It means—”

“I know what it means. What else did she tell you about me?”

“All of it? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”

I smiled. “I have a strong ego.”

“Funny, that’s the first thing she mentioned—no, she mentioned a
big
ego.”

“The good, the bad, and the ugly. You start with the good.”

“I did.” She laughed, her first genuine laugh since we’d met. I don’t mean she’d been dour or bitchy or anything—the woman could frown and look pleasant. But she’d been concealing her feelings, smothering her grief, trying to accomplish the task she’d set for herself; but you had to know things were a little brittle underneath. I was glad I’d brought her here. I was glad I was diverting her mind for the time being. I liked her laugh. I was pretty sure I liked her.

She said, “Actually, Lisa described you as this big manly hunk who snorts testosterone at breakfast . . . bullheaded . . . trouble with authority figures . . . Should I go on?”

“I thought you said she was . . . what was that word again?”

“Smitten. She was. She also said you were smart, clever, sexy, and very funny without meaning to be funny.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s hard to explain.” She added, “But I think I see what she means.” Then she looked at me pointedly and asked, “Why didn’t you ask her out?”

“A lot of reasons.”

“All right. Give me one good one.”

“After Bosnia, a long case in Korea, three cases in Europe, a long case that kept me in Russia, and so on. I know this is difficult to understand, but Army life’s not conducive to starting relationships.”