Half Bolton’s men were working this neighborhood for information, others were staking out Angie’s place, Phil’s apartment, and mine, too, so Bolton had gotten permission from Father Drummond to gather in the church.
As it usually did in the mornings, the church bore the burnt aroma of incense and candle wax from the seven o’clock mass, a stronger scent of pine solvent and oil soap in the pews, and the sad smell of wilting chrysanthemums. Mottled dust spun in the pewter shafts of light that slanted through the east windows over the altar and disappeared in the middle rows of pews. A church, on a cold fall morning, with its smoky browns and reds, its whiskey-hued air and multicolored stained glass just warming to a frigid sun, always feels as the founders of Catholicism probably intended—like a place cleansed and purified of earthly imperfection, a place meant to hear only whispers and the rustling hush of fabric against a bending knee.
Bolton sat on the altar in the gilded red priest’s celebrant chair. He’d moved it forward a bit to prop his feet on the chancel rail while agents and several cops sat in the front four pews, most holding pens, paper, or tape recorders at the ready.
“Glad you could make it,” Bolton said.
“Don’t do that,” Angie said, glancing at his shoes.
“What?”
“Sit on the altar in the priest’s chair with your feet on the rail.”
“Why not?”
“Some people would find it offensive.”
“Not me.” He shrugged. “I’m not Catholic.”
“I am,” she said.
He watched her to see if she was joking, but she stared back so calmly and firmly that he knew she wasn’t.
He sighed and got out of the chair, placed it back where it belonged. As we headed back for the pews, he crossed the altar and climbed into the raised pulpit.
“Better?” he called.
She shrugged, as Devin and Oscar took their places in the pew ahead of us. “It’ll do.”
“So glad I’m no longer offending your delicate sensibilities, Ms. Gennaro.”
She rolled her eyes at me as we took seats in the fifth pew and I once again felt an odd flush of admiration for my partner’s faith in a religion I had long ago abandoned. She doesn’t advertise it or announce it at every turn, and she has nothing but scorn for the patriarchal hierarchy that runs the church, but she nevertheless holds firm to a belief in the religion and ritual with a quiet intensity that can’t be shaken.
Bolton was quickly taking a liking to the pulpit. His thick hands caressed the Latin words and Roman art carved ornately in its sides and his nostrils flared slightly as he looked down on his audience.
“The previous night’s developments include the following: One, a search of Evandro Arujo’s apartment yielded photographs discovered under a floorboard below a steel radiator. Sightings of men fitting Arujo’s description have tripled since seven o’clock this morning, when the daily papers carried two photographs of him—one with goatee, one without. Most sightings seem baseless. However, five alleged sightings have occurred in the lower South Shore and two more recent sightings in Cape Cod, around Bourne. I have deployed agents who searched the upper South Shore last night to head for the lower edges and the Cape and Islands. Roadblocks have been installed along both sides of Routes 6, 28, and 3, as well as I-495. Two sightings put Arujo in a black Nissan Sentra, but again, the validity of any of these sightings is always suspect in the wake of sudden public hysteria.”
“The Jeep?” an agent said.
“As yet, nothing. Maybe he’s still in it, maybe he ditched it. A red Cherokee was stolen from the parking lot of the Bayside Expo Center yesterday morning, and we’re working under the assumption that this is the car Evandro was spotted in yesterday. License plate number is 299-ZSR. Wollaston police got a partial plate number yesterday off the Jeep they chased, which matches.”
“You mentioned photographs,” Angie said.
Bolton nodded. “Several photographs of Kara Rider, Jason Warren, Stimovich, and Stokes. These photos are similar to the ones sent to the victims’ loved ones. Arujo is, beyond any doubt now, the prime suspect in these killings. Other photos found are of unknown people who we must assume are intended victims. The good thing, ladies and gentlemen, is that we may be able to predict where he’ll strike next.”
Bolton coughed into his hand. “Forensic evidence,” he said, “has now unequivocally determined that there are two killers involved in the four deaths of this investigation. Bruises on Jason Warren’s wrists confirm he was held by one person while another sliced his face and chest with a straight razor. Kara Rider’s head was gripped tightly by two hands while two other hands shoved an ice pick into her larynx. Wounds to Peter Stimovich and Pamela Stokes confirm the presence of two killers.”
“Any idea where they were killed?” Oscar said.
“Not at this time, no. Jason Warren was killed in the South Boston warehouse. The rest were killed somewhere else. For whatever reason, the killers felt a need to kill Warren quickly.” He shrugged. “We have no idea why. The other three had only minimal amounts of hydroclorophyl in their systems, which suggests they were only unconscious while the killers transported them to the site where they were killed.”
Devin said, “Stimovich was tortured for at least an hour, Stokes for twice that. They made a lot of noise.”
Bolton nodded. “We’re looking for an isolated murder site.”
“Which leaves how many sites?” Angie said.
“Countless. Tenements, abandoned buildings, environmentally protected wetlands, a half dozen small islands off the coast, closed prisons, hospitals, warehouses, you name it. If one of these killers has been lying dormant for two decades, we can assume he’s planned everything in detail. He could have easily outfitted his home with a soundproof basement or suite of rooms.”
“Has there been any further proof to suggest the killer who’s been lying dormant may have been killing children?”
“No definitive proof,” Bolton said. “But of the one thousand one hundred and sixty-two flyers you received, covering over ten years, two hundred eighty-seven children are confirmed dead. Two hundred eleven of those cases officially unsolved.”
“How many in New England?” an agent said.
“Fifty-six,” Bolton said quietly. “Forty-nine unsolved.”
“Percentage-wise,” Oscar said, “that’s an awfully high number.”
“Yes,” Bolton said wearily, “it is.”
“How many died in ways similar to the current victims?”
“In Massachusetts,” Bolton said, “none, although there were several stabbing victims, several with hand perforations, so we’re still studying those. We have two cases of violence so extreme it could bear match-up with the current victims.”
“Where?”
“One in Lubbock, Texas, in eighty-six. One outside of Miami, in unincorporated Dade County, in ninety-one.”
“Amputation?”
“Affirmative.”
“Body parts missing?”
“Again, affirmative.”
“How old were the kids?”
“Lubbock was fourteen and male. The one in unincorporated Dade was sixteen and female.” He cleared his throat and patted his chest pockets for his inhaler, but didn’t find it. “Further, as you were all apprised last night, Mr. Kenzie provided us with a possible connection between the murders of seventy-four and those of the present day. Gentlemen, it looks like our killers have an ax to grind with children of EEPA members, but we haven’t, as yet, connected the group to Alec Hardiman or Evandro Arujo. We don’t know why, but we must assume the connection is primary.”
“What about Stimovich and Stokes?” an agent asked. “Where’s their connection?”
“We believe there is none. We believe they are two of the ‘guiltless’ victims the killer spoke of in his letter.”
“What letter?” Angie said.
Bolton looked down at us. “The one found in your apartment, Mr. Kenzie. Under S
timovich’s eyes.”
“The one you wouldn’t let me read.”
He nodded, glanced down at his notes, adjusted his glasses. “During a search of Jason Warren’s dormitory room, a diary belonging to Mr. Warren was discovered in a locked desk drawer. Copies will be provided to agents upon request, but for the moment, I read from an entry dated October 17, the date Mr. Kenzie and Ms. Gennaro observed Warren with Arujo.” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable assuming a voice that wasn’t his own. “’E. was in town again. For a little over an hour. He has no idea of his power, has no idea how attractive his fear of self is. He wants to make love to me, but he can’t completely face his own bisexuality yet. I understand, I told him. It took me forever. Freedom is painful. He touched me for the first time, and then he left. Back to New York. And his wife. But I’ll see him again. I know it. I’m drawing him in.”
Bolton was actually blushing when he finished.
“Evandro’s the lure,” I said.
“Apparently,” Bolton said. “Arujo leads them in and his mystery partner snares them. All accounts of Arujo—from fellow prisoners to other entries in this diary to Kara Rider’s roommate to people in the bar the night he picked up Pamela Stokes—mention the same thing over and over: The man possesses a powerful sexuality. If he’s smart enough—and I know he is—to erect hurdles around it for prospective victims to jump, then they ultimately agree to his terms of secrecy and meetings in out-of-the-way places. Hence, the alleged wife he told Jason Warren about. God only knows what he told the others, but I think he sucked them in by pretending to be sucked in by them.”
“A male Helen of Troy,” Devin said.
“Harry of Troy,” Oscar said and a few agents chuckled.
“Further investigation of crime scene evidence has yielded the following: One—both killers weigh between one hundred sixty and one hundred eighty pounds. Two—since Evandro Arujo’s shoe size is a match for the size nine and a half we found at the Rider murder scene, his partner is the one with the size eight. Three—the second killer has brown hair and is quite strong. Stimovich was an extremely powerful man and someone subdued him before administering toxins; Arujo is not particularly powerful, so we must assume that the partner is.
“Fourth—reinterviewing of all who had tangential contact with these victims had yielded the following: All but Professor Eric Gault and Gerald Glynn have airtight alibis for all four murders. Both Gault and Glynn are currently being interrogated at JFK and Gault has failed a polygraph. Both men are strong, and both are small enough to wear a size eight shoe, though both claim to wear size nines. Any questions?”
“Are they suspects?” I said.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Gault recommended me to Diandra Warren and Gerry Glynn provided me with crucial information.”
Bolton nodded. “Which only confirms our suspicion of the mystery killer’s pathology.”
“Which is?” Angie said.
“Doctor Elias Rottenheim from the Behavioral Sciences division has posited this theory concerning the mystery, dormant killer. Also refer to transcripts of this morning’s conversation with Doctor Dolquist. I’m quoting here from Doctor Rottenheim: ‘Subject conforms to all criteria prevalent among those suffering the dual affliction of narcissistic personality disorder combined with a shared psychotic disorder in which subject is the inducer or primary case.”
“English would be nice,” Devin said.
“The gist of Doctor Rottenheim’s report is that a sufferer of narcissistic personality disorder, in this case our dormant killer, is under the impression that his acts exist at a level of grandiosity. He deserves love and admiration simply for existing. He evidences all the hallmarks of the sociopath, is obsessed with his own sense of entitlement and believes himself to be special or even godlike. The killer who suffers the shared psychotic disorder is able to convince others that his disorder is perfectly logical and natural. Hence the word shared. He’s the primary case, the inducer of others’ delusions.”
“He’s convinced Evandro Arujo or Alec Hardiman,” Angie said, “or both, that killing is good.”
“It seems so.”
“So how does that profile apply to either Gault or Glynn?” I asked.
“Gault pointed you to Diandra Warren. Glynn pointed you to Alec Hardiman. From a benign perspective, such actions would suggest that neither man could be involved since he’s trying to help. However, remember what Dolquist said—this guy has a relationship with you, Mr. Kenzie. He’s daring you to catch him.”
“So Gault or Glynn could be Arujo’s mystery partner?”
“I think anything’s possible, Mr. Kenzie.”
The November sun was fighting a losing battle with the encroachment of thickening layers of slate in the sky. In direct sunlight, you felt warm enough to remove your jacket. Outside of it, you were ready to look for a parka.
“In the letter,” Bolton said as we crossed the schoolyard, “the writer said some of the victims would be ‘worthy’ and others would meet the reproach of the guiltless.”
“What’s that mean?” I said.
“It’s a line from Shakespeare. In Othello, Iago states, ‘All guiltless meet reproach.’ Several scholars argue that this is the very moment in which Iago passes from a criminal with motive into a creature beset by what Coleridge called ‘motiveless malignancy.’”
“You’re losing me,” Angie said.
“Iago had a reason to wreak vengeance on Othello, slim as it was. But he had no reason to destroy Desdemona or gut the Venetian army of talent and officers the week before a Turkish onslaught. Yet, the argument goes, he became so impressed with his own capacity for evil that it became, in and of itself, enough motive to destroy anyone. He starts the play by pledging to destroy the guilty—Othello and Cassio—but by the fourth act, he’s set on destroying anyone—’all guiltless meet reproach’—simply because he can. Simply because he enjoys it.”
“And this killer—”
“May be a similar creature. He kills Kara Rider and Jason Warren because they are the children of his enemies.”
“But killing Stimovich and Stokes?” Angie said.
“No motive at all,” he said. “He does it for fun.”
A light, misting rain speckled our hair and jackets.
Bolton reached into his briefcase and handed Angie a piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
Bolton squinted into the mist. “A copy of the killer’s letter.”
Angie held the letter away from her, as if its contents might be contagious.
“You wanted in the loop,” Bolton said. “Right?”
“Yes.”
He pointed at the letter. “Now you’re in the loop.” He shrugged and walked back toward the schoolyard.
30
patrick,
the issue is pain. understand this.
initially, there wasn’t any grand plan. I killed someone almost by accident, really, and I felt all those things you’re supposed to feel—guilt, revulsion, fear, shame, self-hatred. I took a bath to clean Myself of her blood. sitting in the tub, I vomited, but I didn’t move. I sat there as the water stank with her blood and My shame, the stink of My mortal sin.
then I drained the tub and showered and…went on. what do humans do, after all, once they’ve done something immoral or inconceivable? they go on. there’s no other choice if you’ve slipped past the grasp of the law.
so I went about My life and then those feelings of shame and guilt went away. I thought they’d linger forever. but they didn’t.
and I remember thinking, it can’t be this simple. but it was. and pretty soon, more out of curiosity than anything, I killed someone else. and it felt, well, nice. calming. the way a cold glass of beer must feel to an alcoholic coming off a dry spell. the way the first night of sexual intercourse must feel to lovers who’ve been kept apart.
taking another life is a lot like sex actually. sometimes its a transcendent, orgasmic act.
other times, it’s just a so-so, okay, no big deal, but what’re you going to do? sort of sensation. but it’s never less than interesting. it’s something you remember.
I’m not sure why I’m writing you, patrick. who I am as I write this isn’t who I am during My day job, nor who I am when I kill. I wear a lot of faces, and some you’ll never see, and some you’d never want to. I’ve seen a few of your faces—a pretty one, a violent one, a reflective one, some others—and I wonder which you’ll wear if we ever meet with carrion between us. I do wonder.
all guiltless, I’ve heard, will meet reproach. maybe so. and so be it. I’m not sure the worthy victims are worth all the trouble actually.
I dreamed once that I was stranded on a planet of the whitest sand. and the sky was white. that’s all there was—Me, spilling drifts of white sand as wide as oceans, and a burning white sky. I was alone. and small. after days of wandering, I could smell My own rot, and I knew I’d die in these drifts of white under a hot sky, and I prayed for shade. and eventually it came. and it had a voice and a name. “Come,” Darkness said, “come with me.” but I was weak, I was rotting, I couldn’t rise to My knees. “Darkness,” I said, “take My hand. Take Me away from this place.” and Darkness did.
so you see what I’m teaching you, patrick?
best,
The Father
“Oh,” Angie said, tossing the letter on her dining room table, “this is good. This guy sounds sane.” She scowled at the letter. “Jesus.”
“I know.”
“People like this,” she said, “exist.”
I nodded. In and of itself that was horrifying. There’s enough evil in the average person who gets up every day, goes to work, thinks of himself as good as much as possible. But maybe he cheats on his wife, maybe he fucks over a co-worker, maybe, in his heart of hearts, he thinks there’s a race or two of people who are inferior to him.
Most of the time, our powers of rationalization being what they are, he never has to face it. He can go to his death thinking he’s good.
Most of us can. Most of us do.