“In the ensuing prison riot, Beckett simply walked away, still dressed as a corrections officer. It took eight hours to determine that he was missing.
“An eight-hour headstart. Nobody has seen him since.
“I won’t lie to you, people. The weeks ahead will be the toughest weeks of your career. The Walpole’s IPS [Inner Perimeter Security] Team searched the immediate area for forty-eight hours. They called in the town, county, and state police for support. The National Guard helped search for Jim Beckett. Nothing. The state’s Fugitive Squad took over from there. For the last week they have combed Beckett’s old neighborhoods, quizzed former associates, and turned the state upside down. The man has no remaining family other than his ex-wife and daughter, no community ties, and no friends. In the NCIC a national warrant has been listed for the man without results. In short, the Fugitive Squad found no leads and now it’s up to us.
“You will work harder than you’ve ever worked, under more pressure than you’ve ever felt. The governor is watching this case. The state police colonel will receive daily briefings. Some of you have been through this before. Some of you were part of Task Force 22, assembled two and a half years ago also to catch Jim Beckett. That time he eluded capture for six months, then finally surfaced inside the house we were supposed to be protecting. Theresa Beckett almost died that night, and that, people, was our fault.
“In this room we have three task forces assigned to cover three eight-hour shifts. Do not think that because your shift is up you will simply go home. This case is front-page news—the crime hotline is currently logging two thousand calls a day. You do not leave until the leads generated on your shift have been recorded, classified appropriately, and followed up as indicated. Friday night Beckett will be featured on America’s Most Wanted, and we’re bringing in truck-loads of volunteers to help man the hotline. He’s also listed on the FBI’s Web site of America’s most wanted—FBI agents will pass along any leads generated there.
“Yes, the work will be long, tedious, and grueling. Yes, morale will be low and tempers high. But we will do this, people. Beckett was once a police officer. He used his shield to lure young women away from their cars and kill them. He has attacked fellow officers, he has brutally murdered two prison guards. There is no case more personal and more important than this one.”
Lieutenant Houlihan shifted back a step, allowing his words to penetrate. When the officers began to lean forward, waiting for the next word, the plan that would catch this particular son of a bitch, he continued.
“Historically Beckett has operated in four states. Those other states have organized smaller task force teams, and they will coordinate their efforts with ours. From New York we have Lieutenant Richardson—please stand. From Vermont is Lieutenant Chajet, and from Connecticut is Lieutenant Berttelli. If you receive calls from these men or their officers, do everything in your power to assist them. They will be happy to return the favor.
“Most of the crossjurisdiction investigation will be coordinated through VICAP [Violent Criminal Apprehension Program]. This system is run by the FBI and is designed to collect, collate, and analyze all parts of the investigation through computer and communications technology. If Beckett strikes in another state, the computer will recognize the MO entered by that state into the system and notify them to contact us. You guys don’t have to understand it. Your supervisors have been trained in the system and they will assist you. The big trick is, should you come up with a lead, don’t sit on it. Bring it to your supervisor immediately. Speed matters.
“In addition to VICAP, the FBI is providing profiling support. Here with us today is Special Agent Quincy, who you just saw on film interviewing Jim Beckett. He’s going to tell us what to look for. Agent.”
Lieutenant Houlihan stepped away from the podium. No one stirred. Police briefings could be rowdy affairs, punctuated by gallows humor and good-natured ribbing. Not this morning. Every officer sat quietly, feet flat on the floor, eyes forward. The seriousness of the matter was etched into every face and the fresh lines creasing each forehead.
Special Agent Quincy stepped up to the podium. He could identify with the officers staring back at him; he’d served as a homicide detective in Chicago and then with the NYPD before getting his doctorate in criminology and joining the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico. Now he worked over one hundred cases at a time, traveling two hundred days a year to profile unsubs, advise local law enforcement agencies on how to catch the unsub, and aid with interrogation of the caught unsub. It was stressful work. One wrong piece of advice and the investigation could head in the wrong direction, costing lives. It was hard work, logging eighty hours a week and thousands of miles. Even when he was back in Quantico, he was shut up in a windowless office sixty feet belowground. Ten times deeper than the dead, they said.
It took its toll on everyone’s life. First his wife had complained about the travel. Then she’d complained about his hours. Then one Saturday, when he’d made a point of being home, she’d accidentally sliced off her finger while chopping carrots. She’d walked into the living room, carrying her index finger and appearing one step away from fainting. Quincy had looked at her bloodied hand and severed digit, and he’d thought of the Dahmer crime scene, the Vampire Killer, Kemper’s victims, and he’d heard himself say, heaven help him, “It’s only a scratch, dear.”
The divorce papers had arrived last week.
But Quincy still couldn’t give up his work. Jim Beckett had been wrong in the interview; FBI profilers did understand about passion, obsession, and compulsion.
Quincy began: “Jim Beckett is a pure psychopath. Most of you out there probably think you know what that means. I’m here to tell you that you don’t. Forget what you’ve read in the papers. Forget what you’ve seen in the movies. I’ll tell you what to look for and we want you to focus on that. We know this man. We knew him when he killed the first victim, and we knew him when he returned six months after his first disappearance to kill his wife. We knew him in prison and we know him now. Working together, we’re going to get him.
“Beckett is a master of disguise. His high IQ and natural charm enable him to blend into almost any situation. Two and half years ago he successfully hid from one of the largest manhunts in New England history for six months. We still don’t know where he hid or how he did it. The bottom line is, forget what he looks like. From here on out, he’s the unidentified subject, the unsub. And like any unsub, we can catch him without a physical description. We can catch him because of who he is. That’s the one thing the unsub can’t change.
“All right. Our unsub is a thirty-six-year-old pure psychopath. This means he is highly compartmentalized. On the one hand, he is perfectly aware of community standards and norms. He knows how to fit in, how to be successful, and how to make people like him. He’s charming, outgoing, and self-assured. On the other hand, he considers himself outside of societal norms and above anyone he meets. He has no feelings of guilt, remorse, or obligation. He lies easily and is obsessed with appearance. He has a powerful sex drive and in fact, for all his outward disdain toward women, he is dependent on them for his identity and self-esteem. He can’t stand to be alone. He will maintain at least one female companion at all times.
“This may not sound like much, but it gives us a lot to work with. First, this is not an unsub who will hole up. His need for companionship, sex, and interaction means he’s out there right now, moving among us. He could be the security guard applying for a position at a small Vermont college or the new hire of the Connecticut Highway Department. His disguises will be ‘macho’—look out for firemen, construction workers, security guards, cowboys, etcetera. He lies easily, which means sooner or later he may trip up and give himself away.
“Second, he is highly materialistic and image-obsessed. Before, he maintained his perfect house, perfect clothes, and perfect car through supplementing his cop’s salary with credit card fraud and theft. He’ll utilize those skills now, probably stea
ling cars, wallets, etcetera. Remember, Bundy was first pulled over in Florida on suspicion of auto theft and stolen credit cards. If you receive calls of a middle-aged white male or pretty blond female involved in auto theft, jump.
“Third, we have Beckett’s need for women. In prison he hooked up with a young blond groupie named Shelly Zane from the Walpole area. She hasn’t been seen since the day of the prison break. Most likely she’s his accomplice. In your files you’ll find copies of all the letters he sent her. Mostly your generic pornographic prison stuff, but searching Shelly’s apartment has already given us our first big break. If you’ll turn to the section marked ‘Possible Aliases’ in the binders on your desk . . .
“We assembled this list based on researching Shelly’s last two weeks in Walpole. According to her phone records, she made calls to several medical supply stores, different states’ motor vehicles departments, and various county records offices. We believe she was helping Beckett create a new identity by researching how to get a new birth certificate. One option, of course, is to order blank certificates from a medical supply store, then forge a doctor’s signature and county stamp. That level of forgery would probably hold up to get a license and a social security card.
“However, Beckett will eventually need to leave the country, and birth certificates are checked out when someone applies for a passport. As anyone who’s worked fraud here knows, there’s only one good way to get a ‘real’ birth certificate. You go to the local library and on microfiche, read the obituaries until you find a kid who was born the same year as you but died in a different county or state several years later. As long as the counties don’t cross-reference birth and death certificates, the birth certificate will still be on file. You simply request a copy of that birth certificate from the county and assume it as your own.
“Sure enough, the local librarian told us Shelly had spent four days reading the microfiche of old newspapers. Going through the same newspapers, we found only four names that would fit the criteria for Jim Beckett: Lawrence Talbert, Scott Hannah, Albert McDougal, and Thad Johnson. We’ve notified the passport office to contact us should anyone request a passport for those names. There’s a good chance Beckett will want that passport sooner or later. When he does, we got him.”
A hand came up in back. “Why are you so sure he’ll leave the country?”
“Good question. That brings us to the unsub’s last major weakness: his ex-wife, Theresa Williams. As you heard on the tape, Theresa played the key role in Jim’s identification and capture. He’s never forgiven her for that. Each day in prison he wrote her a letter and in each letter he described exactly how he was going to kill her.
“The women of New England may be terrified now and they may be locking their doors, but frankly they’re pretty safe. Beckett is going to kill again, yes. And most likely, Shelly Zane will be his first victim, once she is no longer useful to him. But his real target, his ultimate goal, is Theresa.
“He’ll kill her. He’ll find their daughter, Samantha, whom he seems to genuinely love. Then he’ll get the hell out of Dodge. Through VICAP we track most of the United States and Europe. Jim knows that. It’s our guess, given his fascination with the Nazis, that he’ll head south to either Brazil or Argentina.”
A new hand went up. “Which part of the task force is watching Theresa Williams?”
The powers that be exchanged glances. Special Agent Quincy stepped aside and Lieutenant Houlihan took over the podium. “Ms. Williams has opted against police protection.”
“What?” Murmurs broke out. Lieutenant Houlihan raised his hand to settle things down. His reaction had been the same when Difford had called him and outlined the ridiculous plan.
“She knows she’s in danger. She decided her best odds lie with her being on her own.”
“We must have at least a few feds on her. He could get to her and no one would even know it.”
“People, her location is given out only on a need-to-know basis, and no one in this room needs to know.”
More grumbles. “What about the daughter?”
“She is in protective custody with her own guards. None of you need to concern yourself with that.”
Even more grumbles. Cops hated to be left in the dark.
“What about the pattern Beckett mentioned?”
“We’re working on that. Any other questions?”
Some people shook their heads. Others exchanged dubious glances. To a person, they already looked stressed.
Lieutenant Houlihan tapped the podium with his fist. “People, that’s a wrap.”
THE FRONT DOORS released a small flood of blue-uniformed officers. They poured into the bright fall sunlight, blinking their eyes and readjusting to daylight. Some walked in pairs, others in small groups. All walked fast, men and women with a lot of work to do.
At the end of the block, one man peeled off from the group, casually waved good-bye, and disappeared down a side street as if his cruiser was parked there.
He didn’t get into a car.
He walked down that block, then another, then another. He doubled back, then finally, when it was clear no one was following him, he disappeared into the woods. He stripped off his uniform, revealing the orange construction uniform beneath it. From behind a boulder he produced the hard hat he’d hidden earlier. Shelly had been in charge of securing uniforms, following his instructions, of course. She’d done that part of her job well.
He tucked the police uniform into a paper bag and reentered civilization. His face was already expertly made up—a bit of padding here, the skin tucked there—to give himself a whole new look. After a fifteen-minute walk he arrived at the motel where Lola Gavitz had a room.
“Honey, I’m home.”
Whistling, he locked the door behind himself, then checked the curtains. He didn’t bother turning on a light. He tossed the paper bag onto the single queen-size bed and walked through the gloom to the bathroom.
Shelly hung naked in the shower.
Duct tape covered her mouth. More tape bound her wrists and ankles. A small hand towel protected the tender skin of her neck from the clothesline he’d wrapped around it. The other end of the clothesline was attached to the shower head, suspending Shelly three inches off the ground. Classic autoerotic asphyxiation setup. One did learn so many useful things as a police officer.
Shelly could keep the clothesline from strangling her by looping her arms over the showerhead and holding herself up. Or she could swing her feet onto the edge of the bathtub. Of course, then she ran the risk of her feet slipping off and the sudden fall snapping her neck.
Her arms must have gotten tired though, for now she did have her feet on the edge of the tub. As he entered the bathroom, she raised her head wearily, her long blond hair sliding back from hollow eyes.
He looked at her feet. He curled one hand around her ankle. One push, that’s all it would take.
She rolled her eyes in terror.
“What do you think, Shelly? Do you want to live?”
She nodded as furiously as she could with a clothesline around her neck.
“The police predicts that I’ll kill you once you’re no longer useful to me. Are you still useful to me?”
More nodding.
He reached up and slowly loosened the clothesline. She collapsed into the tub like a sack of grain. He studied her for a moment, noting the silky cascade of blond hair over white skin. He stroked that hair for a bit. Then he undid his construction overalls and let them fall to the floor.
Shelly stirred in the bathtub, recognizing her cue. She lifted her face and he ripped off the duct tape with one quick tear.
“That’s a good girl. Remember, you have to be useful, Shelly. You have to be useful.”
Her mouth closed around him. He let himself relax by degrees into the frantic sucking. His hands continued to stroke her blond hair, lifting it in fistfuls and releasing it. For one moment he indulged himself in the fantasy that it was not Shelly on her hands and kn
ees in front of him, but Theresa. His stupid wife, Theresa.
He’d never made her perform like this. He’d never made her do any of the things he’d had the others do. She was his wife, the mother of his child. He’d considered her separate. Now he saw the error of his ways.
Now he dreamed of all the things he would have her do when he saw her again.
He closed his eyes and his hands curled around Shelly’s/Theresa’s neck.
“I’m coming for you, baby. I’m coming for you.”
EIGHT
SHE WAS FADING on him. Her strokes had long since passed the fluid point. She did little more than beat at the water, and he could see her chin trembling.
Twenty laps, that’s all she’d done. Barely over four hundred yards, when he could swim three thousand. Jesus, they were in trouble.
He’d started her with calisthenics. She couldn’t do a single push-up. Fine. Arm muscles were a problem for some women, and she had a particularly slight build. They’d moved on to stretching. Her flexibility was pretty good. She did a solid twenty sit-ups, survived twenty jumping jacks. He’d moved her on to squats, and she practically keeled over on him. No arm muscles, no legs.
The woman was beyond out of shape. She simply had no muscle mass. And skin and bones didn’t fight very well.
“Another,” J.T. commanded.
“No,” Angela said, but was too tired to put any force behind her word.
He scowled at her, she turned sluggishly into another lap. “You call that form?” he barked out. He needed a whistle.
“I told you, I’m not a good swimmer.”
“No kidding. And no push-ups, no squats. Honey, how have you gotten through life?”