"The prior rape's good—ties in with the Bushnell and Rappaport murders," Flannery said. "Between that and the paraphernalia, he looks good to me."
Biedermann: "Leaving us the question, where is he now?"
Nobody had any idea. For all they knew, he'd driven nearby that night, seen the activity in front of his house, and was in Alaska by now. Biedermann asked Rebecca if as a psychologist she could offer any insight into what Radcliff would do, where he'd go.
"Hiding out with relatives or friends? Maybe he's chosen another victim and he's staying at the victim's residence? I'm sorry. I need more background before I could speculate." Rebecca did her act well, gave no indication she had come to other conclusions.
"So why the copycat thing?" Flannery asked. "Why did this guy suddenly decide he's going to not only start killing, but he's going to imitate Ronald Parker?" He narrowed his eyes, directing his question down the table to Biedermann.
Biedermann just shrugged. "He read about it in the papers, got turned on by the idea of tying people up? I don't know. Dr. Ingalls, any ideas on that one?"
"That would be the best guess," Rebecca agreed. "Unless we can prove a link of association between Parker and Radcliff"
"Which so far we haven't," Biedermann hastened to add.
"I want to point something out," Flannery said, "that nobody else here apparently has the balls to say. SAC Biedermann is ducking discussion of an important point here. And as the person who's going to prosecute this guy, I think there's a problem this task force has to have a theory on and a policy about."
Biedermann's face hardened. "And that would be . . . ?"
"A matter of forensic evidence. Okay, Radcliff reads about Ronald Parker's kills in the newspapers and decides he'd get off on that MO, too. Fine. But how'd he know to use the exact same lawn-trimmer line as Ronald Parker? And the knots—I mean, what, just by coincidence he also chooses to use a cats-paw and a running-end bight? To me, that cries out for a little reality check here, people."
This was good, Mo decided, these two big guys, each playing his ego theater to the assembled audience. He was interested in how Biedermann would handle the issue.
"Thank you, I'm glad you asked that," Biedermann said. "Because it brings me to the next part of our agenda here today. It's a good question because it suggests Radcliff had inside access to information about the Parker killings. Which to me means two possibilities. One, some participating law enforcement organization's offices or labs or evidence lockups—or mouths—are insufficiently secure, and Radcliff had access to them. Maybe he still does." He raised his eyebrows, looking around the table to drive home the seriousness of that possibility. "Two, maybe he had, or has, help on the inside, witting or unwitting." Eyebrows: serious also. "In either case, this task force has to have very strict rules about information sharing. And as the federal agency here, my office is the only one with universal jurisdiction. Which means that I'm going to be calling the shots, and—I gotta be frank here—the FBI is going to be watching all of your shops very closely to see how well you abide." And he shot a look down at Flannery; Your shop too, big guy.
Flannery just grinned, tossing his head like Yeah, yeah, heard it before.
Biedermann went on, outlining the secrecy protocols he expected every participating organization to observe. Mo thought about the exchange. Obviously, Biedermann had to conceal the Geppetto scenario, and the "leaky system" or "inside man" theories were his best excuse. But why would Flannery bring it up? Because he was being a good DA and the point was legitimately important to the case? Or because he was Geppetto and wanted to probe Biedermann's thinking, observe his reactions, look gung ho on this and misdirect any possible suspicions of himself? It went round and round.
Then something hit him, a detail that appeared to have slipped past everybody. Okay, Flannery would know about the lawn-trimmer line, he'd sat in on both task forces, he'd personally looked over O'Connor's corpse. Fine. But the knots—the military knots that Ty had found names for, but no one else had mentioned by name. No meeting, no report, not Biedermann's own photo albums, nothing in Ty's files: Never had he heard anyone but Ty give specific names to those knots.
Mo covertly watched Flannery as the meeting went on, wonder ing if there was anything that marked or distinguished a monster like Geppetto. Yeah, he decided, you could just about see it in Flannery's blunt head, wide face, shrewd eyes. A darkness, a doubleness.
Cats-paw, running-end bight: Maybe Geppetto had just slipped up.
44
MO CONSIDERED TAKING THE clean jobs himself—going to the dance club, the bar, the antique shop—and letting young Mike and the uniforms ruin their shoes slogging around in stinking dumps. But his conscience objected, and they agreed to divide it all by region, save drive time.
Rebecca had done her best to imagine the outside conditioning environment that would best meet Geppetto's needs. It had to be within reasonable travel times of Geppetto's base of operations, because they'd have to get into the outside training by degrees, returning to home base afterward. It would have to allow vigorous physical activity, not be too confined. Most important, it had to be out of view of other people, meaning it was isolated or they worked at night.
Could it be a dance club or bar? Mo asked. Conceivably, Rebecca admitted: teach the subject to interact socially, to obey commands while physically unrestricted. But most likely it was an outdoor environment, rural or suburban. She suggested Mo add graveyards to his list, on the theory that people as "things" would be "discarded"
there.
Adding graveyards, Mo and St. Pierre listed eight-two sites, winnowed that list to forty-three, then prioritized the list, most to least likely. They faxed lists to the New Jersey and Connecticut people, recruited a few NYSP uniforms to help, and began visiting the sites.
What to look for? First, the kind of general environment Rebecca described. Second, they'd bring photos of Parker and Radcliff to show site personnel: Ever see this guy around here? Watch the eyes and body language of the person you're talking to, Rebecca said, at the moment you show the photo. If Geppetto was paying somebody for access to the site, and for keeping quiet about it, the micro-momentaries could give it away. Finally, never give up hope of getting lucky: Look for puppet paraphernalia, a dropped disposable handcuff, whatever.
Mo talked to Rebecca briefly on the phone to coordinate. Her plan was to head up to Briarcliff to start probing into Radcliffs past. There were unofficial ways around sealed court records and medical confidentiality issues, and she had a network of colleagues in the right circles. When she asked if maybe they could get together at his place after work, his stomach clenched in panic. Such a reasonable request, so impossible. Again he dodged and changed the subject, and she didn't seem to notice.
Mo and Mike St. Pierre took some sites in Putnam and Westchester counties, while the NYSP troopers headed south to look through some salvage and scrap yards in lower Westchester and New York counties. They'd keep in touch by cell phone.
Mo's first stop was a sanitary landfill near Danbury. A nice, hand-carved wooden sign at the entrance made it look like something classy, a country club maybe, but once you were over the first sloped wall of balding grass, it looked like any other dump. It was a bright day, hot, sun shining down over acres of earth and trash. The offices were a collection of trailers surrounded by gigantic waste containers for controlled materials or valuable reclaimables. A parade of compactor trucks waited to pass the scales and go into the current fill area, where gigantic bulldozers with huge spiked wheels rearranged and compressed the garbage. The stink hit him as he got out of his car, and immediately his lungs rebelled at the mix of diesel exhaust, dust, and garbage smell. He hadn't even made it to the office door before sweat came out on his forehead, and he could feel the grit in the air sticking to him.
The dump personnel were helpful. Mo watched their eyes as he showed them photos of Parker and Radcliff and asked a few questions, and all he saw was interest and pleasure.
Having a detective come by was a break from routine, just like TV, made them feel important. They gave him permission to walk around and supplied him with a map of the landfill. He spent some time wandering before he realized he should have put on the rubber boots he'd bought.
He walked over rolling hills of scabby green, penetrated here and there by vent pipes and populated by sated-looking seagulls—the hungry ones were down where the bulldozers were turning over goodies. He decided that the high areas would be too open for Geppetto to use, at least during the day. More likely was the perimeter where the graded slope of the dump came down to the surrounding land, where trees and scrub and some falling-down buildings offered more cover. He circumnavigated the site, looking for signs of activity, finding nothing instructive. Then he spent another half hour around the offices and machinery sheds, again finding nothing. And that was it. He left his card with the dump manager and left. It was nice to be in the car again, but he could smell himself, the odor that had soaked into his clothes and skin and hair. That's when he realized he should have gone to the antique shop first, while his attire was still fresh.
He worked until five and managed to hit three more sites. Scratch the antique shop, Jane's Junkyard, just a couple of small rooms with a Martha-Stewart-on-steroids ambience. Scratch the others, too. A hot, windy day, he'd slipped and fallen twice, his clothes were stuck to him with a glue of sweat and garbage dust. He checked in with St. Pierre and the others to find they'd enjoyed it as much as he had and had met with comparable success. By the time he got back to Carla's
mom's house, he felt like shit and was having strong second thoughts about the value of the dump initiative.
He had locked the car and started up the walk before he noticed Rebecca, sitting on the front steps. Looking at him with a radiant smile.
Mo felt his stomach drop.
"This is a lovely neighborhood," she said chidingly. "Your house is beautiful!"
"What are you doing here?"
Her smile faltered a little, but she told him, "I was in Briarcliff, remember, talking to people about Dennis Radcliff. Since I was up this way, I thought I'd stop by. Surprise you. I thought you'd be. . . glad."
"Yeah, well, I'm surprised," he said gruffly. He was thinking feverishly how to keep her out of the mausoleum.
Her smile was gone, but still she asked, "Are you going to invite me in?"
He stopped ten feet away. "I gotta be honest, this isn't the best time," he said. But she looked hurt, so he explained, "I've been in garbage dumps all day. I stink worse than I ever have in my life. Maybe we could get together in an hour, meet you at a restaurant or something. After I take a shower and burn my clothes."
"How about I come in, you take your shower, then we'll figure out dinner. I don't mind waiting. Besides, I've got a lot to tell you."
The hell with it, Mo thought. Bite the bullet, face the music. She might as well see what he really was, it tied in with things he'd been wanting to say anyway. Maybe this was as good a time as any.
He circled her at a good distance, went up the steps, went inside. On a hot day like this the air in the house got stuffy. His garbage stink filled the hall. Rebecca followed him, looking curious and kind of unsettled.
He led her into the front rooms, stood in the middle of the floor with his arms spread to either side. Shiny floors, dust bunnies, bare walls, naked windows.
"Okay? Take a look. This is where I live. This is how I live. This what you wanted to see?"
She looked around. "And you're angry at me because . . . ?"
"How about because this is not a moment when I want you to visit me? That maybe at this precise fucking moment I could use some privacy?" He stepped past her and into his living room, which looked abandoned. Pieces of furniture missing, the absence of anything pretty or tasteful. Standing there with her, he saw it all with professional detachment: It had the sad, squalid look of a crime scene.
"You want to see my bedroom? It's worse, okay? Come on, Dr. Ingalls. This is great. Maybe you can give me a shrink's perspective on somebody who'd live like this." He took her arm and pulled her roughly into the kitchen, then back into the bedroom. Unmade bed, Jockey shorts over the clock radio, shades pulled down, no curtains. Metal clamp-lamp on the radiator for a bedside reading light. Dirty laundry on the floor.
She took her arm away, looking around wide-eyed. "Why—"
"Why do I live this way? Because I'm a fuckup. Because I broke up with my girlfriend and she moved out. Because this isn't my house, I don't even have a lease, it's her mother's house."
"No. Why are we doing what we're doing?"
He didn't answer.
She picked up a book he'd been reading, The Quark and the Jaguar, put it back down. Finally she said, "You do smell pretty bad."
"Yeah. I said that."
"I'm sorry if my coming here has upset you, Mo. I had no idea it . . . I had thought . . . Tell you what, I'm going back out to the porch. You can come out with me and talk. If you like. Or not."
She walked back through the rooms. For moment he held back, willing her to go away. And then he quickly followed her, scared to death she'd leave. He found her sitting on the porch railing, arms crossed. She was dressed in her professional clothes, blouse with matching short skirt and vest, and the way she was sitting threw out one hip and showed the beautiful curve of her thigh. The way she looked broke his heart.
"The only thing that's disappointing me," she began, the insightful shrink, "is the way you're acting."
"Hey, it disappoints me, too," he said. "I'm fucked up." She didn't argue, so he blundered on, excuses: "I mean, what, I meet someone I really go for, tell her I live in my ex's mom's house? Tell her my life's a mess?"
She pretended to consider that. "No. But you could be frank that you're in transition, just corning out of a relationship, the ex took half the furniture. You could approach it with some humor and irony and trust her to do the same."
"You caught me at a bad moment, okay? I've been in neck-deep in landfills all day. You second-guess your life when you do that."
"I can imagine." A steady gaze, not backing down at all. She was mad.
He felt like shit. "There are things I've been wanting to say. This just brings it to a head."
"Such as . . .?"
"Such as you're a Ph.D. from Columbia, and I've got a B.A. from City College. Such as you make three, four, I don't know how many times what I make. Such as you've got a nice apartment and I live like this. Such as you're highly regarded in your field and I'm a fucking gumshoe, in trouble in my department, no career mobility—"
"In other words, what am I doing getting involved with a bum like you?" She was nodding, accepting it.
"Yeah." This was murder. The last straw. Mo decided he'd had it, after this he was out, fucking believe it. Move on, try to start up again, clean slate. Seattle maybe. Or somewhere. Surprisingly, at the thought a feeling almost of relief came over him: At least this was a way to get her away from this case. Get her safe from Geppetto.
"Maybe it's just a fling with a handsome cop," she said. "Maybe I like slumming once in a while. Single girl, freethinker, I need to get laid once in while. Preferably with somebody disposable. Until somebody more upwardly mobile comes along."
He'd considered that possibility.
"And I think I know the kind of upwardly mobile men you mean," she went on. "Like the upwardly mobile Chicago city councilman who got statewide political ambitions and dumped me when he thought my unsavory past might soften his downstate polling numbers. Like the upwardly mobile Wrigley exec who positively doted on me but had no use for the fact that I had a daughter I loved and was committed to. Or the upwardly mobile FBI man I dated in New York, whose habits we don't need to discuss. I should get a guy like that, right?"
"I don't know."
"You're goddamned right you don't know! Don't presume to tell me what I want or need. You want to pigeonhole me, you can go take a flying leap." They faced each other, Mo feeling like s
hit five ways and wanting to find a way out of this. But still she blazed at him: "Silly me, I had thought maybe the right guy for me was more self-inspected, honest. Real. Who had come to grips with who he was. Who had no more use for pretentious bullshit than I do. A guy to whom being straight up mattered. Who could sense how much that mattered to me."
He wanted to touch her, but it was out of the question. They just stood facing each other. Finally he said, "I'm going to take a shower. I have to get cleaned up." He turned away, went back into the house, peeling off his shirt.
She followed him inside. How she could breathe, he didn't know. He went into the bathroom and started the water running.
She stood in the bathroom doorway. "A guy who had figured out what he wanted, and it was some of the same things I wanted. Who knew how rare this is."
Mo stripped off the rest of his clothes, tested the spray, warmed it up, got in.
She raised her voice to be heard over the water noise. "Don't ever do this to me again, Mo! That's the one thing I insist on! Don't you ever again impugn me, or our relationship, again."
He let the water run over him. "Just have to get cleaned up," he mumbled into the stream. He realized he'd never met anyone like this before in his life. She was valuable beyond anything. That thought filled him with hope and fear. The water on his face, his head, was like a baptism.
Half an hour later, they took a comer table at Sardolini's, an Italian place that made its own pasta and had a good house Chianti. Tuesday night, not too many other customers.
What you do when you come out of the shower is you stand naked before her and you say how she's completely right. That you'll never let your crap come between you again. She can see how much you mean it. And you're clean now, you can hold her. When you do, the squalid rooms disappear, there's just this clean, bright flame. You try to start from there.