“This used to be the director’s office,” he explained, his attention returning to Quincy. “Back in your day. Now it’s a conference room, while the bigwigs are across the way. It’s not so hard to find their new offices. Just follow all the posters for the Silence of the Lambs.”
“Everyone loves Hollywood,” Quincy murmured.
“Now then,” Ennunzio said, taking a seat and placing a manila folder in front of him, “you had questions about Special Agent McCormack from the GBI?”
“Yes,” Kaplan spoke up. “We understand you were supposed to meet with him.”
“Tuesday afternoon. It didn’t happen. I got held up at a conference in D.C., sponsored by the Forensic Linguistics Institute.”
“A conference for linguists,” Rainie muttered. “That had to be a blast.”
“Actually it was quite fascinating,” Ennunzio told her. “We had a special presentation on the anthrax envelopes sent to Senator Tom Daschle and Tom Brokaw. Were the envelopes sent by someone whose first language was English or Arabic? It’s an extremely interesting analysis.”
Rainie startled, intrigued in spite of herself. “Which one was it?”
“Almost certainly a native English speaker trying to impersonate an Arabic speaker. We call that ‘trick mail,’ when the sender attempts certain devices to mislead the receiver. In this case, the definitive evidence is the seemingly random mix of uppercase and lowercase letters throughout the text on the envelope, as well as a mixing of large and small caps. While this is meant to appear sloppy and childlike—someone uncomfortable with proper English syntax—in fact, it indicates someone so comfortable with the Roman alphabet he can manipulate it at will. Otherwise, it would be difficult to construct such a varied combination of letter styles. And while the messages in the two envelopes are short and filled with misspellings, this is again an attempt to deceive. Short missives actually involve a very concise use of the English language and are consistent with someone of higher, not lower, education. All in all, it was a first-rate presentation.”
“Okay,” Rainie said. She looked at Kaplan helplessly.
“So you didn’t actually see Special Agent McCormack on Tuesday?” Kaplan asked.
“No.”
“But you had spoken to him before?”
“When Special Agent McCormack arrived at the National Academy, he stopped by my office asking if I would have time to consult on an old homicide case. He had copies of some letters that had been sent to the editor, and he wanted any information on them I could provide.”
“Did he give you copies of the letters?” Quincy spoke up.
“He gave me what he had. Unfortunately the GBI was only able to recover the original document for the last letter, and frankly, there’s not much I can do with published versions. The newspapers sanitize too much.”
“You wanted to see if the guy also mixed small and large caps?” Rainie asked.
“Something like that. Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Special Agent McCormack. Forensic linguistics is a broad field. As an expert, I’m trained to study language, syntax, spelling, grammar. I don’t analyze penmanship per se—you need a handwriting expert for that—but how a document is prepared and presented provides context for my own analysis, so it is relevant. Now, within the field, we all have our own domains. Some linguists pride themselves on a sort of forensic profiling—you give them a document, and they can tell you the probable race, gender, age, education, and street address of who wrote it. I can do that to a certain degree, but my own subspecialty is authorship. You give me two samples of text and I can tell you if the person who wrote the threatening letter is the same person who wrote that second note to his mom.”
“How do you do that?” Rainie quizzed him.
“In part, I look at format. Mostly, however, I’m looking at word choice, sentence structure, and repeated errors or phrases. Everyone has certain expressions they favor, and these phrases have a tendency to appear over and over again in their writings. Are you familiar with the cartoon sitcom The Simpsons?”
Rainie nodded.
“All right, if you were the chief of police in Springfield and you received a ransom note including repeated uses of the expression ‘D’oh!,’ you’d probably want to start your investigation with Homer Simpson. If, on the other hand, the letter contained the phrase ‘Eat my shorts,’ you’d be better off looking at the younger Simpson, Bart. All people have phrases they like to use. When writing text, they are even more likely to repeat these catchphrases. The same goes for grammatical mistakes and spelling errors.”
“And in the case of the Eco-Killer?” Quincy spoke up again.
“Not enough data points. Special Agent McCormack presented me with three copies and one original. With only one original, I can’t compare penmanship, ink, or paper choice. In terms of content, all four letters contain the exact same message: ‘Clock ticking . . . planet dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming. Can’t you hear it? Heat kills . . .’ Frankly, to compare authorship, I need additional material, say another letter you believe may have been written by the suspect, or a longer document. Are you familiar with Ted Kaczynski?”
“The Unabomber? Of course.”
“That case was largely broken on the writings of Mr. Kaczynski. Not only did we have the writing on the packages he used to mail out his bombs, but we also had several notes he included in the packages, many letters he wrote to the press, and finally the manifesto he demanded be run in the papers. Even then, it wasn’t a forensic linguist who made the connections, but Kaczynski’s own brother. He recognized parts of the manifesto from his brother’s letters to him. Without such an extensive amount of material to analyze, who knows if we ever would have identified the Unabomber?”
“But this guy hasn’t given the police much to work with,” Rainie said. “Isn’t that unusual? I mean, according to your own example, once these guys get talking, they have a lot to say. But this guy is implying he’s earnest about the environment, while on the other hand, he’s pretty quiet on the subject.”
“That is actually the one thing that jumped out at me,” Ennunzio said, his gaze going to Quincy. “This is getting more into your domain than mine, but four short, identical messages are unusual. Once a killer makes contact with the press, or someone in authority, generally the communication becomes more expansive. I was a little surprised that by the last letter to the editor, at least, the message didn’t include more.”
Quincy nodded. “Communication by a killer with either the press or an officer in charge of the investigation is almost always about power. Sending letters and watching those messages be retold by the media gives certain subjects the same kind of vicarious thrill other killers experience when revisiting the scene of the crime or handling a souvenir from one of their victims. Killers will generally start small—an initial note or phone call—but once they know they have everyone’s attention, the communication becomes about boasting, bragging, and constantly reasserting their sense of control. It’s all part of their ego trip. This message . . .” Quincy frowned. “It’s different.”
“He distances himself from the act,” Ennunzio said. “Notice the phrase, ‘heat kills.’ Not that he kills, that heat kills. It’s as if he has nothing to do with it.”
“Yet the message is filled with short phrases, which you said earlier indicates a higher level of intelligence.”
“He’s smart, but guilty,” Ennunzio told them. “He doesn’t want to kill, but feels driven to do it, and thus seeks to lay the blame elsewhere. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t written more. For him, the letters aren’t about establishing power, but seeking absolution.”
“There’s another possibility,” Quincy said shortly. “Berkowitz also wrote extensively to the press in an attempt to explain his crimes. Berkowitz, however, suffered from mental illness; he falls into a different category from the organized killer. Now, people suffering from some kind of mental incapacity such as delusions or schizophrenia—”
“Often repeat a phrase,” Ennunzio filled in. “You also see that in stroke victims or people with brain tumors. They’ll have anything from a word to a mantra they repeat over and over again.”
“You’re saying this guy is insane?” Rainie spoke up sharply.
“It’s one possibility.”
“But if he’s nuts, how has he successfully eluded the police while kidnapping and killing eight women?”
“I didn’t say he was stupid,” Quincy countered mildly. “It’s possible that he’s still functional in many ways. People close to him, however, would know there was something ‘not right’ about him. He’s probably a loner and ill at ease with others. It could help explain why he has spent so much time outdoors, and also why he employs an ambush style of attack. A Ted Bundy–style killer would rely on his social skills to smooth-talk his way inside a prey’s defenses. This man knows he can’t.”
“This man builds elaborate riddles,” Rainie said flatly. “He targets strangers, communicates with the press, and plays games with the police. That sounds like a good old-fashioned organized psychopath to me.”
Kaplan held up a hand. “Okay, okay, okay. We’re getting a little off track here. This so-called Eco-Killer is Georgia’s problem. We’re here about Special Agent McCormack.”
“What about him?” Dr. Ennunzio asked with a frown.
“Do you think McCormack could’ve written these notes?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to give me something else he’s written. Why are you looking at Special Agent McCormack?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what? I’ve been out of town at the conference. I haven’t even had time to clear all my voice mail yet.”
“A body was found yesterday,” Kaplan said curtly. “Of a young girl. On the Marine PT course. We have reason to believe McCormack might be involved.”
“There are elements of the case similar to the Eco-Killer,” Rainie added, ignoring Kaplan’s dark look. “Special Agent McCormack thinks the murder is the work of the Eco-Killer, starting over here in Virginia. Special Agent Kaplan thinks maybe McCormack is our guy, and merely staged the scene to match an old case.”
“A body was found here? At Quantico? Yesterday?” Ennunzio appeared dazed.
“You should leave the bomb shelter every once in a while,” Rainie told him.
“This is horrible!”
“I don’t think the young girl enjoyed it much, either.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Ennunzio was looking down at his notes wildly. “I did have a theory, one thing I was going to suggest to Special Agent McCormack if I ever got a chance. It was a long shot, but . . .”
“What?” Quincy asked intently. “Tell us.”
“Special Agent McCormack mentioned in passing that he’d started getting phone calls about the case. Some anonymous tipster trying to help them out. He believed it might be someone close to the killer, a family member or spouse. I had another idea. Given that the letters to the editor were so brief, and that most killers expand their communication over time . . .”
“Oh no,” Quincy said, closing his eyes and obviously tracking the thought. “If the UNSUB feels guilty, if he’s dissociating himself from the act . . .”
“I wanted Special Agent McCormack to either tape those calls, or write down the conversations verbatim the minute he hangs up the phone,” Ennunzio said grimly. “That way I could compare language from the caller with wording from the letters. You see, I don’t think he’s hearing from a family member. It’s possible . . . Special Agent McCormack may be hearing from the killer himself.”
CHAPTER 24
Virginia
3:13 P.M.
Temperature: 98 degrees
TINA DREAMT OF FIRE. She was tied to a stake in the middle of a pile of kindling, feeling the flames wick up her legs while the gathered crowd cheered. “My baby,” she screamed at them. “Don’t hurt my baby!”
But no one cared. The people laughed. The fire lapped her flesh. Now it seared her fingers, starting at the tips and racing up to her elbows. Then her hair was ablaze, the flames licking her ears and singeing her eyelashes. The heat gathered and built, forcing its way into her mouth and searing her lungs. Her eyeballs melted. She felt them run down her face. Then the fire was inside her eye sockets, greedily devouring her flesh, while her brains began to boil and her face peeled back from her skull . . .
Tina awakened with a jolt. Her head flew up from the rock and she became aware of two things at once. Her eyes were swollen shut and her skin felt as if it were burning.
The mosquitoes still swarmed her head. Yellow flies, too. She batted at them feebly. She had no blood left. They should leave her alone and seek fresher prey, not some exhausted girl on the verge of dehydration. The bugs didn’t seem to care. She was bathed from head to toe in sweat, which apparently in the insect world made her a feast fit for kings.
Hot, so hot. The sun was directly overhead now. She could feel it beating down on her, burning her bite-sensitive skin and parching her lips. Her throat was swollen and dry. She could feel the skin on her arms and legs shrinking beneath the harsh glare and pulling uncomfortably at her joints. She was a piece of meat left too long in the sun. She was, quite literally, being cured into a piece of human jerky.
You have to move. You have to do something.
Tina had heard the voice before, in the back of her mind. In the beginning, it had given her hope. Now, it just filled her with despair. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t do anything. She was nothing but mosquito fodder and if she moved off this rock, then she’d be snake fodder, too. She was sure of it. Before her eyes had swollen shut from mosquito bites, she’d taken inventory as best she could. She was in some kind of open pit, with sides that stretched out ten to fifteen feet, while the broad mouth yawned twenty feet overhead at least. She had a rock. She had her purse. She had a one-gallon jug of water the son of a bitch had probably thrown in just to toy with her.
That was it. Pit, rock, water. Only other thing around was the foul-smelling muck that oozed out from under her rocky perch. And no way was she stepping off her boulder into that slime. She’d seen things move in the marsh around her. Dark, slimy things she was certain would love to feast on human flesh. Things that genuinely frightened her.
Drink.
Can’t. I won’t have water, and then I’ll die.
You are dying. Drink.
She groped around for the bottle of water. It too felt hot to the touch. She’d had a little when she’d first woken up, but then quickly recapped the precious supply. Her resources were limited. In her purse, she had a pack of gum and a package of six peanut-butter crackers. She also had a little Baggie filled with twelve saltines, the perks of being a pregnant woman.
Pregnant woman. She was supposed to be drinking at least eight glasses of water a day to help support the whole new infrastructure being built in her body. She should also be eating an extra three hundred calories a day, as well as getting plenty of rest. Nowhere in the preparing-for-parenthood book had it talked about surviving on three sips of water and a couple of crackers. How long could she go on like this? How long could her baby?
The thought both discouraged her and brought her strength. Her inner voice was right. She wasn’t going to make it on this godforsaken rock in this godforsaken pit. She was already dying. She might as well put up a fight.
Tina worked grimly with her swollen fingers at the plastic cap of the water jug. At the last minute, it popped off wildly and went soaring somewhere in the muck. No matter. She brought the jug to her lips and drank greedily. The water was hot and tasted of cooked plastic. She downed it gratefully, each giant gulp soothing her rusty throat. Second turned into wonderful, indulgent second. At the last minute, she tore the jug from her lips, gasping for breath and already desperate for more.
Her thirst felt like a separate beast, freshly awakened and now ravenous.
“Crackers,” she told herself firmly. “Salt i
s good.”
She set the jug down carefully, feeling along the rock for a stable spot. Then she found her purse and after painful minutes fumbling with the zipper, got it open.
The mosquitoes had returned, attracted by the smell of fresh water. Yellow flies buzzed her lips, settling on the corners as if they’d sip the moisture straight from her mouth. She slapped savagely, and had the brief satisfaction of feeling plump insect bodies burst against her fingers. Then more flies were back, crawling on her lips, her eyes, the soft tissue of her inner ear, and she knew she had to let them go. Ignore the constant pricking bites, the awful, dreadful hum. Give up this battle, or most certainly lose the war.
Grimly, she set about searching her purse. Her fingers found the Baggie of saltines and drew them out. She counted out six. A dozen bites later, they were gone. The salty, dry texture immediately intensified her thirst.
Just one sip, she thought. To chase down the saltines. To soothe her pain, because oh God, the flies, the flies, the flies. They were everywhere, buzzing and biting, and the more she tried to ignore them the more they skittered across her skin and sank little teeth deep into her flesh. She wasn’t going to make it after all. She was going to go insane and the least a crazy person could do was drink.
She reached for the bottle, then snatched back her hand. No, she’d had water. Not much, but enough. After all, she didn’t know how long she’d been down here. Earlier, she’d screamed for a full hour without any luck. Best she could tell, the rat bastard had dropped her somewhere remote and isolated. If that was true, it was up to her. She had to be smart, stay calm. She had to think of a plan.
She rubbed her eyes. Bad idea. They immediately burned. Some of that water would feel so nice on her face. She could rinse out her eyes, maybe get them to crack open so she could see. Rinse off the sweat, then maybe the mosquitoes would finally leave her alone.
Stupid. Pipe dream. She was sweating down to her toes, her green sundress plastered to her skin and her underwear soaked straight through. She hadn’t been this hot since she’d sat naked in a Swedish sauna. Rinsing her face would buy her respite for about two seconds. And then she’d be sweat-soaked and miserable again.