John Verdon - Think of a Number

The praise seemed to make everyone uncomfortable. But it also made Holdenfield look at Gurney with some interest for the first time. And although he was no fan of professional profilers, now he knew why her name sounded familiar.

Kline went on, determined, it seemed, to highlight his two stars. “Becca reads their minds, Gurney tracks them down-Cannibal Claus, Jason Strunk, Peter Possum Whatshisname…”

The doctor turned to Gurney, her eyes widening just a little. “Piggert? That was your case?”

Gurney nodded.

“Quite a celebrated arrest,” she said with a hint of admiration.

He managed a small, distracted smile. The situation in Wycherly-and the question of whether his own impulsive intervention with the mailed poem had any bearing on the death of the police officer-was eating at him.

“Keep going, Rod,” said Kline abruptly, as though the captain had caused the interruption.

“At eight A.M. this morning, Gregory Dermott made a trip to the Wycherly post office, accompanied by Officer Gary Sissek. According to Dermott, they returned at eight-thirty, at which time he made some coffee and toast and went through his mail, while Officer Sissek remained outside to check the perimeters of the property and the external security of the house. At nine A.M. Dermott went to look for Officer Sissek and discovered his body on the back porch. He called 911. First responders secured the scene and found a note taped to the back door above the body.”

“Bullet and multiple stab wounds like the others?” asked Holdenfield.

“Stab wounds confirmed, no determination yet regarding the bullet.”

“And the note?”

Rodriguez read from a fax in his folder. “‘Where did I come from? / Where did I go? / How many will die / because you don’t know?’”

“Same weirdo stuff,” said Kline. “What do you think, Becca?”

“The process may be accelerating.”

“The process?”

“Everything up till now was carefully premeditated-the choice of victims, the series of notes, all of it. But this one is different, more reactive than planned.”

Rodriguez looked skeptical. “It’s the same stabbing ritual, same kind of note.”

“But it was an unplanned victim. It looks like your Mr. Dermott was the original target, but this policeman was opportunistically killed instead.”

“But the note-”

“The note may have been brought to the scene to place on Dermott’s body, if all had gone well, or it may have been composed on the spot in response to the altered circumstances. It may be significant that it is only four lines long. Weren’t the others eight lines?” She looked at Gurney for confirmation.

He nodded, still half lost in guilty speculation, then forced himself back into the present. “I agree with Dr. Holdenfield. I hadn’t thought about the possible significance of the four lines versus eight, but that makes sense. One thing I would add is that although it couldn’t have been planned the same way the others were, the element of cop hatred that is part of this killer’s mind-set at least partially integrates this killing into the pattern and may account for the ritual aspects the captain referred to.”

“Becca said something about the pace accelerating,” said Kline. “We already have four victims. Does that mean there are more to come?”

“Five, actually.”

All eyes turned to Hardwick.

The captain held up his fist and extended a finger as he enunciated each name: “Mellery. Rudden. Kartch. Officer Sissek. That makes four.”

“The Reverend Michael McGrath makes five,” said Hardwick.

“Who?” The question erupted in jangled unison from Kline (excited), the captain (vexed), and Blatt (baffled).

“Five years ago a priest in the Boston diocese was relieved of his pastoral duties due to allegations involving a number of altar boys. He made some kind of deal with the bishop, blamed his inappropriate behavior on alcoholism, went to a long-term rehab, dropped out of sight, end of story.”

“What the hell was it with the Boston diocese?” sneered Blatt. “Whole goddamn place was crawling with kid-fuckers.”

Hardwick ignored him. “End of story until a year ago, when McGrath was found dead in his apartment. Multiple stab wounds to the throat. A revenge note was taped to the body. It was an eight-line poem in red ink.”

Rodriguez’s face was flushing. “How long have you known this?”

Hardwick looked at his watch. “Half an hour.”

“What?”

“Yesterday Special Investigator Gurney requested a northeast-states regional inquiry to all departments for MOs similar to the Mellery case. This morning we got a hit-the late Father McGrath.”

“Anyone arrested or prosecuted for his murder?” asked Kline.

“Nope. Boston homicide guy I spoke to wouldn’t come out and say it, but I got the impression they hadn’t exactly prioritized the case.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The captain sounded petulant.

Hardwick shrugged. “Former pederast gets himself stabbed to death, killer leaves a note referring vaguely to past misdeeds. Looks like someone decided to get even. Maybe the cops figure what the hell, they got other shit on their plates, plenty of other perps to catch with motives less noble than delayed justice. So maybe they don’t pay too much attention.”

Rodriguez looked like he had indigestion. “But he didn’t actually say that.”

“Of course he didn’t say that.”

“So,” said Kline in his summation voice, “whatever the Boston police did or didn’t do, the fact is, Father Michael McGrath is number five.”

“Sí, número cinco,” said Hardwick inanely. “But really número uno -since the priest got himself sliced up a year before the other four.”

“So Mellery, who we thought was the first, was really the second,” said Kline.

“I doubt that very strongly,” said Holdenfield. When she had everyone’s attention, she went on, “There’s no evidence that the priest was the first-he may have been the tenth for all we know-but even if he was the first, there’s another problem. One killing a year ago, then four in less than two weeks, is not a pattern you normally see. I would expect others in between.”

“Unless,” Gurney interjected softly, “some factor other than the killer’s psychopathology is driving the timing and the selection of victims.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I believe it’s something the victims have in common other than alcoholism, something we haven’t found yet.”

Holdenfield rocked her head speculatively from side to side and made a face that said she wasn’t about to agree with Gurney’s supposition but couldn’t find a way to shoot it down, either.

“So we may or may not discover links to some old corpses,” said Kline, looking unsure of how he felt about this.

“Not to mention some new ones,” said Holdenfield.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was becoming Rodriguez’s favorite question.

Holdenfield showed no reaction to the testy tone. “The pace of the killings, as I started to say earlier, suggests that the endgame has begun.”

“Endgame?” Kline intoned the word as though he liked the sound of it.

Holdenfield continued, “In this most recent instance, he was driven to act in an unplanned way. The process may be spinning out of his control. My feeling is that he won’t be able to hold it together much longer.”

“Hold what together?” Blatt posed the question, as he posed most of his questions, with a kind of congenital hostility.

Holdenfield regarded him for moment without expression, then looked at Kline. “How much education do I need to provide here?”