Robert Walker - Bitter Instinct

“Yeah, how'd this weasel do that?” asked Parry.

Kim still hadn't gotten back with the search-and-seizure warrants, and Jessica had heard from her only once, something about a hard-nosed, liberal-assed judge who worried about “violating Gordonn's guar-an-teed rights for reasonable expectation of privacy.” Kim wanted to kill the man. Instead, she took her request to another judge during a break in the session, something to do with the original judge having the runs. “In the meantime, I had a psychic episode since last I saw you, Jess.”

“Having to do with the case?”

“Yes, well… I believe so, yes.”

'Tell me about it.”

“Further visions of the crimes, picking up images which lead me to images of… the victims posed for photos.”

“Posed?”

“The killer wanted and got photos of the poems, the killer's handiwork on their backs, before leaving each crime scene.”

“Souvenirs to treasure,” said Jessica, knowing serial killers' penchant for retaining mementos of their victims and the moment they had shared, souvenirs to help them relive the moment.

“This memorabilia of his work,” said Kim, “the killer must keep close at hand.”

“Gordonn just left the premises, Kim. I'll search for the nasty mementos in his home, if you can get me inside.”

“I'm working on it.”

ASAC FBI Agent James Parry and PPD Detective Leanne Sturtevante could feel the tension wringing out of their every pore. Each killing had raised the pressure on them, but with the arrest of Sturtevante's former girlfriend on suspicion of being the Poet Killer, the level became all but unbearable.

Jim Parry, to his credit, did not know of Sturtevante's personal involvement with Donatella Leare until well after the arrest, learning of it only during interrogation sessions with the suspect.

Since then, Leare had posted bond and was released easily and quickly. From all accounts, she had made a great adjustment to her newfound notoriety. Her books were selling like hotcakes, according to Marc Tamburino, who was heard to exclaim, “Man, you can't buy that kind of publicity. Not even Donald Trump can buy that kind of publicity. The news media can't even manufacture that kind of story, I tell you.” Jessica had passed word along to Sturtevante that she- Leanne-had, however unwittingly, given Leare's career the proverbial shot in the arm, that people all over Philadelphia were vying for copies of her poems, and that Leare was being asked to speak publicly at functions all across the state. The detective had taken the news badly, as a slight, a lousy joke. She had pointed the finger at Leare, had arranged for her arrest, and now she felt like a fool. She had taken the action against Leare in spite of Jessica's better judgment, and Parry had sided with her; now both had come to the realization that Leare was not the Poet Killer after all. All three of them-Jessica, Sturtevante, and Parry-knew that Sturtevante's personal involvement with Leare had impaired her judgment. This fact, unspoken among them, colored every word now of their discussions of the case, and made them all intensely uncomfortable.

Parked alongside Gordonn's rambling, aged house, atop a cracked and weed-choked driveway, a battered beige late-model Oldsmobile had been waiting. Once the suspect had gotten into the car, and once he sped off, disappearing around the comer, an unmarked police vehicle took off after him.

Inside the surveillance van, Parry told Jessica, “We can't wait any longer. We go in now while he's out.” He started for the door, stooped and cramped in the small interior with Jessica, Leanne Sturtevante, and a technician named Jake Towne. “Go in without paper?” protested Sturtevante.

“If we miss this chance, we may not have another to bug the place before he decides to scratch his itch again,” Towne warned the others, taking Parry and Jessica's side.

“We need the warrant, Jim,” Sturtevante cautioned. “We've already made one mistake. Let's not compound it with another.”

Parry protested. “You made the mistake, Leanne; you were so convinced of Leare's guilt that you convinced me, and now that we have a viable suspect, it's time you owned up to your error. But I have to agree with Towne, this guy could return at any time.”

Leanne checked with the team that now followed Gordonn. She spoke to them on a closed line. Then she told Parry and Jessica, “According to the team that's on him, Gordonn appears to be driving aimlessly about the city.”

“In the vicinity of Second Street?” Jessica asked.

“No, he's wandering around the warehouse district.”

“Looking for new prowling grounds, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“All right, then. I say we go in and hope the warrant arrives before we leave the premises,” Parry said, his hand on the door.

Jessica readily agreed. “I'm with you, Jim.”

Sturtevante warned, “Any word of this gets out, no matter what you collect from bugging the place, Jim, it'll be tossed. I know the system in Philly, and that kind of thing will get you nothing but a reprimand. The prosecutor's office won't touch tainted evidence or evidence gathered by criminal means, and that's what you two are talking about.”

Parry looked Jessica in the eye. “Are you sure you want in on this?”

“I am.” Jessica took it as a challenge.

“It could backfire, Jess.” I'll take that risk.”

“Like you did in Hawaii?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

He turned to Sturtevante. “Stay on Dr. Desinor to get the paperwork to us ASAP.”

“I just want it noted that your action is-”

“So noted, Lieutenant Sturtevante, so noted. In the meantime, why aren't you on the phone to your contacts, getting a local warrant?”

“We're doing the best we can. I've gotten the mayor out of bed.”

“Good, he wanted results, right? Where're all those clowns in their three-piece suits when you need them? Where's your boss, Roth?”

“Hospital. Family emergency. Wife's been fighting cancer.”

“Shhheeesh, sorry to hear that.”

Parry threw open the surveillance van doors. “You with me, Jess?” he asked, extending a hand.

“I want inside,” she replied, following him out.

“No radio contact,” said Sturtevante, who remained inside the van, bent up like a yogi on a bad day. “Towne, you got that?”

“Got it,” replied the technician.

The three exchanged glances, all of them knowing that radio contact meant that the exact timing on this would be recorded. No radio contact meant an ambiguous time line later if anyone should ask. Don't ask, don't tell would be the rule of the day. “It'll keep us all a little more… honest,” said Sturtevante. “Just a little.”

“Good thinking,” Parry told her.

“Good hunting,” Sturtevante said. “I'll watch your backs. If Gordonn makes a move anywhere near here, I'll break radio silence with a single word.”

“And what would that be?” Rampage.”

The other task-force members, watching Gordonn's movements, kept in constant radio contact with Detective Sturtevante while Jessica and Parry entered Gordonn's home. Parry had brought along his lock-picking tools, and it took him only a few minutes to gain entry. He broke in like a pro, disturbing nothing.

Once inside, Parry expertly wired the place, setting taps on Gordonn's phones and placing bugs in his walls.

Meanwhile, Jessica wandered about freely until she came upon a collection of photo albums. She opened one after another in search of the incriminating evidence-Exhibit A.

“Even if you found something, without that warrant we can't produce if for a jury; no prosecutor would touch it.” Parry was telling her what she already knew, but he also knew that she, like himself, felt an insatiable need to learn if they were or were not on the right trail.