John Lutz - Serial

She’d told him that if he came up with any other information he should call her. What if he called her with this? Handed her the box and said he’d found it in his mailbox or some such thing? “Maybe this will tell you something,” he could say, not smiling at her, keeping a straight face. A penitentiary face. All the while watching her expression as she slowly realized what she was holding. Pearl. Yeah. That was her name, Pearl something. With her job, she’d seen some shit, so maybe the tongue wouldn’t bother her and might even turn her on somehow. You never could tell; women were funny that way.

But he wasn’t about to go back and even touch that box again. He wanted its contents out of his life. Forever.

Still, the thought of handing it to the cop with the boobs amused him. It actually made him smile.

The Skinner sat on a park bench near a Central Park play area and searched through the Times and Post, as he always did after taking a victim. He’d watched local TV news faithfully, too.

Again, there was no mention of the missing tongues-neither Candice’s nor Judith’s.

There was plenty of other lurid detail in the news reports, especially in the Post. He’d looked in the latest giveaway copy of City Beat, too. Even though the thin paper was a freebie, it had broken some big news in New York. It must have spies and purveyors of gossip all over the city, calling themselves journalists.

Of course, he knew why there’d been no mention of the tongues. The police were holding back that piece of information so they could be sure they’d have the right man when finally they had a suspect. Only they and the killer knew about the missing tongues. Our little secret. The police envisioned an interrogation that would be like a quiz with a trick question. The suspect would have to pass the simple test to be authenticated, and then he would be bona fide and hell bent.

Maybe it would be fun to contact the police, or one of the papers or cable news channels, and mention the tongues himself. Keeping his identity unknown, of course. Taunt the police. Taunt Quinn, who was supposed to be some kind of super hunter of serial killers.

No, he decided; better to let them think they were ahead in the game. Or at least catching up. It was enjoyable, even titillating, to know so much that Quinn didn’t. To know that Quinn wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was.

In fact, having Quinn as lead investigator was a bonus. The Skinner appreciated Quinn. The famous serial-killer hunter made everything a lot more challenging and interesting than some NYPD drone would have done. A man to match the mountain. Almost.

The Skinner extended his legs as he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. The morning sun’s heat felt wonderful on his face. He decided he felt good. The turnover of the tongue to Jock Sanderson had gone well. The little bastard would still be shaken by that. He’d been given plenty of reason to guard his own tongue, to make sure it didn’t say the wrong thing to the wrong people.

Not that he hadn’t had reasons already. But it was always best to give people like Sanderson motivation they could feel as well as reason out. The Skinner knew the kind of man Sanderson was. A schemer and a taker, without ethics or shame. A survivor who would do first of all what made the best sense for him. He would not be too prideful or stubborn to be scared into safe behavior. The severed tongue had been effective.

And here was an amusing thought: Maybe the tongue was something Judith Blaney owed Sanderson. A better-latethan-never piece of the entire woman he’d wrongly served time for possessing.

The Skinner relaxed in the warm sunlight, feeling the weight of his tension evaporate.

He assured himself that there was symmetry and justice in the world, and that destiny was on his side.

“He’s fixated on it now,” Helen Iman said. The lanky redheaded profiler was leaning, all six feet plus of her, with a palm flat on Quinn’s desk. Quinn marveled at how long her fingers were. No doubt she could palm a basketball.

“So he figures to remove the tongues of all his future victims,” Quinn said.

Helen nodded. “That’s the way it usually works in these kinds of cases. Two times in succession means a trend.”

“Fedderman checked with slaughterhouses. They don’t use the kind of knives to remove calves tongues that were used on the victims.”

“Human victims, you mean,” Helen said.

Quinn looked at her. “You a vegan, Helen?”

“No, no, just a plain old omnivore. Still, when you think about some of the stuff we eat…”

“The trick is not to think about it,” Quinn said.

“Maybe the Skinner’s mastered that part of it.”

At first Quinn didn’t know what she meant. Then he did. “Oh, Christ! You don’t suppose…”

“That the killer might be consuming the tongues? That to him they’re a delicacy?”

“I’ve seen so many things I didn’t think possible,” Quinn said.

“I doubt that he’s into cannibalism, but we can’t rule it out. I do know that if he isn’t, he might be plenty pissed off if it was in the news that he was probably eating pieces of his victims. Even cannibals don’t like to be called cannibals. And being falsely accused might make somebody go crazy with anger and make a mistake.”

“Could shake things up,” Quinn said. “Whether he’s eating parts of his victims or not.”

“A win-win,” Helen said.

“Do you think it might be more valuable to us that way than holding back the tongue information from the media?”

“That’d be up to you to decide.”

Quinn sat back and looked up at Helen’s bony face. It was still attractive, but it would become craggy as she aged. She smiled down at him from her lanky height, made even taller by the three-inch heels she was wearing. She should be coaching or starring on a women’s volleyball or basketball team. Or maybe even flaunting her tall self on fashion-show runways.

He smiled. “You seeing anybody, Helen?”

“Why? You interested?”

“Somebody worthwhile should be.”

“Somebody like Fedderman the clotheshorse?”

“Sure,” Quinn said. “Feds is a good man.”

He knew Helen had been going out with some creep of a lawyer who specialized in representing cops’ widows with insurance claims. Sometimes doing more than simply representing them. Guys like that, it always amazed Quinn that women couldn’t see through them, even in times of grief. Maybe it was because they wanted so badly to believe.

Women, he thought. So easy to fool and difficult to deceive.

“Want me to give you Feds’s number?” Quinn asked.

Helen straightened up her long frame and smiled. “I’ve already got his number, Quinn. And it doesn’t work the combination.”

Quinn considered phoning Renz and discussing whether the business with the victims’ tongues should be made public, along with the theory that the Skinner was not only a killer but a cannibal. If Helen Iman was right, that kind of publicity might drive the Skinner over the top. It might cause a killer who had raised procedure and caution to the level of art to make the one mistake that was all Quinn and his team needed.

Renz might go along with it. Then again, he wouldn’t like the additional heat directed at him for not being competent enough to apprehend a monster like the Skinner.

Quinn reached out and dragged the phone across his desk to him. But he didn’t call Renz. He called Cindy Sellers at City Beat.

Sellers had no scruples, and she could keep a secret. Probably Renz was already secretly feeding her information about the Skinner murders; she was his favorite media stooge and ally. Renz had used her to plant and manipulate information in a number of cases. But that wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t as if they were friends. Neither was the kind of person who had real friends. And Sellers wasn’t above playing a double game. In fact, it would appeal to her baser instincts.