Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

“Skewers again,” Clem said.

“And two of them again,” Dana Maltravers said. “So there’s the same symbolism of the pair.”

“Whatever that means,” Pinker put in, smiling at her. “Maybe he just likes using both hands. Or maybe there are two murderers.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Sebastian said. “That’s all we need. A pair of serial killers.”

“Maybe they’re twins,” Pinker suggested.

The FBI man raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not lose touch with reality completely.” He glanced at Simmons. “Go on with your report, Detective.”

“We’ve been canvassing the area. The problem is, the majority of buildings are university property, but offices rather than student accommodation, so there weren’t many people around in the evening.”

Peter Sebastian’s expression was grim. “What you’re saying, Detective, is that no one saw the killer.”

“If anyone did, we ain’t found ’em yet,” Pinker said. Not for the first time, he reverted to the way he talked back home in Georgia when addressing the Bureau man.

“CSIs?” Sebastian said, looking at his notes.

“They’re still comparing fingerprints with those we’ve taken from people who were in the professor’s room recently,” Clem Simmons said. “It’ll take some time. There are students, other professors, cleaners. Same goes for fibers.”

“Any suggestive background on the victim?” the FBI man asked.

“Suggestive?” Pinker repeated, smiling at Maltravers. “You mean, did he grope his students?”

Simmons frowned at his partner. “He was an expert in Jewish mysticism. That could be a connection with the other murders. He was studying a medieval book called De Occulta Philosophia. So-”

“So you think the killer has it in for people who dabble in the occult?” Sebastian said dubiously.

“That’s what the dailies are saying,” Pinker said.

“I pay no attention to trash like that,” the Bureau man said.

Clem Simmons raised his heavy shoulders. “We haven’t found anything else to explain the professor’s murder. He seems to have been happily married…” He gave Pinker a long-suffering look. “And he didn’t have a reputation as a groper. According to Professor Rudenstein, he wasn’t one of those academics who stir up controversy.”

“’Course, there is another possibility,” Pinker said, eyeing each of the others in turn.

“Enlighten us, Detective,” Sebastian said wearily.

“He was Jewish-could have been targeted by some far-right crazy.”

“It’s certainly a possibility.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Have you alerted the Hate Crimes Unit?”

Dana Maltravers nodded. “They’re checking it. I’ve been through the victim’s recent e-mail correspondence. There are no obvious threats. Of course, he could have deleted them. I’ve also spoken to his wife. She wasn’t aware of anything like that.”

“All right,” Sebastian said. “Keep in touch with our people. What about the drawing?”

“The document-analysis experts are comparing it with the others,” Maltravers replied. “There isn’t much doubt that it was done by the same hand, and with the same pen and paper.”

“And the meaning?” Sebastian asked impatiently.

“Um…unclear, so far.”

“Anyone else have any ideas?”

“Could be building up to some sort of composite,” Clem said. “The shapes are in different places on each page.”

“True,” the FBI man said. “The problem is, if it’s not complete, then we can expect more murders.”

Silence greeted that remark.

“Have you gotten anywhere with background checks on Loki and Monsieur Hexie?” Dana Maltravers asked.

“Not really,” Simmons replied. “The band members are saying as little as they can. We’ve been looking at their activities. Loki got plenty of abuse on the band’s Web site about his lyrics, but that seems normal in the circles he moved in.”

“What about anti-Nazi and civil-rights groups?” Sebastian put in.

“Yeah, they thought he was a piece of shit,” Pinker said, “but we haven’t found any death threats. Same for Monsieur Hexie but Clem can tell you more about him.”

“Thanks, partner,” Simmons said. “The second vic actually seems to have been rather popular. People appreciated the stuff he sold. It made them happy.”

“Woo-hoo for voodoo,” Pinker said, with a sardonic smile.

Dana Maltravers looked up from her papers. “It seems he was still turning tricks, though, despite his age.”

Simmons nodded. “From time to time. We tracked down the recent johns-Monsieur Hexie kept a client list on his computer. They were pretty upset.”

“They had solid alibis, too,” Pinker said.

“Could the list have been tampered with?” Sebastian asked.

Clem Simmons shrugged. “I guess. The list was a standard Word file.”

There was another silence.

Gerard Pinker broke it. “What about your man Matt Wells? The CSIs haven’t found anything linking him to the latest scene.”

Sebastian gave a tight smile. “They’re unlikely to, given that he was in Maine last night.”

“So you failed to catch him,” Pinker said pointedly.

The FBI man stared at him. “The fact that Wells continues to evade arrest hardly suggests he’s an innocent man.”

“Oh, yeah? The way I hear it, the guy walked voluntarily into the state troopers’ station. He wouldn’t have done that if he was killing people, or even organizing their deaths.”

Sebastian shook his head. “You aren’t in possession of all the facts.”

“Is that so?” Clem Simmons said. “We’re the lead detectives on this investigation. You’re not in a position to keep information from us.”

Peter Sebastian got to his feet. “I’m in a position to do anything I deem appropriate,” he said, picking up his notes. “Next briefing at midday tomorrow, please.” He gave Pinker a malevolent smile. “Your presence isn’t required, Detective.”

“Right on, Dick,” Versace muttered.

Richard Bonhoff was wearing a nondescript blue wind-breaker and a Washington Redskins cap. For the past six hours he’d been in various locations with a view of the main entrance of the Woodbridge Holdings office-outside a shoe shop, inside a cafe, behind a van. There had been no sign of Gordy Lister and now, as the light faded, his stomach was rumbling and his feet were cold. But he was used to worse in the fields back home.

Richard knew he’d be pressed if Lister headed for the car park. He hadn’t brought the pickup after the last fiasco, and he would have to rely on a taxi passing at the right time. Short of stealing a vehicle, there was nothing else he could do. He thought of the twins and their haggard faces. What wouldn’t he do to get them back? Answer: nothing.

Then Gordy Lister made an appearance. He stood outside the office building for a while, looking around, markedly more cautious than before. Richard made sure the collar of his coat was up and the peak of his cap pulled low. Lister eventually started walking to the right. Richard moved out of the doorway he’d been sheltering in and kept to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. There were plenty of people around at the end of the working day, and he had to take care not to knock into those walking toward him. That was why he didn’t immediately notice that Lister had company.

The man who had suddenly taken up a position beside the newspaperman was tall and wore what looked to Richard like an expensive gray coat. He had on a hat, the kind that men wore in black-and-white detective movies, and his face was partly covered by his own raised collar. When he turned, Richard saw a prominent nose. It occurred to him that Lister’s companion was doing the same thing he was-trying to be inconspicuous. Interesting.