Brian Haig - PrivateSector

However, Janet’s eyes never left his face, and, incidentally, his hand never left her arm. I found this annoying for some reason. The same guy who shoved a shiv in her back now shows up, all smiley and dimple-chinned, the white knight promising to slay the nasty old dragon. Give me a break-the only reason this jerk slapped on the kneepads and begged his bosses for this case was to wheedle his way back into Janet’s knickers. Surely she saw right through him. Right?

But there was this moment after Meany finished his FBI-knows-all tutorial where everybody just sat and pondered what he’d said. Or maybe, like me, they’d all tuned out so long that they needed a moment to restart their motors.

Janet finally said, “Thank you, George.”

Another moment passed before Janet suggested, “The theory was the L. A. Killer ejaculated. Either the torture or the act of killing got him off, right?”

Meany replied, “That’s what our profilers concluded. The victim abuse and killing were sexual fantasies for him. We believe he experienced orgasm at some point during the torture, then snapped their necks.” He added, “Roughly speaking, this case appears to follow the same model.”

“Then shouldn’t there be traces of his semen?”

“I know this is going to sound silly,” Meany informed her. “Our profilers hypothesize that our killer now wears a condom.”

Silly? I believe I mumbled, “Boy, it sounds so obvious now that you mention it.”

Meany stared at me-three demerits.

Janet faced Meany again. “And what about the increasing ferocity toward the victims?”

“Not uncommon,” he replied. “Success goes to their heads. We see it all the time. They start with certain inhibitions. The more they get away with, the more those inhibitions erode. Also, it gets harder to achieve sexual arousal. They push the envelope and experiment more.”

Janet appeared to ponder this point, then said, “And you think that accounts for it?”

“There’s a second theory we’re wrestling with. He may see this as a competition… a game. The women are pieces on the board. The provocative postures of the victims, the calls to the networks, the splashed semen as a calling card, the whole process of physical escalation could mean he sees this as a match. He makes the rules, maybe even alters the rules, and we have to play.”

Spinelli, I noticed, was hunched over, staring at the floor, feet tapping, a sort of sardonic expression pasted on his face. And it struck me that he and I, we had a few things in common. We both thought George Meany was an asshole. Also, this prolonged discussion about sperm and DNA made for great cocktail conversation-or possibly not-but nothing more. Debates about the queer habits of this ghoul weren’t going to catch him. Maybe it made everybody feel better, but it was a substitute for actually dropping this guy. The score was Killer 4, Cops 0; they’ve got no tangible evidence to tie him to the crimes, no idea who he is or how they’re going to catch him, and everybody’s trying to figure out whether he slaps a poolie over his pudley.

Eventually, even they drew the conclusion that the subject had been exhausted, and after a few more closing comments, special thanks from Martin for coming in, and so forth, the group began to break up. Hands were shaken, fond adieus were exchanged, and then Meany escorted Janet and me back through the warren of detective desks and out to the parking lot.

In fact, we were at my car when Meany said to me, “Excuse us, Drummond. Janet and I need to talk about a few things. In private.”

He then led Janet about thirty feet away. They squared off, about five feet apart, and faced each other. I had no intention of eavesdropping, because it was absolutely none of my business. I believe respect for others’ privacy is next to Godliness. However, the hearing in my left ear happens to be better than my right, and if I kept my head twisted just so, snatches of the conversation did inadvertently drift into my aural cavity.

For instance, Meany, in a whiny tone, complaining, “… and you just disappeared out of my life, walked out… without giving me any chance to explain.”

And Janet replying, “What did you expect, George? You shouldn’t have gone to my boss on me. You betrayed me.”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. My supervisors in D. C. made that call. I swear that’s-”

Well, the wind suddenly whipped up and there was a long exchange I couldn’t catch. But I have a good eye for body language. And Meany was bending toward her, appearing earnest, that scrunched-up forehead pickled with sincerity, his hands roving all over her arms and shoulders. Also, Meany was one of those guys who closes the airspace, and the gap had narrowed from five feet to a few inches.

Then the wind died down and I overheard Meany say to her, “… and I still love you.”

And Janet reply to him, “Well… I, uh, I’m confused about my feelings toward you.”

I mean, please. Wake up, Janet. The guy was lying. From fifty feet away I could tell that-his lips were moving.

Anyway, the wind whipped up again, and they chatted for another few minutes, and you could tell it was getting pretty cordial before they finally concluded the discussion and headed back in my direction. I wouldn’t say they were lovey-dovey or anything. But from their expressions and the relaxed, amiable way they moved, George had really twisted her ear and was back in some form of good graces.

In fact, Meany had his arm over Janet’s shoulder and was whispering something.

Geez, somebody had to do something, so I interrupted and said, “Hey, George, you mentioned you were sure you’d catch this guy. How?”

As I mentioned previously, cops hate it when you try to pin them down. Plus, somebody needed to bring Janet back to her senses and show her this guy was full of shit.

In fact, Special Agent Meany appeared not to appreciate my inquiry, because his eyes sort of narrowed as he said, “Good detective work, great technology, and brainpower.” He added, “Why? What business is it of yours?”

“Well, you know… curiosity.”

“Great. I love curious witnesses. I’ve got seventy-five agents working around the clock, the media, public relations people, and my bosses jumping all over my ass, and I’ve got all the time in the world to answer questions from some clown like you.”

Well, goodness. Janet gave George an odd look and said, “It was a perfectly fair question.”

He shot me a curt glance and replied to her, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t gotten much sleep since I took over this investigation. I guess I’m a little irritable.” He then leaned against the side of my car and said to me, “All right. You asked, so I’ll fill you in on what I’ve discovered. I’ve reconstructed the murder sites and reviewed every element of the evidence and crime reports. You should always do that, right?”

“Right.”

“Because sometimes… well, sometimes you pick up things others missed. Not that they’re incompetent, but in the heat of battle, as you people call it, certain details can slip through the cracks.”

I didn’t want another long tutorial from this jerk, and I said, “Well, this is very interesting, but-”

“And,” he continued, “with a second look you pick up some of those things. Here’s an example. Lieutenant Martin’s log says that on the night of Lisa’s murder you arrived at the Pentagon parking lot at 9:27 P.M. Martin’s people estimate she was murdered about thirty minutes prior. You told Martin you were supposed to meet her in that parking lot. You see the problem?”

I was starting to explain what the problem was when he added, with a nasty smirk, “Of course, I’m not blaming you, but I did wonder why Lisa was standing around in a big empty parking lot, late at night, vulnerable to this monster. She was well-known for being cautious, efficient, and punctual. Then I put two and two together. And, this is just a guess… but I concluded that her date didn’t have the courtesy to be on time.” He added, “In fact, had you been on time, it wouldn’t have happened.”