Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

"She's…" He stopped, not sure how to put it. "Hurting," he finally finished, deciding to leave it at that.

He got into the passenger seat, and Karen pulled out of the gas station. The silence in the car was nerve-racking. Lockwood looked over at Karen; her brow was furrowed and she was deep in thought.

"You're worried about Malavida?" Lockwood said, and she looked over. "I'm sorry about not going down there, it's just I know what would happen."

"It's okay," she said. "It just seemed like we owed him some support. Not that he'd even know we were there."

The silence brimmed around them. Lockwood speared it again.

"What happened between you two while I was gone?" he finally asked, and she turned her gaze quickly out the front window in a reflex action that Lockwood didn't need twenty years in police work to read. She focused her gaze on the flying night bugs lit by their headlights: specks of light that vectored and occasionally wiped out on the windshield.

"Whatta you mean, what happened?" she said, so softly he had to strain to hear it.

"Y'know, Karen, it's not a good idea to get romantically involved with people you're working a case with. Especially people like Malavida, who see life from a completely different angle."

"Why are we having this conversation?" she finally asked, still not looking at him.

"I have a distinct feeling that something changed while I was gone. I'm just telling you that we're up against a monster here. We can't have our personal feelings changing the perspective on our judgment."

"It sounded for a minute like you had something else you were trying to say." She now turned and looked at him.

He felt his heart beating in his throat; he shifted in his seat under her gaze. His face reddened slightly. "Whatta you mean?" he finally asked lamely.

"It sounded like you were staking out some sort of claim yourself, to use at a more convenient time."

Again they fell into an awkward silence. Lockwood felt himself choosing his words carefully. "I like you, Karen. I didn't think that was going to be the case when we first met in Washington, but you turned out to be a very pleasant surprise." He stopped because he was sure he was moving in the wrong direction. He didn't want to declare any intentions… He was too mixed up.

"But…" she prodded.

"But, my life is in turmoil. Claire is dead. And I'm responsible. I'm not dealing with that well. I have Heather to think about… and I want to catch this son of a bitch who killed her, or I won't be able to sleep."

"You're not saying anything that I don't already know."

"Malavida's not for you," he blurted. "I know guys like this, he's on the con. He sees people as targets, he'll work you like a mark to get what he wants."

"I see. And what do you want…?"

Lockwood fell silent. Finally, he looked over at her… "I'm not sure how good a friend I can be to you or anybody right now. I know I want to be, but-"

"You're right, John. Something happened between us, and I'm not sure right now how I feel about it. But Malavida is in the hospital, he may be dying. If he lives, he may never be the same, and I'm worried about him. I think you should be too. It bothers me that you aren't." Lockwood looked over at her; she was very beautiful in the reflected dash lights. He hated hearing her admit that she had started something up with Malavida. Was she right? Was he staking out some claim to pursue when the timing was more acceptable? He had come to the point where he didn't trust his ability to evaluate himself anymore. He had been doing things for all the wrong reasons lately.

"I can't trust Malavida because I know how he thinks," he started by saying. "I'm sorry we got him hurt, but I'll never be able to trust him. I know you probably think that's cold, but he and I come from the same place. He and I were both disenfranchised by the system and then incarcerated by it. I've been behind bars. I know how that changes you. He sees everything and everybody as a player. He calculates everything by how it affects him, or how he can use it. I know because it's still how I think. I'm not sure you should take a chance with either of us."

"You know what I like best about you?" she finally said. "You never try and lie to yourself or about yourself. You wound yourself with honesty. It's noble, but hard to witness."

Lockwood knew she was close. He had come to believe that in most people, their strongest link was directly hooked to their weakest link. He thought his strongest link had always been his ability to level frank appraisals. He cut himself no slack. It was also this quality that was now destroying him. "Why don't we get something to eat?" he finally said, desperate to change their conversation.

They stopped at an all-night fish house called The Blue Fin, at Miami Beach Marina. They got a table out on a deck that overlooked the water. A fleet of commercial and private fishing boats was slipped there. A light breeze swayed the boats' outriggers. Water lapped up against the concrete pilings under the deck. The waitress had a name tag that said she was Claudine. She wiped a shiny varnished table next to the rail before they sat down.

"Cocktail?" she asked.

"What's it gonna be, Lockwood?" Karen said. "Another Scotch with a beer back?"

"That was Washington. Up there in the spring I drink Scotch to forget my sinuses. I'm allergic to something blooming in that damn swamp. Down here I'll just have a Heineken in a bottle."

"Two," she said. And Claudine moved away on shapely legs.

Lockwood surveyed the fishing fleet. His brow furrowed while Karen looked at him. The residue of the conversation in the car was still on them, and they were both unsure about it, trying to put it behind them.

"John," she finally said, a bit too brightly, "I know if we get The Rat, we go a long way toward making things better. So let's get started." She pulled a yellow legal pad out of her purse.

He looked down at it, nodded without speaking, then reached over and turned the pad so he could read it. He glanced at the columns of behavioral traits she had listed, and then turned the pad back.

"A real psychotic?"

"Far from it," she said. "A psychotic is someone who's lost touch with reality. Psychotics are easy to catch. They don't usually have a plan. The Rat has a strong reality. He knows what he's doing. He's organized, methodical, and very smart."

"So what is he?" Lockwood asked.

"He's a psychopath," she replied. "Psychopaths are much more dangerous."

"I stand corrected," he sighed, "but you know what I meant."

"Right. Sorry. In my field of study I tend to be a little anal." She smiled. "I've been trying to predict his behavior," she continued, "because all of this is useless unless we can figure him out and get a step or two ahead of him."

"Right."

She paused as Claudine brought back the beers and waited while they glanced at the menu. Both of them ordered stone crab and key lime pie.

After Claudine had gone, Karen went on. "I think his post-offense behavior is very significant. I've been focusing on that. He does his mutilations after death. That probably means he's not a sexual sadist. He's not killing for sexual gratification. Even though he masturbates at the scene of the crime, it isn't, in my opinion, the main reason for the killings. I've been trying to categorize these murders. I think they belong under the general classification of personal cause homicides."

Lockwood's career in law enforcement had concentrated on drug and gun smuggling and money laundries. Psych murders were a category he had never focused on.

"They are acts resulting from interpersonal aggression," Karen explained. "The victim in a personal cause killing might not know the killer, and the homicide is not generally motivated by material gain or sex. Emotional conflict usually drives the act."