John Lutz - Night kills

Quinn was within walking distance of the place but would sometimes drive his old Lincoln, and Renz had gotten them an unmarked city Chevy.

They had a home. They had wheels. It was an efficient setup.

Quinn and Fedderman sat in the identical wood swivel chairs behind their identical gray steel desks, while Pearl perched on her desk's front edge. Renz had pulled her desk chair out and was seated on it. So there was a chair for the profiler when she arrived, as long as Pearl was content without one. Quinn made a mental note to scare up another extra chair. He'd have asked Pearl to do it, but she'd let him know she'd done enough, donating the coffeemaker.

There was a knock on the door. Then it opened and the profiler, Helen Iman, cautiously stuck her head in. "Morning, all," she said, smiling as she entered all the way. She was a very tall woman with a bony but not unattractive face and carelessly styled red hair, as if she cut it herself with dull scissors. Seeing her, Quinn thought, as he often did, that with her long, muscular frame, she'd make a hell of a basketball or volleyball player. But Helen wasn't into sports. She was into killers. A few years ago she'd quit the NYPD to go into private practice as a corporate psychologist in New Jersey, but she'd soon returned. For her it was no contest between the corporate and the criminal mind. They weren't exactly the same, and the criminal mind was so much more interesting.

Renz had requested her presence here so Quinn and his team could hear what she had to say.

Pearl offered her coffee, but she declined and sat in the uncomfortable extra chair. It was stained oak with a straight back and had a sturdy but crude look about it, as if it might have been made by one of those religious sects that thrived on discomfort. She was wearing a green business suit and white blouse with a man's green and black tie. She placed the large brown purse she was carrying on the floor so it leaned against a chair leg.

"Did you read the material I gave you?" Renz asked her.

Helen nodded. "It wasn't very enlightening."

Renz looked disappointed.

Helen calmly gave each of them a look, her eyes lingering on Pearl. "There really isn't much to surmise, since we know nothing about the victims."

"I need something to feed the media," Renz said. "Something for my people"-he nodded toward Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman-"in case they get cornered by some smart-ass journalist."

Helen crossed her long legs. It was quite a show. "I understand, and I can give you the usual, even though I'm sure you already know most of it. Our killer's probably between twenty and forty and had a horrible childhood during which he developed a hatred for women. He might be married-"

"Married?" Renz interrupted.

"I said might. And he probably has a history of sadistic behavior."

"The thing with the sharpened stake," Quinn said.

Helen nodded. "Not to mention the dismemberment. Usually people don't unaccountably start doing such things all at once." She reached into the big purse and pulled out a buff file folder, took a few moments to check its contents. "The insertion of the stake occurred after death. That's interesting. Necrophilia with a substitute penis."

"You think?" Pearl asked, glancing at Fedderman.

"Looks that way," Helen said. "The dismemberments were neatly done, but apparently not by someone with a medical background. He might have practiced on animals. Possibly on family pets."

"Jesus!" Fedderman said. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth. "Will I never get used to these assholes?"

Helen smiled at him. "It's good that you don't." She sat back as best she could in the rigid chair.

"That's all you can give us?" Renz asked.

"I'm afraid so, at this point. It would be good to have entire bodies, maybe a witness or two. Oh, there is one other thing. He wants you to know both women were killed by him-that's why he used the same gun."

"And the stake?"

"I don't know about the stake. Especially after death. Some of this doesn't yet add up. There's something especially creepy about this killer."

"They're all sickos," Pearl said.

"That's not the medical term I'd use, but it's fairly accurate," Helen said. "This guy, though-and we all know the killer's almost certainly a guy-promises to be particularly interesting. His mental processes might be unfathomable, even after he's caught and studied. For instance, he hides the torsos, but not so well that he doesn't want them found."

"Trophies," Fedderman said.

"No. More like his calling card. But trophies aren't uncommon. Maybe he's keeping the heads as his trophies."

Pearl took a noisy gulp of her coffee, burning her tongue.

"This guy" Helen crossed her legs tighter-"one thing's for sure about him, he's a very special case."

Tonight he'd just arrived home after a weekend of doing business in London. Whenever Shellie asked David about his business, she got the same vague answers, but she was less and less concerned. She was convinced now that David was a good man. Whatever he was involved in was sure to be benign and legal. He was simply one of those men who wanted a firewall between home life and business. Between love and the real and ugly world outside of love. Shellie understood that. She felt the same way herself.

Her wardrobe had grown and improved since she had moved in with David. She had on the navy blue dress she knew he liked, bone high-heeled pumps, a double strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair was artfully mussed, the way he liked it. The top button of her dress was undone to reveal a glimpse of cleavage, the way he liked it. Later they would make love, the way he liked it. She was the way he liked her, and she was happy. She was sure David was happy, too. They each had an interest in the other's happiness. It had kind of surprised Shellie, the way she'd come to feel. Nothing in life pleased her more than pleasing David.

"Italian tonight?" he asked. Her favorite dishes were Italian. "I thought maybe Randisi's."

Randisi's was a five-star restaurant on the East Side. Some thought it was the best Italian restaurant in the city.

"Sounds wonderful."

He smiled. "Good. I made a reservation."

At the restaurant Shellie heard David tell the maitre d' there was an eight o'clock reservation for Clyde. Shellie smiled. David always used the name Mr. Clyde when he made reservations, or simply the first name Clyde when asked to leave a name on a waiting list. It wasn't a bad name, but it certainly didn't fit his handsome, assured, and debonair presence. She looked at him, so well tailored in a dark blue suit, white-on-white shirt, gray silk tie. Not your usual Clyde. She felt a swell of pride. Her David.

"Mr. and Mrs. Clyde" were almost immediately shown to a good table near a wide window with a view of the East River.

They had martinis, then ordered antipasto and cannelloni. David asked for a good red wine. "To celebrate," he said.

"What are we celebrating?" Shellie asked.

"My arrival home."

"You've only been gone a weekend."

"It's always a cause for celebration when I return to you."

"Am I not worth champagne?"

He grinned. "Shellie, Shellie. You must know you have me in your spell." He leaned over the table, looking serious. "Do you want champagne?"

She shook her head no, feeling ashamed. "No, darling. I was only testing you."

"Do I pass?"

"A-plus," she said. They were talking like two people in a sophisticated play, she thought. This amused her and made her feel slightly silly simultaneously. The swank surroundings must be affecting them. Role playing again. Well, so what? That was all everyone actually did, when you came right down to it. She didn't see what was wrong with that when she could see so much of what was right with it.