Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"I wondered about that, but of course he denied it. I also wondered if he'd fallen off his ladder and hurt his head, but there were no bruises or swellings anywhere on his body."

"Was he an alcoholic?"

"He wasn't a raving drunk but he did like his spirits."

"Could the visions have been alcohol poisoning?"

"It's a possibility."

"Bill, exactly how endemic is alcoholism on Aruk?"

He blinked and removed his glasses. "In the past it was a serious problem. We've worked hard at education."

"Who's we?"

"Ben and myself, which is why what's happened tonight is madness, Alex! You must help him!"

"What would you like me to do?"

"Speak to Dennis. Let him know Ben couldn't have done it, that he simply doesn't fit the profile of a psychopathic killer."

"Why would Dennis listen to me?"

"I don't know that he would, but we must try everything. Your training and experience will give you credibility. Dennis respects psychology, majored in it in junior college."

"What profile don't you think Ben fits?"

"The FBI's two forms of lust-killer: he's neither the disorganized, low-intellect spree-murderer nor the calculating, sadistic psychopath."

The FBI had earned a lot of TV time with patterns of serial killers obtained from interviews with psychopaths careless enough to get caught. But psychopaths lied for the fun of it, and profiles rarely if ever led to the discovery of a killer, occasionally confirming what police scut work and luck had already accomplished. Profiles had been responsible for some serious fallacies: Serial killers never murdered across race. Till they did. Women couldn't be serial killers. Till they were.

People weren't computer chips. People had the uncanny ability to surprise.

But even if I'd had more faith in the orderly nature of evil, Ben wouldn't have been easily acquitted.

Right after Lyman Picker's death, Robin and I had discussed the hardness of his personality, and I recalled the cold, impersonal way he'd jabbed needles into the arms of the schoolchildren.

Family history of alcoholism.

Rough childhood, probably abuse from the "ugly drunk" father.

A certain rigidity. Tight control.

Outwardly controlled men sometimes lost it when under the influence of booze or drugs. A high percentage of serial killers committed their crimes buoyed by intoxication.

"I'll talk to him," I said. "But I doubt it'll do any good."

"Talk to Ben, too. Try to make some sense of this. I'm shackled, son."

"If I'm to succeed with Dennis, I need to be impartial, not Ben's advocate."

He blinked some more. "Yes, that makes sense. Dennis is rational and honest. If he responds to anything it'll be the rational approach."

"Rational and honest," I said, "but you don't want him dating your daughter."

It had slipped out like loose change.

He recoiled. Sank heavily into the desk chair. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, resigned voice:

"So you despise me."

"No, Bill, but I can't say I understand you. The longer I stay here, the more inconsistent things seem."

He smiled feebly. "Do they?"

"Your love for the island and its people seems so strong. Yet you tongue-lash Pam for hanging around Dennis. Not that it's my business- you've devoted your life to Aruk and I'm just a visitor."

He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

"I know that this situation with Ben is terrible for you," I said, "but if I'm to stay here I need to know a few things."

Looking away, he said, "What else troubles you, son?"

"The fact that Aruk's so cut off from the outside world. That more of your energies haven't been spent opening it up. You say there's hope, but you don't act hopeful. I agree with you that TV's mostly garbage, but how can the people ever develop when their access to information is so limited? They can't even get mail on a regular basis. It's solitary confinement on a cultural level."

His hands started to shake again and spots of color made his cheeks shine.

"Forget it," I said.

"No, no, go on."

"Do you want to respond to what I just said?"

"The people have books. There's a library in the church."

"When's the last time new books came in?"

He used a fingernail to scrape something off the desktop. "What do you suggest?"

"More frequent shipping schedules. The leeward harbor's too narrow for big craft but couldn't the supply boats sail more often? And if the Navy won't allow planes to land on Stanton, why not build an airfield on the west side? If Amalfi won't cooperate, use some of your land."

"And how is all this to be financed?"

"Your personal finances are none of my business, either, but I've heard you're very wealthy."

"Who told you that?"

"Creedman."

His laugh was shrill. "Do you know what Creedman really does for a living?"

"He's not a journalist?"

"He's worked for a few minor papers, done some cable television work. But for the last several years he's written quarterly reports for corporations. His last client was Stasher-Layman. Have you heard of them?"

"No."

"Big construction outfit, based in Texas. Builders of government housing and other tax-financed projects. They put up ticky-tack boxes, sell the management contract for high profits, and walk away. Instant slum. Creedman's scribblings for them made them sound like saints. If I hadn't thrown the reports out, I'd show them to you."

"You researched him?"

"After we caught him snooping I thought it prudent."

"Okay," I said. "So he's a corporate hack. Is he wrong about your wealth?"

He pulled on a long, pale finger till it cracked. Righted his glasses. Brushed nonexistent dust from the desk.

"I won't tell you I'm poor, but family fortunes recede unless the heirs are talented in business. I'm not. Which means I'm in no position to build airports or lease entire fleets of boats. I'm doing all I can."

"Okay," I said. "Sorry for bringing it up, then."

"No apology necessary. You're a passionate young man. Passionate but focused. It's rare when the two go hand in hand: "I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and the life, whose fountains are within'- Coleridge said that. Another great thinker; even narcotics didn't still his genius… Your passion even comes through your scientific writing, son. That's why I asked you to join me."

"And here I thought it was my experience with police cases."

He sat back and let out another shrill laugh. "Passionate and observant. Yes, your experience with criminal behavior was a bonus because to me it means you have a strict sense of right and wrong. I admire your sense of justice."

"What does justice have to do with analyzing medical charts?"

"I was speaking in an abstract sense- doing things ethically."

"Are you sure that's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has the cannibal murder remained on your mind, Bill? Have you been more worried about recurrence than you let on? Because if that's it, you're going to be disappointed. I've gotten involved in a few bloody things, mostly because of my friendship with Milo Sturgis. But he's the detective, not me."

He took time to answer. Staring at his wife's watercolors. Twisting his fingers as if they were knitting needles.

"Worry's too strong a word, son. Let's just say the possibility of recurrence has remained in the back of my mind. AnneMarie's murder was my first real brush with this kind of thing, so I read up on it and learned that recurrence is the norm, not the exception. When I learned you had some experience with murder in addition to your scholarly achievements, I felt a great sense of… appropriateness."

"How similar is Betty's murder to AnneMarie Valdos's?"