Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

The free hand shot through his thinning hair.

“So you're saying you never encounter-”

“I'm saying there's nothing controversial or dangerous about my work, Mr. Sturgis. I'm saying what happened to my daughter had nothing to do with my work or my wife's work or our family and I don't understand why the police simply can't accept that.”

His voice had risen but remained soft. He leaned his head to the right as if loosening a neck kink. The black eyes were unflinching. He smoked some more, hungrily.

“Then again,” he said, “I've dealt with your department in the course of my duties.”

“Oh?”

Instead of elaborating, Carmeli smoked aggressively.

“Sometimes,” said Milo, “we have to be annoying to do our job properly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I'm afraid. Asking the same questions over and over.”

“Ask whatever you please but if you persist in emphasizing my work the answer will be the same: I'm a bureaucrat. No exploding pens.”

“Still, sir. Being Israeli, you have enemies-”

“Two hundred million of them. Though we're now on the road to peace, right?” Now, Carmeli smiled.

“Then how can you be sure this wasn't political? Despite your duties, you're a representative of the Israeli government.”

Carmeli didn't answer for several moments. Looking at his shoes, he rubbed the toe of the left one. “Political crimes are based upon hatred and the Arabs hate us. And there are thousands of Arabs in this city, some of them with strong political views. But the goal of even the most violent terrorist is to send a message in a way that will attract attention. Not one dead child, Mr. Sturgis. A busload of children. Copious amounts of blood, disarticulated limbs, TV cameras recording every agonized cry. Bombs that make noise, Mr. Sturgis. Literally and figuratively. Several years ago when the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank discovered that throwing rocks at our soldiers made them international heroes they began phoning the wire services to give journalists advance notice of impending riots. Once the film crews showed up…” He clapped his hands and ash scattered, landing on the table, his trousers, the floor.

“Your predecessors, Detective, informed me that the… crime was unusual in its lack of violence. Do you agree with that?”

Milo nodded.

Carmeli said, “That alone convinces me there was nothing political about it.”

“That alone?” said Milo. “Is there something else that convinces you?”

“Interpreting my phrasing, Mr. Sturgis? I thought he was the psychologist- speaking of which, have you developed any theories, yet, Doctor?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are we dealing with a madman?”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded.

“Outwardly,” I said, “the killer probably looks quite sane.”

“And internally?”

“He's a mess. But clinically he's not mad, Mr. Carmeli. More likely he's what we call a psychopath- someone with a serious character disorder. Self-centered, lacking normal emotional responses, no empathy, an incomplete conscience.”

“Incomplete? He has a conscience?”

“He knows right from wrong but chooses to ignore the rules when it suits him.”

He rubbed his shoe again and sat up. The black eyes narrowed. “You're describing evil- and you're telling me he could be any man on the street?”

I nodded.

“Why does he kill, Doctor? What's in it for him?”

“Relief of tension,” I said.

He flinched. Smoked. “Everyone experiences tension.”

“His tension may be especially strong and his wiring's off. But these are just guesses, Mr. Carmeli. No one really understands what leads-”

“What causes this supposed tension ?”

A sexual warp, but I didn't say that. “Possibly a gap between who he thinks he is and the way he lives. He may pride himself on being brilliant, believe he's entitled to fame and fortune. But he's probably an underachiever.”

“You're saying he kills to feel competent ?”

“It's possible, Mr. Carmeli. But-”

“Killing a child makes him feel competent ?”

“Killing makes him feel powerful. As does eluding capture.”

“But why a child ?”

“At root, he's a coward, so he preys upon the weak.”

His head snapped back, as if struck. The cigarette shook and he jammed it into his mouth. Smoking, he played with a cuff button, stared at me again. “As you said, these are guesses.”

“Yes.”

“But if there's any truth to them, the killing won't stop, will it? Because his tension won't simply disappear.”

“It's possible.”

“Also,” said Carmeli, “he may have murdered before.” He turned to Milo. “If that's so, why haven't the police discovered similar crimes?”

His voice had risen and the words tumbled out. Snubbing out the second cigarette, he used his index finger to shape the ashes on the table into a thin gray line.

Milo said, “This may be a beginning, sir. A first crime.”

“The killer began with my Irit?”

“It's possible.”

“Why?” said Carmeli, suddenly plaintive. “Why Irit ?”

“We don't know yet, sir. That's one of the reasons I'm here to-”

“How extensively have you looked for other murders, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Very extensively, but we're still in the process-”

“The process, the process- your predecessors said there's no central crime computer in California. I was incredulous so I checked. And verified it.” Carmeli shook his head. “Absurd. Your department claims to be… Israel has a population of five million and our crime situation is much less severe than yours and we centralize our files. Excepting political incidents, we experience fewer than a hundred murders per year. That's comparable to a busy weekend in Los Angeles, right?”

Milo smiled. “Not quite.”

“A bad month, then. According to the mayor's office, Los Angeles had one thousand and four murders last year. Other American cities are even worse. Thousands and thousands of murders in this vast country. Without centralized files how can you hope to access information?”

“It's tough, sir. We do have some central-”

“I know, I know, the FBI,” said Carmeli. “NCIC, various state logs, I know. But reporting procedures are slipshod and inconsistent and there's tremendous variation from city to city.”

Milo didn't answer.

“It's chaos, isn't it, Detective? You really don't know if similar crimes have occurred and you're unlikely to ever know.”

“One thing that might help in that regard, sir, would be publicizing the crime. I understand your reluctance but-”

“Again,” said Carmeli, clenching his jaws. “Back to me. Us. What could you possibly expect to gain by publicizing the crime other than subjecting my family to more pain and possibly endangering the children of my colleagues?”

“Endangering them how, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Either by inspiring the murderer to kill another Israeli child or giving someone else ideas- go after the Zionists. At that point, we would be feeding terrorist fantasies.” He shook his head again. “No, there's no point, Mr. Sturgis. Besides, if this killer has struck before, it's been somewhere other than Los Angeles, right?”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Because surely, even with your slipshod procedures, you would have heard about it, no? Surely child murders aren't that routine, even in Los Angeles.”

“No murders are routine to me, sir.”

“So you'd know if there were others, wouldn't you?”

“Assuming the crime was reported.”

Carmeli squinted in confusion. “Why wouldn't it be?”