Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“The asshole prides himself on mopping up the gene pool… sure, go ahead, check out all that stuff.”

His tone was agreeable but bland. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe he was glad to keep the Israeli busy.

“The gene pool,” I said. “Have either of you read The Brain Drain ?”

They both shook their heads.

“Popular psychology, came out a few years ago. The basic premise was IQ means everything and stupid people- mostly dark-skinned people- are overbreeding, depleting our chromosomal resources. The book's answer was government control of fertility. The smart should be paid to procreate, those with low intelligence should be offered incentives to get sterilized. It was a minor best-seller, generated quite a bit of controversy.”

“I remember it,” said Milo, “some professor. You ever read it?”

“No,” I said. “But someone else might have.”

“Our boy uses pop psych for justification?”

“Everybody needs justification. Even sex crimes have a social context.”

“That makes sense,” said Sharavi. “Sex killers often go for prostitutes because prostitutes are at the bottom of the ladder and easier to dehumanize, right? From what I've seen, every killer needs to dehumanize his victim in some way: assassins, soldiers, sadists.”

“The social context,” said Milo. “He deals with his twisted little brain by convincing himself he's cleansing the world of defectives.”

His chin was resting in one hand and he kept it there, looking down at the hardwood floor.

“Death by Darwin,” he mumbled.

“It would also fit with the notion of someone who thinks he's superior,” I said. “He's operating out of some eugenic fantasy, so he doesn't carry out a sexual assault. And takes care to arrange the body with what he considers respect.”

“Only Irit's body,” he said. “Raymond was reduced to bloody shoes. I can buy the fact that the killer was just starting out, honing his craft. But what about Latvinia? She came after Irit and he strung her up, treated her rougher.”

“I don't know,” I said. “Something's off- maybe he's just jumping around to avoid an obvious pattern.”

No one talked for a while. Sharavi took a swallow from his third cup of coffee.

“DVLL,” he said. “That's the pattern he feels safe sharing.”

“Let's get back to the uniform angle,” said Milo. “In addition to it helping him snag victims, he could also like it because he's a man on a mission. Maybe someone with a military background or a military wanna-be.”

“If he served, he may very well have a dishonorable discharge,” I said.

Sharavi smiled weakly. “Uniforms can be valuable.”

“Being Israeli,” Milo asked him, “would Irit relate in a special way to someone in uniform?”

“Hard to say,” said Sharavi. “In Israel, we have a citizens' army, almost everyone goes in for three years and returns for reserve duty. So the country's full of uniforms, Israeli children see that as normal. Irit has actually lived outside of Israel for most of her life, but being around embassies and consulates she was accustomed to guards… it's possible. I don't really know much about her psychological makeup.”

“The Carmelis didn't fill you in?”

“They told me the usual. She was a wonderful child. Beautiful and innocent and wonderful.”

Silence.

Milo said, “We could also be talking cop wanna-bes- like that asshole Bianchi.” To Sharavi: “The Hillside Strangler.”

“Yes, I know. Bianchi applied to many departments, got turned down and became a security guard.”

“Which is a whole other angle,” said Milo. “No one screens security guards. You get ex-cons, psychos, all sorts of fools walking around looking official, some with guns.”

“You're right about that,” I said. “I had a case a few years ago, child-custody dispute. The father was a guard for a big industrial company out in the Valley. Turned out to be flagrantly psychotic- paranoid, hearing voices. The company had issued him pepper spray, handcuffs, a baton, and a semiautomatic.”

“Let's hear it for personnel screening… Okay, so what do we have so far: Joe Paramilitary with high-IQ fantasies and weird ideas about survival of the fittest, a sex drive that goes out of whack every so often, maybe photographic equipment. By taking pictures for later usage and arranging the bodies in a way that throws us off, he has his cake and…”

He cut himself off, gave a sick look, rubbed his face. Hard. Rosy patches appeared on the pale, scarred skin. His eyelids were heavy and his shoulders sloped.

“Anything else?”

Sharavi shook his head.

“What I can do,” I said, “is see if any eugenic-related murders come up in the psychiatric literature. Who knows, maybe DVLL will crop up there.”

Sharavi's fax machine began spitting paper. He collected a single sheet and showed it to us.

Paragraphs in Hebrew.

Milo said, “That sure clarifies it.”

“Headquarters wants my weekly time-log. Precise accounting of my time.”

“Been a bad boy?” said Milo.

“Tardy.” Sharavi smiled. “One needs to prioritize. Perhaps I should go to Disneyland, bring the chief superintendent back a Mickey Mouse hat.”

Crumpling the paper, he tossed it into the trash basket.

“Two points,” said Milo. “You have basketball in Israel?”

Sharavi nodded, managed to smile. He looked exhausted, too, eyes sinking even deeper.

“Basketball but no sex killers, huh? What, you pick and choose what you borrow from us?”

“I wish,” said Sharavi. “If only we were that smart.”

Milo got up. “I'll take those bugs out myself, if it's only the four you said.”

“Only those.”

“Then I can handle it.” He stared down at the smaller man. “You stay here and talk to Interpol, Nazi hunters, whatever.”

Once they were gone, Daniel locked the house, activated the alarm, and went to his bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the mattress.

He indulged himself in a few minutes of loneliness before pushing away thoughts of Laura and the children and assessing how it had gone.

Sturgis didn't trust him one bit, but still the situation was not bad, considering his own stupidity.

The psychologist. Those active eyes…

He'd had to notify Zev about being found out, but Zev had been decent about it. Bigger things on his mind. Since Irit's murder everyone said he was a different man.

Daniel understood the difference: craving only one thing.

What was the chance of delivering?

Listening in on Sturgis and Delaware had produced one good outcome: He'd learned that Sturgis was bright and focused, exactly the type of detective he enjoyed working with. He'd known a few guys like that. One with a brilliant future but he'd died horribly for no good reason…

Sturgis's history- his LAPD file full of complaints, striking out at the superior- had prepared Daniel for an outburst. But no fireworks tonight.

Delaware had remained very quiet, the eyes going constantly.

The quintessential psychologist. Though he had spoken up from time to time.

Asking about Daniel's accent, wanting to know about Daniel's family.

Like an intake at a therapy session. In the Rehab Center, after his first injuries, he'd spent time with psychologists and hated it less than he'd expected. Years later, on the job, he'd consulted them. On the Butcher case, Dr. Ben David had proved of some usefulness.

It had been a while since he'd been analyzed, though.

Those active, blue eyes, pale, appraising, yet not as cold as they might have been.

Sturgis's were green, almost unhealthily bright. What effect would they have on a suspect, so much intensity?