Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

As he chattered, she drove back to her place. Initially, she’d figured on a restaurant meeting, then decided they needed total privacy. Bringing Isaac home was something she’d have considered out of the question an hour ago. Now things were different. Forget all the personal stuff; this was the job.

She finished the booklet. “Where’s the list?”

Isaac pulled a folded slip of paper from the case. Computer printout from Klara’s workstation.

Teller, T.W.J.

The Sins of the Mad Artist

Subjs: crime, U.S. history, Retzak, O.

Graham Coll. Catal. # 4211-3

Below that, a list of everyone who’d requested a peek at the booklet.

Short list.

September 4, 1978: Professor A. R. Ritchey, Pitzer College

May 15, 1997. K. Doebbler, using an alumnus library card

Kurt Doebbler had imbibed these horrors one month and thirteen days before murdering his wife.

Seeking inspiration? Or had the bastard come across the booklet by chance and decided to emulate Otto Retzak?

She asked Isaac what he thought.

He said, “My guess would be he already knew about Retzak. He could even have read the book somewhere else and wanted to refresh his memory.”

“Where else could Doebbler have gotten hold of something this obscure?”

“It’s esoteric but not really that obscure. Once I had Retzak’s name as a keyword, I went back on the Internet. He’s been discussed in a few true-crime chat rooms and the booklet’s in the holdings of at least twenty campus libraries. Also, soon after it was published initially, it was translated into French, Italian, and German. Doebbler lived in Germany as an adolescent.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “He could’ve stumbled across it, gotten stimulated, decided to take a second look.” She got up and paced her small living room. Isaac watched her, then stopped abruptly and stared at the carpet.

She noticed, became aware of his maleness. Her clothing. Baggy chocolate sweater over black leggings. Skintight leggings. Revealing more thigh than she would’ve liked, but no one could accuse her of being seductive.

She caught Isaac’s eye. He just sat there, looking like an abashed schoolboy.

She said, “Okay, let’s lay it out: Marta cheated on Kurt, he found out, built up some serious anger. He’d always been a cold, controlled man, but now his control was slipping. He stewed, started to obsess, remembered the Retzak book from his impressionable teen years. Or, he was a true-crime buff, lots of serials are- any clues from those chat rooms?”

“I skimmed them searching for some indication Doebbler was chatting. If he was, I didn’t catch it.”

“Let’s pull them up, see if there’s something traceable.”

He shook his head. “Chats can’t be traced because they occur in real time, aren’t stored on the hard drive. I double-checked with a guy I know who’s a real computer wizard and he confirmed it.”

“Damn,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Okay, back on track… one way or the other Doebbler read about Retzak and Retzak’s first murder stuck in his head: a common-law wife who ticked the guy off. Suddenly, Doebbler finds himself to be a ticked-off husband and Retzak’s adventures take on a whole new meaning. That turned killing Marta into more than revenge. He was reliving history, assuming the persona of a big-time monster…” She shook her head. “Doebbler wanted to be Otto the Second, so seven innocent people died. It’s beyond twisted but it makes sense… feels right.”

“Victims with no apparent link gave him confidence,” said Isaac. “Why would he even imagine getting caught?”

Petra smiled. “He wasn’t figuring on you.”

“I was lucky.” Eyes back to the floor. Blushing. Cute, when he did that. She wished she could find him a genius girlfriend.

Seven innocent people.

She sat back down and reread the booklet. Despite Superintendent Teller’s delicacy in dancing around the details, Maria Giacometti’s murder was stomach-churning.

Retzak had been found sitting under a California oak, not far from the Elysian Park sanitarium, with the young woman’s entrails around his neck. Peaceful expression on his face, knees crossed, like some homicidal yogi. Humming softly, seemingly entranced.

A hobo crossing the park spotted the horror and ran terrified to the nearest police officer. No big detective work necessary; Retzak had left a blood trail snaking from the playground kill-spot to his tree.

“Sounds like he lost it,” said Petra.

“Thank God,” said Isaac. “Can you imagine the next one?”

She put the booklet aside. Her head felt swollen and her heart raced.

“Seven for Mr. Retzak. Six, so far, for Mr. Doebbler,” she said. “And we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”

She fixed coffee for both of them, gave the booklet’s final chapter yet another scan. Otto Retzak’s final days; his arrest, trial, and execution had taken all of three weeks. The good old days.

Retzak had gone defiantly to the gallows. Proclaiming his hatred for God, humanity, and “all that you brainless sheep deem sacred. Give me a chance to leave this room and I’ll brain every one of you, chew on your guts, have myself a blood and gelatin party.”

Petra said, “I wonder how many Italian-American pediatric nurses are out there.”

“If Doebbler’s really a stickler,” said Isaac, “we should be looking at an Italian-American pediatric nurse who takes care of respiratory patients.”

“That would narrow it down. Not that it matters. Prevention’s worth a whole lot of cure. We’re going to be surveilling Doebbler starting tomorrow morning. He’s not going to get close to number seven.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He’d scooted forward on the couch. All eagerness, misinterpreting “we.”

Uh-oh.

She said, “By ‘we,’ I meant police officers. I can’t afford to involve you in this, Isaac.”

His face fell. He tried to recover with a confident nod. “Oh. Sure, I can see that. No active involvement, I’ll just ride along and observe. In case you need a free set of hands or there’s some function I can fill.”

She shook her head. “Sorry. You’re absolutely the hero of this story, without you nothing would’ve happened. But having civilians along on high-risk operations is a big-time no-no. Especially now. I’m in enough trouble, can’t afford more.”

“It’s beyond absurd,” he said, with sudden adamance. “Your suspension, I mean. Selden slaughters all those kids and the department’s worried about picayune procedure.”

“The department is a paramilitary organization. I obey, therefore I am.” Putting on the calm, wise mentor persona while her mind raced: Who did I mean by “we”?

It would have to be her and Eric. Sorry Reverend Bob and Mary, right now I need your son more than you do.

Eric would be a major asset. He was great on surveillance, had the patience, the low resting heart rate. But a two-person surveillance was bare-bones, fine for a low-stakes, stationary watch. What if Doebbler’s house provided some kind of rear escape? Or the bastard took a complicated route and they got snarled in heavy traffic?

Losing him was out of the question. No way, it just couldn’t happen.

Three would be a whole lot better than two. Three pros…

She glanced over at Isaac. Crestfallen and trying to hide it. Could she risk it? No way. Especially not with Gang Control surveilling him.

Maybe she should break that wide open.

No, not a good idea.

Why not ?

She said, “So, how’s Flaco Jaramillo?”

He turned white. Nearly fell off the couch.

Several moments passed. “Why do you ask?”