Michael Connelly - The Poet

With directions from Matuzak we started walking toward a mall called Arizona Center. It was a beautiful day and the walk was a nice break from the intensity of recent days. Rachel and I talked about Phoenix-it was her first visit, too-and eventually I steered the conversation back to my last question to Backus.

"He was lying, so was Thompson."

"You mean about the oral swabs."

"Right."

"I think Bob just doesn't want you to know more than you need to. I'm not talking about as a reporter. I mean, as a brother."

"If there is something new, I want to know it. The deal was I'd be on the inside. Not on the inside sometimes and then on the outside-like with this hypnosis crap-other times."

She stopped and turned to me.

"I will tell you, if you want to know, Jack. If it's what we think and all the killings follow a pattern, then it's not going to be very pleasant for you to dwell on."

I looked in the direction we were headed. The mall was in sight. A sandstone-colored edifice with welcoming open-air walkways.

"Tell me," I said.

"Nothing is for sure until the swab is analyzed. But it sounds like the substance Grayson described was something we've seen before. You see, some repeat offenders are smart. They know about leaving evidence behind. Evidence like semen. So they use condoms. But if it's a lubricated condom the lubricant can be left behind. Detected. Sometimes it's accidental… and sometimes they want us to know what they did."

I looked at her and almost released an audible groan.

"You're saying the Poet… had sex with him?"

"Possibly. But to be frank, we've suspected it from the start. Serial killers… Jack, it's almost always about sexual gratification. It's about power and control and these are components of sexual gratification."

"There wouldn't have been time."

"What do you mean?"

"With my brother. The ranger was right there. There couldn't have…" I stopped, realizing that there only wasn't time afterward. "Jesus… Oh, man."

"That was what Bob had hoped not to have to tell you."

I turned away and looked up at the blue sky. The only imperfection was the slash of the twin contrails of a jet long out of the picture.

"I don't get it. Why is this guy doing this?"

"We may never know that, Jack." She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "These people that we hunt… sometimes there is no explanation. That's the very hardest part, coming up with the motivation, understanding what drives them to do what they do. We have a saying for it. We say these people are from the moon. Sometimes it is the only way to describe it when we don't have the answers. Trying to figure these people out is like putting a shattered mirror back together. There is no way to explain the behavior of some humans, so we simply say they are not humans. We say they are from the moon. And on the particular moon where the Poet comes from, these instincts that he is following are normal and natural. He is following those instincts, creating scenes that give him satisfaction. It's our job to chart the Poet's moon and then we'll be better able to find him and send him back."

All I could do was take it all in and nod. There was no comfort in her words. All I knew was that, if given the chance, I wanted to send the Poet back to the moon. I wanted to do it myself.

"C'mon," she said. "Try to forget about that for now. Let's go get you some new things. We can't have those reporters thinking you're one of us anymore."

She smiled and I returned it weakly and let her push me toward the mall.

We met back in the conference room of the field office at six-thirty. Backus was there, trying to work out the logistics with the phone, along with Thompson, Matuzak, Mize and three agents I hadn't been introduced to. I put my shopping bag under the conference table. It contained two new shirts, a pair of pants and a package of underwear and socks. I immediately wished I had changed into one of the new shirts because the introduced agents studied me and my FBI shirt with grim looks that suggested I had committed some kind of sacrilege by trying to impersonate an agent. Backus told whoever he was talking with to call him back when it was set up and then hung up.

"Okay," he said. "We start the full meeting as soon as they have the phones set up. Meantime, let's talk about Phoenix. Beginning tomorrow I want to start a ground-zero investigation of both the detective and the boy. Both cases, from the top. What I'd like-Oh, I'm sorry. Rachel, Jack, this is Vince Pool, SAC Phoenix. He's going to give us whatever we need."

Pool, who looked like he had twenty-five years on the job, the most of anyone in the room, nodded at us and said nothing. Backus didn't bother to introduce the other men.

"We have the meeting with the locals tomorrow at oh nine hundred," Backus said.

"I think we'll be able to brush them aside gently," Pool said.

"Well, we don't want any animosity. These are the fellows who knew Orsulak the best. They'll be good sources. I think we have to bring them into this but remain firmly in control."

"No problem."

"This one may be our best chance. It's fresh. We've got to hope the offender made a mistake and between these two deaths, the boy and the detective, we can find it. I'd like to see-"

The phone on the table buzzed and Backus picked up the receiver and said hello.

"Hold on."

He pushed a button on the phone and hung up the receiver.

"Brass, you there?"

"Here, boss."

"Okay, let's run down the list, see who've we got."

Agents from six cities announced their presence on the speaker.

"Okay, good. I want this to be as informal as possible. Why don't we go round-robin to see what people have. Brass, I'd like to finish up with you. So Florida. Is that you, Ted?"

"Uh, yes sir, with Steve, here. We are just getting our feet wet on this and hope to have more by tomorrow. But there are some anomalies here that we think are already worth noting."

"Go ahead."

"Uh, this is the first, or believed to be the first, of the Poet's stops. Clifford Beltran. The second incident-in Baltimore-did not take place until nearly ten months later. That is the longest interval we have as well. This leads us to possibly question the randomness of this first kill."

"You think the Poet knew Beltran?" Rachel asked.

"It's possible. At the moment, though, it's just a hunch we are working. There are a few other things that when thrown into the stew are worth taking a look at in support, however. First, this is the only one with a shotgun. We checked the autopsy file today and they aren't pretty pictures. Total obliteration with both barrels. We all know the symbolic pathology of that."

"Overkill," Backus said. "Suggesting knowledge or acquaintance of the victim."

"Right. Next we have the weapon itself. According to reports, it was an old Smith and Wesson that Beltran kept in a closet, on a top shelf out of sight. This information is attributed in the reports to his sister. Beltran had never married and lived in the house he grew up in. We haven't talked to the sister ourselves. The point is, if this was a suicide, yeah, fine, he went to the closet and got out the shotgun. But now we come along and say this was no suicide."

"How did the Poet know the shotgun was up there on the shelf?" Rachel said.

"Riiiiiight… How did he know?"

"Good one, Ted, Steve," Backus said. "I like it. What else?"

"The last thing is kind of sticky. Is the reporter there?"

Everyone in the room looked at me.

"Yes," Backus said. "But we are still off the record. You can say what you were going to say. Right, Jack?"

I nodded and then realized they wouldn't see this in all the other cities.

"That's right," I said. "We're off the record."