Kay Hooper - Sense Of Evil

“What’s wrong with me?” she murmured.

There was no answer, except for the feeling she had of something crouching in the darkness. Watching.

Waiting.

When Rafe walked into the conference room just before four that afternoon, he wasn’t especially happy to find Alan Moore there with Isabel.

“Hollis and Mallory are out running down a couple of leads,” she told him, without going into detail. She seemed none the worse for what had happened in Jamie Brower’s secret playroom, though something about her eyes told him she was still suffering a pounding headache.

Rafe nodded without commenting on either her info or his own hunch, and said to Alan, “Please tell me you have a reason other than idle curiosity for being here.”

“My curiosity is never idle.”

“I should have warned you about him, Isabel. You can only believe about half of what he says. On a good day.”

“See, this is what happens when you grow up with a guy who becomes a cop,” Alan said. “He turns into a suspicious bastard right before your eyes.”

“Not without reason,” Rafe retorted. “You’ve been a pain in my ass since I was appointed.”

“I’ve been doing my job.”

Isabel intervened before they could begin rehashing past offenses, saying, “Alan received something a bit unexpected in yesterday’s mail.”

Rafe stared at Alan. “And you’re just now bringing it in?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Alan, one of these days you’re going to go too far. Consider this a warning.”

Despite the calm tone, Alan was perfectly aware that his boyhood friend was deadly serious. He nodded, not really having to fake the sheepish expression. “Noted.”

Without commenting on the byplay between the men, Isabel handed Rafe a single sheet of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag. “I’ve already checked it. No prints, except his.”

The note, block-printed yet virtually scrawled in a bold, dark hand on the unlined paper, was brief.

MR. MOORE, THE COPS HAVE GOT IT

ALL WRONG. HE ISN’T KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE BLONDES.

HE’S KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT

“Not blondes?” Rafe said, looking at Isabel.

“Yeah, but they were,” she said. “At least, Jamie and Tricia were natural blondes; Allison Carroll used hair color.”

“But she-” He stopped himself.

Isabel finished the comment for him. “She matched top and bottom. But the lab results are in, and they say she used hair color. It’s not all that uncommon for a woman to dye her pubic hair, especially when the change is so drastic and she’s at a stage in her life when looking good naked is a major goal. In any case, Allison’s natural hair color was very dark.”

Rafe met Alan’s interested gaze, and said, “This is off the record, you realize that?”

“Yeah, Isabel’s already warned me. Giant red federal warning, accompanied by flags, stamps, sealing wax, oaths of secrecy, and appropriate threats of being transported to Area 51 and turned into a lab rat.”

Isabel smiled but said nothing.

“Just as a point of interest,” Alan commented, “Cheryl Bayne is a brunette.”

“Cheryl Bayne,” Isabel said, “is missing. As are others on an unfortunately lengthy list. We don’t know that anything has happened to any of them.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” she agreed.

Alan eyed her, then continued, “Anyway, when all is said and done and you’ve got the guy, I reserve the right to inform the public that I was contacted by the killer.”

“Were you?” Isabel murmured.

“Third person,” Rafe noted, studying the note. “ He isn’t killing them because they’re blondes. This could have been written by someone who knows the killer. Knows what he’s doing.”

“Or maybe,” Alan offered, “he’s schizophrenic and believes it’s not really him killing these women.”

“You just want this to be the killer,” Rafe said in an absent tone.

“Well, yes. This story could be my Watergate.”

Isabel pursed her lips. “No. Your Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. Not your Watergate.”

“It could make my career,” Alan insisted.

“Yeah?” Isabel was politely interested. “And do you happen to remember the name of the journalist who was supposedly contacted by Jack the Ripper?”

Alan scowled. “Shatter a man’s dreams, why don’t you?”

“Do you remember?”

“It was over a hundred years ago.”

“And the most famous serial killer of modern times. Countless books have been written about him. Movies made about him. Theories as to his identity endlessly debated. And yet the name of that journalist doesn’t exactly spring readily to the tongue, does it?”

“Do you know it?” Alan challenged.

“Of course. But then, I specialize in serial killers. More or less. Everybody in the business has studied the Ripper case. It’s practically Murder 101 in Behavioral Science at Quantico. Everybody wants to be the one to solve it.”

“Including you?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll ever be definitively solved. And I don’t believe it should be. Some things should remain mysteries.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yes, I do. We should never, ever believe life-or history-holds no surprises for us. That way lies arrogance. And arrogance can blind us to the truth.”

“Which truth?”

“Any truth. All truth.” Her voice was solemn.

Alan sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, before you start calling me Grasshopper, I’m going to leave.”

“I’m sure I have a pebble around here somewhere, if you want to stay and test your readiness,” Isabel said, still solemn.

“Somehow, I don’t think I’m fast enough,” Alan said, not without a note of honest regret. He offered them both a casual salute, then left the conference room, closing the door behind him.

“Good job of distracting him,” Rafe said.

“Maybe. With any luck he’ll spend at least the next few hours on the Internet or in the library reading up on Jack the Ripper-just so he can tell me the name of that journalist the next time I see him. It’ll occupy his mind a little while.” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed the nape of her neck with one hand, frowning slightly.

“Still got that headache?”

“It comes and goes. So far, there’s no sign of Cheryl Bayne; her station has backed up Dana Earley’s missing persons report with one of their own. And Hollis and Mallory are checking out the rest of the properties owned by Jamie Brower.”

“You still want to find that box of photos.”

“I want to find whatever is there. Speaking of which, your forensics team confirmed blood in Jamie’s playhouse, I gather. A lot of blood.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you were right about that. And a faint blood trail to the door. T.J. figures the body was wrapped in plastic. I’m guessing it was put into a car and hauled somewhere. They’re going over Jamie’s car now, but we didn’t find anything when we checked it bumper to bumper after she was killed.”

Isabel shook her head. “She wouldn’t have panicked, and she was too smart to transport a body in her own car. It would have been her playmate’s car. And I’m betting she got rid of it afterward. Very rid of it. Like maybe sank it to the bottom of one of the lakes in the area. With or without the body inside.”

“That,” he agreed, “is all too likely.” He hesitated, then added, “Did you pick up anything from Alan?”

“No, he’s a very closed book. Not uncommon for a journalist; they keep a lot of secrets, as a rule. Most of us find it difficult to read them, even the telepaths.”

“You think his guess about the killer being schizophrenic was right?”

“I think it’s at least as likely as any other theory we have. Maybe more than likely.” She drew a breath and spoke rapidly. “One school of thought proposes four different types of serial murderers: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic, and control-oriented. The mission-oriented is out to eliminate a particular group he feels is unworthy of living. Common victims for this type of killer are those easily categorized: prostitutes, the homeless, the mentally ill. Or-plumbers.”