Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

“The Unabomber? Of course.”

“That case was largely broken on the writings of Mr. Kaczynski. Not only did we have the writing on the packages he used to mail out his bombs, but we also had several notes he included in the packages, many letters he wrote to the press, and finally the manifesto he demanded be run in the papers. Even then, it wasn’t a forensic linguist who made the connections, but Kaczynski’s own brother. He recognized parts of the manifesto from his brother’s letters to him. Without such an extensive amount of material to analyze, who knows if we ever would have identified the Unabomber?”

“But this guy hasn’t given the police much to work with,” Rainie said. “Isn’t that unusual? I mean, according to your own example, once these guys get talking, they have a lot to say. But this guy is implying he’s earnest about the environment, while on the other hand, he’s pretty quiet on the subject.”

“That is actually the one thing that jumped out at me,” Ennunzio said, his gaze going to Quincy. “This is getting more into your domain than mine, but four short, identical messages are unusual. Once a killer makes contact with the press, or someone in authority, generally the communication becomes more expansive. I was a little surprised that by the last letter to the editor, at least, the message didn’t include more.”

Quincy nodded. “Communication by a killer with either the press or an officer in charge of the investigation is almost always about power. Sending letters and watching those messages be retold by the media gives certain subjects the same kind of vicarious thrill other killers experience when revisiting the scene of the crime or handling a souvenir from one of their victims. Killers will generally start small-an initial note or phone call-but once they know they have everyone’s attention, the communication becomes about boasting, bragging, and constantly reasserting their sense of control. It’s all part of their ego trip. This message…” Quincy frowned. “It’s different.”

“He distances himself from the act,” Ennunzio said. “Notice the phrase, ‘heat kills.’ Not that he kills, that heat kills. It’s as if he has nothing to do with it.”

“Yet the message is filled with short phrases, which you said earlier indicates a higher level of intelligence.”

“He’s smart, but guilty,” Ennunzio told them. “He doesn’t want to kill, but feels driven to do it, and thus seeks to lay the blame elsewhere. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t written more. For him, the letters aren’t about establishing power, but seeking absolution.”

“There’s another possibility,” Quincy said shortly. “Berkowitz also wrote extensively to the press in an attempt to explain his crimes. Berkowitz, however, suffered from mental illness; he falls into a different category from the organized killer. Now, people suffering from some kind of mental incapacity such as delusions or schizophrenia-”

“Often repeat a phrase,” Ennunzio filled in. “You also see that in stroke victims or people with brain tumors. They’ll have anything from a word to a mantra they repeat over and over again.”

“You’re saying this guy is insane?” Rainie spoke up sharply.

“It’s one possibility.”

“But if he’s nuts, how has he successfully eluded the police while kidnapping and killing eight women?”

“I didn’t say he was stupid,” Quincy countered mildly. “It’s possible that he’s still functional in many ways. People close to him, however, would know there was something ‘not right’ about him. He’s probably a loner and ill at ease with others. It could help explain why he has spent so much time outdoors, and also why he employs an ambush style of attack. A Ted Bundy-style killer would rely on his social skills to smooth-talk his way inside a prey’s defenses. This man knows he can’t.”

“This man builds elaborate riddles,” Rainie said flatly. “He targets strangers, communicates with the press, and plays games with the police. That sounds like a good old-fashioned organized psychopath to me.”

Kaplan held up a hand. “Okay, okay, okay. We’re getting a little off track here. This so-called Eco-Killer is Georgia’s problem. We’re here about Special Agent McCormack.”

“What about him?” Dr. Ennunzio asked with a frown.

“Do you think McCormack could’ve written these notes?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to give me something else he’s written. Why are you looking at Special Agent McCormack?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? I’ve been out of town at the conference. I haven’t even had time to clear all my voice mail yet.”

“A body was found yesterday,” Kaplan said curtly. “Of a young girl. On the Marine PT course. We have reason to believe McCormack might be involved.”

“There are elements of the case similar to the Eco-Killer,” Rainie added, ignoring Kaplan’s dark look. “Special Agent McCormack thinks the murder is the work of the Eco-Killer, starting over here in Virginia. Special Agent Kaplan thinks maybe McCormack is our guy, and merely staged the scene to match an old case.”

“A body was found here ? At Quantico? Yesterday?” Ennunzio appeared dazed.

“You should leave the bomb shelter every once in a while,” Rainie told him.

“This is horrible!”

“I don’t think the young girl enjoyed it much, either.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Ennunzio was looking down at his notes wildly. “I did have a theory, one thing I was going to suggest to Special Agent McCormack if I ever got a chance. It was a long shot, but…”

“What?” Quincy asked intently. “Tell us.”

“Special Agent McCormack mentioned in passing that he’d started getting phone calls about the case. Some anonymous tipster trying to help them out. He believed it might be someone close to the killer, a family member or spouse. I had another idea. Given that the letters to the editor were so brief, and that most killers expand their communication over time…”

“Oh no,” Quincy said, closing his eyes and obviously tracking the thought. “If the UNSUB feels guilty, if he’s dissociating himself from the act…”

“I wanted Special Agent McCormack to either tape those calls, or write down the conversations verbatim the minute he hangs up the phone,” Ennunzio said grimly. “That way I could compare language from the caller with wording from the letters. You see, I don’t think he’s hearing from a family member. It’s possible… Special Agent McCormack may be hearing from the killer himself.”

Virginia

3:13 P . M .

Temperature: 98 degrees

TINA DREAMT OF FIRE. She was tied to a stake in the middle of a pile of kindling, feeling the flames wick up her legs while the gathered crowd cheered. “My baby,” she screamed at them. “Don’t hurt my baby!”

But no one cared. The people laughed. The fire lapped her flesh. Now it seared her fingers, starting at the tips and racing up to her elbows. Then her hair was ablaze, the flames licking her ears and singeing her eyelashes. The heat gathered and built, forcing its way into her mouth and searing her lungs. Her eyeballs melted. She felt them run down her face. Then the fire was inside her eye sockets, greedily devouring her flesh, while her brains began to boil and her face peeled back from her skull…

Tina awakened with a jolt. Her head flew up from the rock and she became aware of two things at once. Her eyes were swollen shut and her skin felt as if it were burning.

The mosquitoes still swarmed her head. Yellow flies, too. She batted at them feebly. She had no blood left. They should leave her alone and seek fresher prey, not some exhausted girl on the verge of dehydration. The bugs didn’t seem to care. She was bathed from head to toe in sweat, which apparently in the insect world made her a feast fit for kings.