Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

"He thought it was a game," Racine almost hissed at her. "Believe me, this psycho thought it was a game, no matter what you think."

The detective paced back and forth in front of the sofa where Gwen sat. How many times had Rubin Nash sat in her office, in this very spot, and ranted about "having himself yet another pretty, little coed?" Gwen thought it was all about sexual conquests, asserting himself and his manhood. The movies made it out to be a sexual odyssey from boyhood to manhood when an older woman seduced a young boy. But if the woman purposely emasculated him, as in Nash's case, the damage could be irreparable. Should Gwen have seen the signs for his violent behavior? Should she have figured out months ago that he could and would kill?

Racine stopped every once in a while to look over the notes, the map, the earrings, everything that Gwen had received. She had scattered them on her desktop, each piece encapsulated in its own Ziploc bag, labeled like crime scene evidence. Everything except the last manila envelope and the water glass, failing to explain her unsuccessful attempt at matching Nash's prints.

"None of this proves your patient is the killer," Racine said. "Maybe we'll be lucky and pull a print off something he sent you. But I'm guessing he'd be more careful than that." She turned to look at Gwen. "When do you see him again?"

"We recently moved his weekly sessions to Saturday mornings to accommodate his travel schedule."

"He travels?"

"Yes, I believe he sells computer software. He's mentioned that his sales region extends as far north as Boston, I think, and as far south as the northern part of Florida."

"By car or by plane?"

"Excuse me?"

"When he travels for his job," Racine said, slowing down her words as if addressing a child. "Does he drive or fly?"

"I have no idea." Gwen frowned, trying to remember if he had mentioned it. "Why would it matter?" she finally asked.

"We've never found the torsos," Racine said, expecting it to be all that was necessary for Gwen to understand. Her face must have showed her confusion, because Racine continued. "If he drives, it might explain how or if he dumps the torsos somewhere else."

"Was the rest of Dena's body… was she left anywhere else in the brownstone?" Gwen asked.

She thought she saw Racine soften, as if the reminder of what Gwen had been through in the last twenty-four hours had brought a fleeting moment of compassion, and even her answer came in a quiet, almost apologetic voice when she said, "No. We haven't found anymore of her."

Gwen rubbed her hands over her face again, this time digging the heels of her palms into her eyes, hoping to get rid of the image. She'd never be rid of it.

"The notes, the messages," Racine started in at her again, "all of them have been delivered to your office?"

"Yes. Either dropped in the mail slot in the lobby after hours or delivered to the main desk downstairs. One of the earrings was left on Saturday in a manila envelope. Dena said she found the envelope on the reception desk after Rubin Nash's appointment." Gwen paused. "Do you think he expected me to recognize it as hers?"

"If he did, he may have wanted to taunt you with it," Racine said and Gwen could feel the detective's eyes on her as if expecting some reaction. "You know, to show you how close he could get. If you're right about him being Dena's new boyfriend, that could explain how he got the key to her brownstone and knew where she lived. Although mere's no evidence that he killed her there."

Then Racine hesitated, but she was still watching Gwen, studying her. "If you had recognized the earring, would you have done anything about it? Would you have called the cops?" The harsh tone returned, cold and unsympathetic.

If Racine thought she could possibly make Gwen feel any more responsible for Dena's death, she was wrong. Gwen wasn't sure she'd ever be able to forgive herself for Dena's death.

Omaha, Nebraska

Tommy Pakula had had enough. He felt Morrelli's attention had followed O'Dell out the door after she'd left Father Gallagher's office. The two may have worked a case years ago, but it seemed obvious to Pakula that Morrelli still held some kind of a grudge. Pakula finally told both men that he'd be in touch, thanked them for their time and left.

He found O'Dell coming out of a classroom and raised his eyebrows at her, surprised that she would be so transparent in her snooping.

"Learn anything?" he asked.

"Maybe. Are you finished with Father Gallagher?"

"Yeah, I've had enough of those two clowns. I should have unleashed Carmichael on them." They started down the steps, and he let her lead the way. "I can tell you one thing, Morrelli sure isn't finished with you. Is he going to be a problem?"

"I get the feeling he thinks there's some unfinished personal business between us," she said with no emotion, perhaps a bit of amusement if anything.

"Is there?"

"If you're asking if it'll get in the way of working this case, I won't let it." Her tone was serious now.

"No, actually I wanted to make sure the asshole's not gonna be hassling you. If he gives you any problems you've got my cell-phone number. You give me a call. I'll take care of it"

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. "Are you trying to protect me, Detective Pakula?"

He stopped in his tracks, too, and wanted to cringe. Was she going to bust his chops about how just because she was a woman she didn't need his protection? Jesus!

"It's been a while since I've had someone want to play big brother with me," O'Dell told him, but she was smiling now. "That's kinda nice." And before he could respond she was on her way again, leaving him as she headed out the school's front door.

Back in the car, she filled him in about her conversation with Sister Kate Rosetti, the lesson in daggers and their popularity because of medieval crusader-type games on the Internet. She also shared her new theory, that maybe the killer could be a teenage boy who had been abused by a priest. He listened without interrupting, hearing her out.

"You're forgetting one thing," he finally said. "How does a fifteen-or even sixteen-or seventeen-year-old have the time or opportunity to get from Minneapolis to Omaha to Columbia, Missouri, on his own?"

"Each of the murders happened over holiday weekends.

" Look, I don't have this figured out. All I'm saying is that we need to consider it."

"That the killer could be a teenager?"

"Or two. Maybe they got the idea from playing one of these games."

"You think a kid _ even two kids __ could actually plan something like this and pull it off and in a public place? Not only that, but he could keep his cool enough to stab a Catholic priest and just walk away? You're asking me to consider all that?"

"Sounds too incredible, huh?"

"Yeah, it does."

"Okay. Try this, though. No one ever considered that two teenagers could build and plant two twenty-pound propane bombs and place them in a school cafeteria, rigged to explode and kill up to five hundred of their schoolmates. And no one considered that if and when those bombs failed to detonate, the teenagers would then arm themselves with two sawed-off shotguns, a 9 mm semiautomatic carbine rifle and a 9 mm Tec-9 semiautomatic pistol and then proceed to very calmly, very calculatingly shoot and kill twelve students and one teacher"

"I'd like to believe Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were extreme exceptions," Pakula said, not enjoying the fact that he could be so wrong. When she put it that way, it certainly did sound like a possibility. "But you told me that the murders looked like the work of an assassin."

"Which is what some of these Internet games allow for, right? I mean, in a way, don't they allow the players to become executioners or assassins?"