“That’s good to hear.” Tatum nodded and shook Bernstein’s hand. The old man’s handshake was limp, making Tatum feel as if he were handling a dead fish. “I take it there’s been some progress? When my chief filled me in, she described the situation as quite dire.”
“Well, it’s definitely bleak,” Martinez said, his face grim. “People are scared. These bodies showed up in very public places and were seen by families with kids. But Dr. Bernstein’s narrowed the pool of suspects significantly, so we’re finally making some headway.”
“Good,” Tatum said. “I’m glad to hear you’re moving in the right direction. Do you want to fill me in?”
“Have you read the case files?” Martinez asked.
“I did,” Tatum said. “And I’m only here to consult, but I’d be glad for a short summary and an up-to-date assessment of the situation.”
“Absolutely. Have a seat,” Martinez said.
Tatum glanced at the table. The five detectives all sat on one end, Dr. Bernstein at the other, with several empty chairs on either side. He sat down next to the old profiler.
“This is Susan Warner,” Martinez said, pointing to an image on one of the whiteboards. It depicted a woman lying on the grass, her entire body rigid, her mouth agape. She was dressed in a black evening dress, one of its sleeves torn, the bottom scrunched up to her thighs. Her legs were bare. Her body seemed to be in almost perfect condition, her skin pink except for her left foot, which was black and green and slightly bloated.
“Victim is twenty-two years old. She was found on April twelfth of this year on the shore of Foster Beach. The body was embalmed except for the left foot, which was already in an advanced state of decomposition. Warner was an art student living alone in Pilsen. She was reported missing by one of her friends four days before her body was found. Time of death was hard to estimate because her body was embalmed, but according to the state of the foot, the medical examiner estimated she’d been dead for at least five days. The cause of death was strangulation. We found traces of embalming fluid and blood in the shower at her apartment. There were indications that the body was sexually assaulted postmortem.”
Tatum listened carefully. He had read all that twice already, but he wanted to know what the lieutenant would focus on.
“The second victim”—Martinez pointed at another image—“was Monique Silva.”
Tatum looked at the picture he had first seen in Chief Mancuso’s office. Monique Silva’s body stood on a wooden bridge above a stream, leaning on the railing, as if staring at the water. Her eyes were open, her mouth shut. She was dressed in a skirt, stockings, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her skin was completely gray.
“Silva was aged twenty-one, a prostitute working Logan Square. She was found a week ago, on July seventh. A man who identified himself as her cousin but is a known pimp reported her missing only a day before her body was found, but he said she had been missing for at least a week before that. Cause of death was, again, strangulation. There were bruises indicating she had been tied up before being killed. Again, the body was sexually assaulted postmortem. We checked with eyewitnesses—”
“Hang on,” Tatum said. “Was there embalming fluid found in her home as well?”
“No, but she wasn’t living alone,” Martinez said. “We believe she was snatched off the street and taken somewhere else.”
“Okay.” Tatum nodded. “Do you know why the body’s skin color is gray? The first body’s skin looks much better.” This hadn’t been mentioned in the case file.
“According to the ME, the killer probably used a different mixture of embalming fluid,” Martinez said. “The lifelike colors in the first body are because of a red dye in the embalming fluid.”
“I see,” Tatum said. “What are your leads?”
“The killer was careful,” Martinez said. “Hardly any traces of DNA on Susan Warner’s body. There was a reasonable amount of semen found on Monique Silva, but she was a prostitute, so that wasn’t entirely surprising. No matches on CODIS to the samples.”
Tatum nodded.
“Absolutely no witnesses for the first murder,” Martinez said. “The second victim was probably taken from the street, and we’ve interrogated some of her associates. We have several descriptions of male customers who approached the victim the last evening she was seen on the street, but they’re very general. We found a bunch of fingerprints in Susan Warner’s apartment, at least seven different people, and tracing those fingerprints led us nowhere.”
“So you have nothing substantial so far,” Tatum said.
He could sense the atmosphere in the room tensing. He got dirty looks from two of the detectives, and Martinez’s mouth pursed. Tatum made a mental note to be careful with anything that might sound like a criticism. “I mean, the killer covered his tracks very well.”
“On the contrary,” the throaty voice of Dr. Bernstein interrupted. “I’d say the killer has left us a very clear path.”
Tatum folded his arms and looked toward the doctor. “I take it you have a lead?”
“Well, I have a description,” Bernstein said. “And using that description, the detectives can find the killer.”
“All right,” Tatum said. “Let’s hear it.”
The doctor stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. Martinez sat down, giving the doctor his full attention.
“The killer is male, white, in his late twenties or early thirties,” the doctor said. “He—”
“How do you know?” Tatum interrupted him.
“What?”
“How do you know he’s a white male in his late twenties or early thirties?”
“Well, I don’t really know anything. But the probability is very high, and we need to narrow the pool of suspects.”
“Okay. What makes you think he’s likely to be a white male of that age?”
“Well . . .” The doctor seemed to be warming up. “He’s male because—”
“I know why you think he’s male. Fine. Why white?”
“Almost all serial killers are white,” the doctor said. “And the sexual assault of white women is very indicative.”
Tatum’s face remained fixed, but his heart sank. “I see,” he said. “Why early thirties or—”
“This murder couldn’t have just popped into the killer’s mind overnight,” the doctor answered patiently. “It’s the result of a very intricate fantasy. It has likely taken years to reach the point where the killer had to act it out, so he can’t be too young. And if he were older, we would have seen other similar murders.”
“Okay,” Tatum said, feeling tired. “Go on.”
“He’s leaving the bodies in very public places, clearly demonstrating his superiority over the police and enjoying his moment in the spotlight. It is likely he either talked to the police, pretending to be a witness, or has involved himself somehow in the cases—by approaching the families of the victims, coming to their funerals, and so on. He is intelligent, with a high school and even possibly a college education. He owns a car. He is clearly well acquainted with embalming practices, which leads me to assume he has worked in a funeral home or perhaps still does. He plans everything meticulously, choosing his victims in advance. The fact that he keeps the bodies for longer periods each time displays an impressive amount of patience. He is single, though he might be dating quite often, and may be quite charming and manipulative.”
“That’s a very detailed profile,” Tatum said.
“It has been my experience that this kind of murder—”
“What experience?”
“Excuse me?” The doctor looked insulted.
“You said it has been your experience. Where did that experience come from?”
The doctor’s face flushed in anger. “Young man,” he said, “I’ve spent years studying the practices of serial killers. I’ve been an expert consultant on the matter for more than a decade. I—”
“I’m sorry.” Tatum raised his hands. “Like you, it’s my job to be a consultant to the police. I tend to doubt everything I’m told. It comes with the job. I didn’t mean to imply that I question your impressive credentials.”
The doctor frowned, clearly suspecting he was the butt of a joke, but Tatum had already turned to face Martinez and the rest of the detectives.