THE MONITOR’S screen snapped into life. A white male—thin, with a receding hairline and matching chin, was smoking expansively, gesturing as if addressing a legion of adoring fans at a press conference. As the camera dollied in, it became clear that the man was clad in a prison jumpsuit, leg-cuffed to his chair.
The camera slowly pulled back to show viewers that the man was behind bars, but not in an individual cell. The blond man set the scene for the newly arrived consultant:
“This piece of fecal matter is one Mark Robert Towers. Thirty-seven. Habitual—no, make that chronic—offender. Priors include rape, abduction with intent, arson. Arrested four days ago by the locals.
“It wasn’t a difficult case to crack, but the crime scene was unusually repulsive. Mother and daughter raped and killed in broad daylight—looked like a push-in burglary that went bad. Fortunately, the scumbag not only left his prints all over everything he touched, they vacuumed enough DNA out of the victims to put him down for the count.
“Death Row’s a lock for this … whatever he is. Not here—Illinois is still in a mess after those mass no-execution orders issued by the Governor … before he went to prison himself. I believe that’s something of a tradition in this state.
“That, however, is of no consequence. He’s already DNA-tied to at least three more kills: two in Florida, one in Texas. All women. He’s a dead man, and the clock is winding down.”
“Clock?” Percy snorted. “You mean calendar, don’t you? It takes longer to kill one of those maggots in this country than it would to rebuild the Pyramids with Lego blocks.”
“That’s not our assignment,” the blond man said, his measured voice holding just a trace of condescension. “But this is. Last night, out of the blue, Towers said he wanted to make a statement about the Canyon Killings in California. They Miranda-ed him up and down, got it on video as well, but he insisted on confessing to the murders. All of them.
“That’s what we have. His statement, nothing more. In a few more seconds, the volume will come up, you’ll hear it for yourself.”
The consultant assumed an attentive posture but remained silent. He apparently did not intend to take notes.
The sound came up on the monitor as the camera moved in tight on the speaker’s face.
“First of all, you people need to understand that this business about me only killing women is absolute bullshit. I mean, there’s no point in me not telling the truth now, is there?
“I’m a natural-born killer. Hell, I couldn’t even begin to count how many people I’ve sent over to the other side. But that’s got nothing to do with sex. I kill for the fun of it.
“See, it’s like movies. No matter how much you like any one movie, it gets old after a while. So you watch a new one. What makes me special is that I don’t watch movies; I make them. I’m not just the star; I’m the director.
“Don’t matter to me where I am. When the mood hits me, I just go all red inside … and somebody dies. Walking Death, that’s me. You people think you can understand that?”
An off-camera questioner asked: “You said you wanted to talk to us about the Canyon Killings?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. I got a lot more than those to talk about, too … if I feel like it.”
Off-camera: “What does that mean, Mark?”
The speaker’s posture tightened. His face narrowed in the anger he had carried throughout his adult life. “It means respect, that too complicated for you? Respect, that’s all I’m asking for. I’m tired of being treated like crap. No cigarettes unless I ask one of the cops to come and light it for me. No TV, no mail. I can clear a lot of cases for you guys. All I expected was to be treated like a man, you know what I mean?”
Off-camera: “We’ll do what we can.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I got rights. Same rights as anyone else. Granny-killing niggers get treated better in here than me? I got a right to speak to the media if I want to. And what about my mail? You know you got no right to hold on to that.”
Off-camera: “Your lawyer …”
“I don’t need no two-bit Public Defender to be my lawyer. Once I get to tell my story, you best believe I’ll have all the lawyers I need.”
The screen flickered out, faded to black.
“This next tape was made a few hours later,” the blond man said.
The consultant so far addressed only as “Doctor” just nodded, clearly waiting for more.
When Towers faced the camera again, his hair was freshly coiffed, and a full pack of cigarettes was by his elbow, along with a yellow legal pad and some sharpened pencils. He was still seated, but in a more comfortable chair. The leg cuffs had been removed.
“Then there was that time in Texas. Just outside of Houston, in this Lovers’ Lane. I would’ve been satisfied with a straight-up robbery, but that kid had to try and get tough with me. After I did him, I couldn’t very well leave the bitch around to be a witness, so I did her, too. That’s my trademark: no witnesses. You check around, you’ll see what I mean.”
Off-camera: “The Canyon Killings …?”
“Yeah, you want to get right to it, don’t you? Okay, fair enough. Now that you’re treating me like a white man, I’ll give you what I said I would—I’m a man of my word. So listen: When you’ve been in prison, done as much time as I done, you know how the joints’re full of punks trying to make a name for themselves. Big talkers, but it’s just a bunch of stories they tell. It’s enough to make a real man sick.
“Like that little weasel down in Florida, Bundy. Whining about how looking at pictures of naked women made him crazy and all. You know what? That one he said he did in Idaho—now, that was an outright lie. That one was mine. Bundy must’ve figured, once he’s locked up, he takes credit for the kill, nobody’s exactly gonna volunteer to come forward, say he’s lying.
“That’s how I figured out what I needed. Just in case, I mean. I needed some sorta way to tell everyone where I been, in case I ever had to prove it. And I guess now’s the time.
“The way it started, the idea, I mean, was because I done a lot of hunting when I was a kid. So what I decided, I’d just skin ’em when I was done with ’em. And that’s what I done down in the Canyon.”
Off-camera: “Are those the first ones you did like that?”
“Not even close,” the speaker scoffed. “There’s quite a few others, scattered here and there. When you find them, you’ll always find my brand on them, too.”
Off-camera: “Where would we find them, Mark?”
“Mark? I call you by your first name? I don’t feel like talking anymore. Take me back to my house.”
The screen flickered to black.
“Anything?” the blond man asked.
The consultant looked around the room. He took off his glasses, rubbed them on the lapel of his muted green sports coat, and said: “He’s not the one you want.”
“What?!” Percy half-snarled.
“It’s not him. He had nothing to do with the Canyon Killings. He’s just dancing, playing a game, bargaining with the only cards he has left. Towers is a psychopath, all right, but he’s not your man.”
“What is a psychopath, Doc?” Tiger asked, leaning forward, interested for the first time. “Everybody throws that word around, but they never say what it means.”
The consultant turned slightly to meet the Amazon’s eyes: “Psychopath, as in ‘pathology.’ They’re not ‘crazy’ in any clinical sense, but they’re always missing a few pieces from normal. Like morality … or what we call morality, anyway. Some are fearless, some are cowards. But this much is a guarantee: they all lack a conscience of any kind, they all share a profound sense of entitlement, and none possess the quality of basic human empathy.
“But that’s where the generalizations end. Actually, many of them are what we call ‘ambulatory’—they walk among us and we never see them. But no matter how they come across, they’re all very straight-line in their thinking. Personal-need gratification drives all of them. The reason that some fly under the radar is that different psychopaths seek different gratifications.”
“Come on, Doc,” Tiger urged him, knowing there had to be more.
“I understand you’re looking for a common factor, some way to link a series of killings. But the only thing all psychopaths have in common is their deficiencies. What makes them different is not what they have, it’s what they lack. They never feel much of anything. You won’t find any trace of remorse, anxiety, depression, and so on. Many of them have learned to fake such feelings to a remarkable extent. This would be especially true of malingerers—people who have something to gain by appearing to suffer from a mental illness. And, actually, very common among those who’ve been in ‘treatment programs’ while incarcerated.”
“Roger that,” Percy said.
“Some psychopaths are intellectually gifted,” the consultant continued. “And some are downright stupid. But they’re all dangerous, every single one of them.
“Think of them as Outsiders. I don’t mean ‘outlaws,’ I mean outside the human race. This guy on the screen is pure toxic waste, no question. But he’s not the answer to your question.”
“Didn’t you write an article for the Journal of Forensic Psychiatry? ‘Trophy Taking as a Subset of Serial Killer Typology’?” Wanda asked, slyly.
The consultant threw her a half-salute, acknowledging that she’d done her homework. “I sure did, ma’am. But this boy—the one on your screen over there—he’s no trophy-taker. He’s a sadistic rapist, and he’s a killer, no question. But there’s another ingredient common to all psychopaths that we haven’t talked about yet—they’re all capable of lying so plausibly that they fool even the most experienced interrogators.”
“Like to see one of them pass a polygraph,” Percy muttered.
“Like to see one of them not,” the consultant retorted. “A polygraph measures heartbeat, blood pressure, galvanic skin response—all indicators of self-perceived guilt. Most of us feel guilty when we lie—and control questions can usually deal with the natural anxiety anyone would feel hooked up to the machines. But a psychopath doesn’t know what guilt is—they never even bounce the needles on those machines.”
Percy didn’t respond. But his darkening complexion spoke volumes.
The consultant waited to see if there were any further challenges. Hearing none, he continued: “This Towers individual doesn’t present any diagnostic difficulties. He kills when he panics, and he panics every time one of his sexual assaults doesn’t go according to his script. I don’t know any more than what you already told me, plus the material you sent, but I guarantee you that when they search his lousy little furnished room, or the car he was living out of, they won’t find any women’s panties, or hair ribbons, or Polaroid photos … nothing like that.
“Why? Because, in his mind, the women he raped all wanted him. That’s the music playing in his head, and there’s only one tune on that jukebox. Mostly rapes, but some homicides. The only women who didn’t want him are the ones he killed. To him, those women would be ‘cock-teasers.’ Miserable lying sluts who led him on, then pulled back at the last minute.
“But they were not trophies, nor was the style of killing designed to ‘pose’ the victims. He already knows how long any death-penalty appeal is going to take, and he still wants to do everything possible to extend that time. What he really wants is to be extradited. The state where the Canyon Killings took place didn’t have the death penalty at the time they occurred. They were still in what we call the Furman window, when the Supreme Court struck down the death penalty on constitutional grounds. All of the death-penalty states had to rewrite their laws to comply with that ruling, but they couldn’t do it retroactively. Why do you think Manson still gets parole hearings?
“So what this Towers individual is doing is working this unsolved case the same way any good psychopath would—he’s using it. The more he pulls a Henry Lee Lucas blanket over law enforcement’s eyes, the better treatment he gets. Soon, he’ll be getting deranged women to write him love letters … and those he’ll want to keep. He’ll probably negotiate a book-and-movie deal, too.
“But, like I said, not all psychopaths are intelligent. This one blew it on the time line. The Canyon Killings were more than forty years ago. He probably read about them in one of those ‘true crime’ porno books. But you’ve got a verified DOB on this beauty—pretty hard to kill before you’ve even been born.”
“Look,” the blond man said, “let’s say we already knew all that. And we have plenty of reasons—solid forensic reasons—to take this freak out of the picture on the Canyon Killings. That’s not the real reason we brought you here.”
“I figured as much,” the consultant said, unfazed. “Point out the target and I’ll take my best shot.”
“Is there anything you can tell us? Anything about who would do the kind of thing we’ve been studying?”
“Whoever did the Canyon Killings, now, there’s your trophy-taker. Classic ‘collector’ mentality.”
“Some psychopaths take trophies, and this one took human spinal cords?” Tiger said, a slight trace of disbelief in her tone.
“I don’t think so,” Doc answered. “It doesn’t feel like that to me. I don’t get that same sense of triggering—where something sets them off after a killing. It feels more as if whoever did these thought removing the skin of the victims would reveal whatever was under it.
“And don’t even say ‘organized serial killer’ to me. The Canyon Killings actually come across almost like … like an investigation of some kind.”
“What’s this ‘investigation,’ then?” the tiger-maned woman demanded. “Isn’t that what you’re here to tell us?”
“Yeah,” Percy echoed. “Isn’t that what makes you worth seven hundred bucks a damn hour?”
The husky man again rubbed his glasses, this time with a pristine handkerchief. “You think my services aren’t worth what I charge, don’t hire me next time.”
“We didn’t—”
“That’s right. You didn’t hire me. The people who did, they’re smart enough to listen to what they paid for.”
“What are you saying?” Wanda asked, using a tone indicating that she really wanted to know.
“I’m saying that there has to have been more of those killings, and all with a connector of some kind. Like one of those video games where there could be a thousand playing at any one time, all over the world. That’s the part nobody’s been listening to. Up till now, I’m thinking.”
“But doesn’t that fit? He couldn’t have done the Canyon Killings. And he had to know we know. In fact, didn’t you actually say that doing that interview was just a game to him?”
“There’s more than one kind of game,” the consultant answered. “The part where you blew it was not asking enough questions.”
“What questions?” the blond man asked, as close to angry as he ever allowed himself to get.
“Questions such as why would they put together a team like you folks for signature killings that happened such a long time ago? You’re not exactly the Cold Case Squad. So I’m thinking that this is about the Canyon Killings, but that those aren’t even close to being the only ones. Like I said, the kind of game I’m trying to tell you about, it’s a game where there’s got to be more than one player.”
“You mean the killer had—?”
“Try listening instead of showing me you know stuff,” the consultant cut off whatever the blond man had wanted to say. “I don’t mean some little ‘team,’ like the Hillside Stranglers, or another folie à deux creature like Bernardo-Homolka. Not even Nietzsche-freaks like Leopold-Loeb. I mean a game where the players don’t even know each other. But it’s a game where they sure as hell keep score.
“And please don’t start babbling about some cybernonsense. That’s just the plot of a bad novel. However the players in this game are keeping score, they had a way to share info centuries before anyone could spell ‘Internet.’ ”
A MAN some know as “Cross” scaled a back-alley fence as calmly as another man would climb a flight of stairs, then gingerly began to lower himself over the far side. Halfway down, he heard the low, menacing growl of a dog he had no desire to meet. Retreating immediately, he then skirted the area, carefully circling past the dog’s continuing threats.
He’s really worked up. Sensing I’m close. So why didn’t he attack as soon as I stepped over the fence? The question had to be answered, so Cross quickly extracted a night-vison monocular. One glance showed him that the dog—from its size and shape, a Rottweiler—was heavily chained, with sufficient play in the heavy links to allow him to protect one house against intruders.
Cross nodded his understanding—this was a neighborhood where the only time you’d be concerned about your neighbors was if one of them decided to pay you a visit. He turned his attention to his objective—the back of a six-story tenement.
Chicago is a city of alleys, and it didn’t take him much time to find a new approach. A quick, light jump and Cross had the bottom of the fire escape in both hands. He pulled himself up to the first floor, then moved noiselessly upward, his expression that of a commuter on his way to a boring job.
Mentally counting the stories, he located the specific window he was looking for, breathed deeply, exhaled, and waited. After a full minute passed without incident, Cross pulled a roll of duct tape from his voluminous black coat.
He applied the tape to the window glass, smoothly creating an X-pattern until the entire pane was coated. After another careful aural scan, Cross smacked the glass with the palm of his black-gloved hand. The faint crackling sound was barely audible.
Cross picked at the tape-covered glass with his fingertips for a long minute, then carefully peeled it away in a single sheet, leaving only some small shards at the edges of the window. He gently placed the taped glass pane on the fire-escape ledge, then used an L-shaped steel bar to remove the remaining shards from the window. Those he placed on the taped glass pane. Then he stepped through the opened window.
Although the outside of the building appeared to be a landlord-neglected slum, the interior of the particular apartment Cross entered was luxurious. He pulled out a blue-light flash and slowly scanned the premises. The floors were all coated in white shag, the walls covered with “art” chosen to proclaim its cost.
Patiently, Cross moved from room to room. Within minutes he found what he’d been looking for—an electronic scale on a raised marble slab, standing like an idol on an altar.
Cross took a small, flat device from his pocket, held it against the marble base, and pushed a button. A faint light began to appear. The device was soundless, but the intensity of its light glowed in proportion to how close Cross got to his goal—a small safe set into the floor in one corner. On its face was an inset panel with an elaborate set of digital readouts: J6528815.
Cross pulled a slip of paper from an inside pocket, and read it with the aid of his flash: X7324545.
He was leaning forward to tap the digital dial when he heard a low meow and saw its source was a magnificent sealpoint Siamese. The feline made another noise deep in its throat, continuing its fearless approach. Cross picked up the cat and stroked its fur, noting that it had been declawed to preserve the furnishings, reducing it to nothing more than another visible sign of wealth.
“You don’t give a damn if I empty the joint out, do you, pal?” he said, very softly. Then he set the cat down and tapped the digital dial in accordance with the code on the paper he’d brought with him. The safe popped open. It was almost completely stuffed with cash, but a separate-slotted compartment held a thin red leather book.
Cross didn’t touch the money. He took an exact replica of the book from his coat, exchanged it for the original, and closed the safe. Then he tapped the code in reverse, which returned the dial to its original number.
Next, he covered the top and front of the safe with a thick foam pad, then slammed a small sledge over it several times. When he removed the foam, the safe looked as if some amateur had tried to hammer off the dial.
Cross performed a smash-and-grab on a few small objects in the living room, snatched loose cash from a bedroom chest of drawers, and slid an iPhone and its attached Bose headset into another pocket of his coat.
Just another half-ass junkie burglar, he thought to himself as he retraced his steps to the window.
The cat watched, mildly interested.
Cross turned and watched the cat, obviously making some sort of decision.
After a long minute, he shrugged his shoulders and left. His exit was as silent as his entrance. And as unobserved.
CROSS SAT in a stark, cement-walled room. Furnished in minimalist fashion, it was, nevertheless, comfortable, with everything that might be expected in an expensive apartment. Except windows.
In his hands, he held the thin red book he had liberated from the drug lord’s safe, studying its construction intently.
Finally satisfied, he delicately removed the backing from a strip of paper that exactly matched the inside back cover of the book. He then laid the strip parallel to the book’s binding, pressed it down with a latex-gloved thumb, and used a surgeon’s scalpel to trim the top and bottom. Even under an intense light, the new addition was undetectable.
Cross pocketed a transmitter small enough to fit inside a pack of cigarettes. He picked up a cell phone, tapped in a number, and patiently let it ring until it was answered with an aggressive “¿Qué?”
“Finito,” Cross said, just before he cut the connection.
THE NEXT night.
Cross merged his body with the shadows as he waited against the wall of a gas station. Long ago abandoned, the cement building was now an outpost on an urban prairie, surrounded by flatlands peppered with scraps of old cyclone fence. Rusted concertina wire trailed on the ground, derelict cars dotted the deserted street, half-starved dogs skulked in unconscious imitation of the rats they were reduced to hunting.
A black stretch limo pulled up. An over-muscled, blank-faced man with a distinctly small head climbed out of the front passenger seat. He stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest, pumping himself up. After so many years, those movements were pure habit.
Cross stepped out of the shadows.
The window in the back compartment of the limo descended. A cancerous voice floated out: “You have it?”
“Like I said,” was the only reply.
The extra-wide back door swung open, a clear invitation. Cross entered, unaware that a tiny black blob had followed him. The blob was unseen by the bodyguard, who continued his posing before the mirror that was always in his mind.
The only human occupant of the back seat was a toadish little creature. He held out a severely mangled hand, with clawed, yellowish nails. Cross dropped the book into his palm.
The toadish man immediately began skimming through the book, following the entries with a skeletal finger.
“¡Verdad! The real thing. ¡Dios mío! You are as good as they say.”
Cross reacted to the praise with a question he has asked many others, many times.
“¿Dónde está mi dinero?”
“Huh! ¿Sabes español?”
“Suficiente para esto.”
“¿Esto?”
“Mi dinero,” Cross repeated, making it clear that his language skills were limited to his sole area of interest.
“¿Su dinero? Right here, amigo. Money, it means nothing. Here,” he said, handing over a slim aluminum attaché case, “count it for yourself. What I have purchased from you tonight is so much more precious. By next week, I will control all of Esteban’s territory.”
Disdaining any gesture of respect, Cross took the toadish man up on his offer to count the money, quickly but carefully.
As Cross counted, the toadish man said, “You know, amigo, I like you. I thought that little bit of unhappiness down south could become … perhaps a problem between us? But now I see you understand how the world truly works. That was only business then. And this is business now. What else matters?”
Cross shrugged his shoulders, as if the statement was beyond debate.
“You are a true professional,” the cancerous voice said. “Revenge, that is for amateurs. Children who may never grow up to learn the reality of life. We are a dying breed, you and I. Dinosaurs. It is good we can still do business with each other. Now, while there are some of us still alive.”
He offered his mangled hand. Cross grasped it, the bull’s-eye tattoo on the back of his own hand clearly visible. Without another word, he stepped out of the limo, the attaché case in that same hand.
As he did so, a blotchy mass coalesced across the top of the abandoned gas station, disturbing only the molecules of air it displaced.
“Dying breed,” bubbled from the shadowy blob.
Five seconds of silence followed. Then:
“Me da una tarjeta de.”
As the limo rounded the next corner, the blotchy mass flowed down the side of the gas station. It was still moving when Cross, unaware of any other presence, took the transmitter from his coat pocket and pressed its single button.
The limo disappeared in a blast that looked low-yield nuclear in the fireball of its intensity. All that remained was a crater in the empty street. A few scraps of human flesh mingled with metallic flakes as they floated gently to the ground.
By then, Cross was already several blocks away, behind the wheel of one of the “abandoned” cars. He drove for another couple of minutes, re-“abandoned” the car, and disappeared into the dark.
He never saw the two playing cards floating down to the crater left by the annihilated limousine. Or the total disappearance of the shadow that had followed him inside the limo.
The floating cards were a suited pair: the ace and jack of spades.
CROSS DIDN’T go far. Against the back wall of a wood-planked, sawdust-floored bar, he walked over to a pay phone with an “Out of Order” sign plastered over the dial.
Standing with his back against the wall, he picked up the receiver, waited a few seconds for a series of clicks, then said, “It’s done,” into the mouthpiece.
Then he departed as unobtrusively as he entered, as visible to the patrons as a gentle breeze to an elephant.