Palmer leaned forward. “Okay, let’s go with that. Let’s say his mother lost her mind and that he inherited the condition. What’s your prognosis?”
She shrugged. “These crimes are too methodical and well-organized to be the work of a delusional schizophrenic. He’s in control of his impulses. And he isn’t bipolar, because grandiosity would make him want to brag about his exploits. He’d be writing letters to the editor or taunting the police with his accomplishments. There are a couple of other possible disorders… but my best guess is sociopathy. Sociopaths can function normally in society. They can be clever and deceptive and highly manipulative. He doesn’t care about the pain he’s inflicted on others or the destruction and chaos he’s left in his wake. He can’t experience emotions the way most people do. So criminal behavior is easy for him.”
“Which is why he hasn’t raised any red flags yet.”
She nodded. “Otherwise he would’ve been caught by now.”
“Okay,” Palmer said. “What are his weaknesses?”
“A penchant for young girls,” Kate said. “A traumatic childhood. He’s on the prowl. If what you say is true, then he’s developed a pattern of abducting vulnerable children and taking them someplace where he can cut their hair then dispose of their bodies, perhaps in the woods like Hannah Lloyd. Or else he stages suicides to see if he can get away with it. It’s a thrill for him. I doubt he can stop voluntarily, which means he leads a secret life. He hides his true self from the world. And that’s a great vulnerability.”
Palmer cocked an eyebrow. “What’s his motivation?”
“If these aren’t lust kills, then it’s all about power. He selects his victims carefully. He bides his time. There’s nothing rushed about these crimes—the staging of Susie Gafford’s, Lizbeth Howell’s, and Tabitha Davidowitz’s deaths shows that. Which means he’s methodical and well organized. He knows what he’s doing. He enjoys the hunt. He’s devious. He likes to play games. But he’s probably very afraid of getting caught. Bottom line, he hates to lose. That’s his biggest weakness.”
A slow smile spread across Palmer’s face. “I want you to take a look at something for me.” He rummaged through a pile of photographs on the coffee table. “Tell me if this gets to be too much.” He handed her a glossy 8x11 of a young girl with a crescent-shaped bruise on her throat, and Kate recognized six-year-old Susie Gafford, the little girl who had fallen down a well. “See this bruise? That is what you call a compression injury.” He pointed at the photograph. “It occurred antemortem, just before death. Any thoughts?”
Kate studied the photograph. Susie’s eyes were closed. Her lips were blue and her neck was tilted at an angle. Her glossy hair was braided in pigtails and tied at the ends with satin ribbons. It was a horrifying sight, and yet Kate couldn’t tear her eyes away. Susie had cuts and contusions on her body—no doubt from falling fifty feet down a stone well—but Kate could plainly see what the detective was talking about: a distinctive crescent-shaped mark on the victim’s throat, about two inches long and half an inch wide. “Looks like a half-moon,” she said. “A crescent. As if something was pressed against her skin.”
“Exactly,” he said.
There was something oddly familiar about the mark. Kate handed the photograph back and shuddered. Detective Dyson was leading her down a very dark path. “What does it mean?”
“I believe she was strangled with something soft, like a scarf or a blouse, placed over her throat lengthwise and gradually tightened. It was held that way with two hands, one hand pulling on either end. The hyoid bone was intact, meaning she wasn’t strangled with a belt or a cord, or by a pair of hands. We didn’t find any fingernail marks around the throat, which would indicate manual strangulation. Just this single compression injury, inflicted shortly before her heart stopped beating.”
“So she was strangled to death?”
“It’s called soft strangulation,” he explained. “A piece of fabric, when used correctly, won’t leave any telltale marks on the victim.”
“But I’m confused. Why did the medical examiner rule it an accident?”
Palmer ran his finger around the rim of his coffee mug. “Quade and I were always butting heads. I objected to his ruling at the time. But soft strangulation doesn’t leave any trace behind.”
“Except the killer made a mistake, right?” she said. “Because there was something attached to the piece of material he strangled her with. Something that left this mark?”
“Right,” Palmer said with a nod. “Perhaps a piece of jewelry; I’m thinking a pin or a brooch. He made a crucial error and didn’t notice his mistake until it was too late. So he threw the body down the well in order to disguise the manner of death.”
“But I don’t understand. Why didn’t the medical examiner see it?”
Palmer shrugged with resignation. “Her face wasn’t congested or swollen, no petechial hemorrhages, no red dots or streaks in the eyes, no ligature marks, coupled with an intact hyoid bone… he concluded that she struck her throat during her tumble down the well. But you can’t dismiss a compression injury. Especially when some of the blood settled into the back of the body—not much, but enough. Evidence the victim was lying on the ground when she died, not curled up inside the well. If Susie Gafford was his first kill, then the perp was bound to make a few mistakes.”
Kate swallowed hard. They were talking about real events and real people. Real little girls. This discussion was no longer theoretical, and it scared her. She resisted. What if Palmer was wrong? What if the medical examiner was right? “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why aren’t the police all over this?”
“You’re talking about a skilled psychopath—you call him a sociopath, I say tomato. He probably has a good job—a teacher, minister, social worker—and this is his terrain—Blunt River County. He’s comfortable here and can strike at any time or place of his choosing. Otherwise, he never would’ve gotten away with it.”
“And the police don’t see a connection?” she asked incredulously.
“First of all, there are four jurisdictions handling the nine cases, and each of these departments don’t necessarily communicate with one another. They all have their own hotlines, with thousands of tips pouring in. You’ve got hundreds of witnesses and suspects to track down. It’s easy for an investigator to get bogged down. Like I said, Quade and I strongly disagreed about a lot of things, but his word held a lot of sway. Still does.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“Don’t get me wrong. This is a great bunch of guys I’m talking about. They work their butts off. They want justice, same as me. But they’ve got a job to do and a board to clear, and things can get messy fast. There’s a lot of infighting and there are budgetary considerations. Blunt River depends heavily on tourism, and the powers-that-be don’t want any feathers ruffled unless the police are a hundred per cent sure of their facts.” He shrugged. “So caution prevails. Shit happens.”
“What about Quade Pickler?”
“What about him?”
“Don’t you think it’s weird? He just dismissed you outright?”
Palmer shook his head. “Like I said, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’s as easily fooled as the rest of them.”
“So you left it at that?”
“No, I didn’t leave it at that. Given the age of the victims, I interviewed all known pedophiles in the area, family members, neighbors, teachers. It wasn’t until years later that I learned…” He looked at her. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
She nodded slowly.
“I already have a suspect in mind.”
She drew back, unnerved by the revelation.
“He fits the profile I’ve built up of the killer: a loner in a position of authority. He’s a professor at Wellington University, right here in Blunt River. And I think you know him.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“William Stigler,” Palmer said.
Kate shook her head, confused.