Pooch?”
“You don’t know about the profile?” A quick grin sent his jowls into spasm. “Tell me somethin’, Means. What do you call a Somali with a swollen toe?”
“C’mon, Pooch. Stop fuckin’ around. This isn’t a joke to me.”
The smile disappeared. “It’s a piece of shit, Means. Don’t take it serious. Don’t play Humpty-Dumpty and set yourself up for a fall. See, the psychs told us our boy would never stop killing. They said he might take it in his sick head to move on. They said he might get run over by a bus or commit suicide or get murdered by a run-of-the-mill New York psychopath. They said he might even do something really stupid and get caught. But he’d never decide to stop killing. He couldn’t decide to stop killing. Face it, Means, there haven’t been any murders in five months. Your ticket to glory is either gone or dead.”
“Or recovering in a hospital somewhere. Getting ready to kill again.”
Pooch leaned to the side, managed to lift a buttock off the chair, then farted loudly. “Ya know, Means, it’s possible we got the key to our killer right in them filing cabinets. Or maybe it’s in the boxes. Or on one of the computer disks. You might even find him if ya got, say, thirty or forty years to wade through all the crap.”
It was my turn to fidget. I knew I had to surrender, to once and for all give up the possibility of actually closing the case. And not because I couldn’t deal with the frustration. I needed every bit of the energy at my command for the game I had to play with Vanessa Bouton. For the show I was obliged to stage. The question I needed to answer had nothing to do with who killed seven male prostitutes. The only question was what Vanessa Bouton wanted from me.
“Tell me about the profile, Pooch. I need some kind of an angle here.”
“Ah, yes, the profile.” Still grinning, he picked a single piece of paper off his desk and began to read. “‘Perpetrator is a white male, thirty to forty years of age, five-foot-ten to six-foot-one, one hundred eighty to two hundred pounds. He has no criminal record. He was not acquainted with his victims prior to the murders. He is a married or divorced bisexual with children. He may be employed in one of the professions associated with homosexuality: interior decoration, the fashion industry, the theater, etc. He is obsessively neat, quite formal in dress and usually wears a suit and a tie when in public. He is a heavy smoker. He owns, rents, or leases an American-made van. He is extremely cunning and will back away from potential victims before putting himself at risk. Because his economic background is both successful and stable, he cannot readily move to another jurisdiction in order to continue killing. Neither can he radically alter his tightly organized modus operandi. Therefore, he is at high risk to be apprehended or commit suicide.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all she wrote.”
“Who did it? Who dreamed up this profile?”
“The Behavioral Science Unit of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His short pudgy fingers caressed the side of his face as he peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Impressive, right? Especially when you consider that all they had was the victims’ backgrounds, the crime scene material, and the autopsy reports.”
I shook my head. “First, I don’t see how it helps. It’s too vague. Second, if it’s wrong, you could walk right past the real killer. Third, there was no crime scene. The vics weren’t killed where they were found.”
He put down the paper and grabbed my wrist. “It’s a piece of shit,” he insisted. “A piece of shit.”
I pulled my hand away and sat back to await the lecture. It wasn’t long in coming.
“We’re talking about a couple of hundred thousand phone tips. We’re talking about thousands of interviews. You know Deputy Chief Bowman? Black guy works directly under the chief of
“You don’t know about the profile?” A quick grin sent his jowls into spasm. “Tell me somethin’, Means. What do you call a Somali with a swollen toe?”
“C’mon, Pooch. Stop fuckin’ around. This isn’t a joke to me.”
The smile disappeared. “It’s a piece of shit, Means. Don’t take it serious. Don’t play Humpty-Dumpty and set yourself up for a fall. See, the psychs told us our boy would never stop killing. They said he might take it in his sick head to move on. They said he might get run over by a bus or commit suicide or get murdered by a run-of-the-mill New York psychopath. They said he might even do something really stupid and get caught. But he’d never decide to stop killing. He couldn’t decide to stop killing. Face it, Means, there haven’t been any murders in five months. Your ticket to glory is either gone or dead.”
“Or recovering in a hospital somewhere. Getting ready to kill again.”
Pooch leaned to the side, managed to lift a buttock off the chair, then farted loudly. “Ya know, Means, it’s possible we got the key to our killer right in them filing cabinets. Or maybe it’s in the boxes. Or on one of the computer disks. You might even find him if ya got, say, thirty or forty years to wade through all the crap.”
It was my turn to fidget. I knew I had to surrender, to once and for all give up the possibility of actually closing the case. And not because I couldn’t deal with the frustration. I needed every bit of the energy at my command for the game I had to play with Vanessa Bouton. For the show I was obliged to stage. The question I needed to answer had nothing to do with who killed seven male prostitutes. The only question was what Vanessa Bouton wanted from me.
“Tell me about the profile, Pooch. I need some kind of an angle here.”
“Ah, yes, the profile.” Still grinning, he picked a single piece of paper off his desk and began to read. “‘Perpetrator is a white male, thirty to forty years of age, five-foot-ten to six-foot-one, one hundred eighty to two hundred pounds. He has no criminal record. He was not acquainted with his victims prior to the murders. He is a married or divorced bisexual with children. He may be employed in one of the professions associated with homosexuality: interior decoration, the fashion industry, the theater, etc. He is obsessively neat, quite formal in dress and usually wears a suit and a tie when in public. He is a heavy smoker. He owns, rents, or leases an American-made van. He is extremely cunning and will back away from potential victims before putting himself at risk. Because his economic background is both successful and stable, he cannot readily move to another jurisdiction in order to continue killing. Neither can he radically alter his tightly organized modus operandi. Therefore, he is at high risk to be apprehended or commit suicide.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all she wrote.”
“Who did it? Who dreamed up this profile?”
“The Behavioral Science Unit of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His short pudgy fingers caressed the side of his face as he peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Impressive, right? Especially when you consider that all they had was the victims’ backgrounds, the crime scene material, and the autopsy reports.”
I shook my head. “First, I don’t see how it helps. It’s too vague. Second, if it’s wrong, you could walk right past the real killer. Third, there was no crime scene. The vics weren’t killed where they were found.”
He put down the paper and grabbed my wrist. “It’s a piece of shit,” he insisted. “A piece of shit.”
I pulled my hand away and sat back to await the lecture. It wasn’t long in coming.
“We’re talking about a couple of hundred thousand phone tips. We’re talking about thousands of interviews. You know Deputy Chief Bowman? Black guy works directly under the chief of
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