"City in Grip of Terror," the 110-point headline blared in the blackest of ink over a photo of Maud Simpson's shrouded body being carried on a gurney out of Fish Creek Park. The account of the killer's fifth victim occupied three-quarters of the front page. A photo of a grim-lipped Chief Johnstone appeared on the inside page. He confirmed that the police were receiving messages that might be from the killer but steadfastly refused to release any details of the latest murder, taking refuge in the fact that "the investigation is ongoing." The police were following up a number of promising leads and an arrest was expected in the near future. Chris groaned to himself when he read again that the investigation was a "full court press." The groan became a hiss of indrawn breath as he read the concluding paragraph: "Detective Chris Crane, once the star of our state-of-the-art Forensic Crime Scenes Unit, is the primary, leading a crack team of Homicide detectives." Smooth. Very smooth. By turning the spotlight on him, the Chief was cleverly deflecting the media's attention away from himself and onto Homicide. Their roles would be abruptly reversed if and when the serial was arrested.
Dummett's contribution was splashed across the top of the third page in the Herald's front section under the headline "What Makes A Serial Killer?" After recounting the details of the grisly scene in the park, the article turned into Dumett's trademark, a think piece. In the second paragraph Dummett answered the question posed by the headline with a single word: power. To decree life or death. The ultimate power trip. Especially for someone, the article speculated, who otherwise had no power, who might be the product of an abusive childhood, abandoned by his parents, unsuccessful in the workplace, scorned by the opposite sex—a loner with lots of time to weave erotic fantasies. It was stuff that could be culled from any textbook on the subject, but written with a style that made it seem fresh and plausible. While the article did nothing to minimize the unspeakable horror of the murders, there was a disquieting subtext that the killer might be driven by forces over which he had no control.
I know what you're up to, my friend, Chris thought. He carefully folded the newspapers and placed them on the counter beside the neatly stacked breakfast dishes. Nervous that his preoccupied owner might forget him, the parrot croaked, "Treat." It was almost the first word the bird had learned. Chuckling, Chris obliged, then went into the bedroom to finish dressing.
Gwen had come directly to headquarters instead of making her usual brief stop at the Crime Scenes office, so she was already at her desk by the time Chris arrived. They exchanged a few words about the escalating media coverage, then Gwen asked, "You read Dummett's piece?" It wasn't really a question; she knew he would have.
He nodded, and she frowned. "It was almost as if he was making excuses for our bad guy."
"I agree. And I know why."
When Gwen raised a questioning eyebrow, he went on. "I'm almost positive he's deliberately trying to ingratiate himself with the killer. He knows, like we do, that deep down, serial killers crave attention. Publicity. Notoriety. He is practically inviting TLC to get in touch with him. Give him some inside info he could use to create more publicity. To their mutual benefit. Ultimately he's hoping to expose the killer—a journalistic coup to end all coups!"
"What you call career-making!" breathed Gwen.
Once back at his desk, Chris logged onto his computer. The icon on the toolbar told him there was mail. He hit the envelope symbol and the message flashed across the screen:
NO WOMAN IS SAFE FROM ME
"Look at this, Gwen," Chris called out, beckoning the detective to join him.
"So now he's communicating with you directly. He knows you're his real opponent, Chris. He's challenging you."
"Mano-a-mano, eh?" Chris muttered. "He's sure as hell getting bolder. Whoever he is."
"That panache of his could have led him into making a fatal mistake. It should be possible to trace that e-mail."
"I'll put a team of experts on it. But we'll find it originated with a public server. One of those internet cafés where anyone has access. We'll get Cyber Crimes on it. It could take months and they may never find the sender, but it's worth a try."
"The signature pretty well rules out it being the work of a crank," observed Gwen. "Unless there's been another leak."
"Don't scare me like that, Gwen. The last thing we need is someone playing mind games with us. Our working hypothesis is that it's the killer. Let's hope he keeps it up until he gives himself away."
"The killer, or killers? You haven't ruled out the possibility of there being two killers, have you?"
"By no means. Still, the latest case doesn't jibe too well with the copycat theory. Unless of course Vinney's killer struck again for that very reason. To make us believe there is only one serial killer."
"Or unless the copycat has developed a taste for the game. That's been known to happen."
"What a charming thought!" Chris called up the file of another case on the computer. Later that morning he was to meet a Crown prosecutor at the courthouse complex to fine-tune a couple of questions the Crown wanted to use in cross-examination. The case was an old one that had taken two years to get to trial and had nothing to do with the serial killings. It was almost a relief to think, however briefly, about something other than the serial and his victims.
Unexpectedly, Joan and her cockatiel were stationed at their usual spot outside the mall entrance to Scotia Centre. Weeks could go by with no sign of her, but here she was, twice in only a few days. Was it the chance of seeing her that had led him to return so often to headquarters via the mall, as he was doing now, on his way back from the courthouse, rather than the more direct route along 6th? Chris saw that she had spotted him and raised his hand in greeting as he drew nearer. The cockatiel shifted from foot to foot in a little dance and whistled.
"He's glad to see you," smiled Joan.
"And I'm glad to see you. I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
Joan propped her arm up on the platform and Chris held her wrist in a gentle grip. "Is the pressure getting to you, Chris? The press has really been howling for blood."
"We can't let it distract us. Although there are times when it's hard not to." Chris held out his free hand for the bird to climb onto. "What's the word on the street?"
"A lot of them don't even know what's going on. Their brains are so fogged with drugs they can't think about anything except how they're going to get the next fix. The rest find it kinda exciting. Gives them something to talk about. It doesn't exactly break their hearts to see the police going around in circles."
"And what does Joan think?"
"I think about his victims, and what they are going through. Being tortured before they're killed. The papers don't tell you much, but they are tortured, aren't they, Chris?"
"Yes. They are." Placing the bird back on the platform, he started to reach into his pants pocket.
"Don't, Chris." She covered the coffee can with her hand. "I don't want your money. I would come here more often," she said after a pause, "if I thought it meant seeing you."
"I'll keep an eye out for you. And you take care. Remember what I said."
"Can't catch him, can you, cop?" The voice came from what looked to be a bundle of rags. Chris peered down at the unkempt figure squatting on the concrete pavement. At first he appeared to have no legs, but Chris saw they were drawn up beneath him and hidden by his tattered coat. Matted grey hair fell over his face to intermingle with a scraggly beard. He didn't look up, but kept a rheumy gaze fixed on the soiled cap in front of him. No coins decorated the inside of its grimy crown. Passersby would write him off as beyond all hope, not worthy of their charity.
"Not yet." Chris bent down to drop a toonie in the upturned cap, seeing as he did so the faded crest above its peak. The insignia of some club, probably golf. "It's very frustrating. Do you know anything that could help us?"
"He is vain. He will kill again. You will not catch him until he wants you to."
"What if I were to tell you he kills for financial gain? That these killings are not random, but are motive-driven?"
"Not correct. These are thrill ..." The voice that had been clear and distinct trailed off into a mumble. Chris caught the word narcissism as it surfaced from the unintelligible stream, but the rest was an incoherent babble. He tried to prompt the derelict with a few more questions, but gave up as he realized the man had retreated into his own world. Wherever and whatever that was.