The following morning, after spending the first two hours rehashing the Rosemary Battle slaying, Sydney gathered Ellis and Warren into the precinct conference room. The room served as the “Butcher” strategy room, where the three detectives met on occasion to bounce ideas and theories off one another.
In one corner, adjacent to the eight-seat conference table, stood the obligatory “Butcher” bulletin board. Five, eight by ten, black and white photos were aligned on the board in numerical order, beginning with Celia Bryant and ending with Rosemary Battle. The manner in which the photos were aligned seemed to leave ample room for future victims. As Ellis and Warren were taking their seats, Sydney frowned at the bulletin board.
“What’s wrong, Syd?” Ellis asked.
“Who the hell lined up these pictures? The way it looks makes me think we have just enough room to squeeze in seven more. Hell, that would make an even dozen,” he finished sarcastically.
Warren frowned at Ellis, puzzled by Sydney’s attitude.
“Damn, Syd, I did it… and I’m really sorry. I guess I’m just not up on serial killer bulletin board protocol.”
“Sorry, Warren,” Sydney muttered, embarrassed by his own insensitivity, “just ignore me. I guess this thing is getting to me a little, but I sure as hell shouldn’t take it out on you guys.”
Warren shook the apology off. “No problem—you’re right about the pictures. If the press were to see them like that, they would probably have a field day with it.”
Ellis chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey Syd, handling the press has even got you thinking like them now.”
Sydney smiled wanly, his mind drifting to his parting with Shirley. “Yeah, that’s a hell of a scary thought,” he replied, staring straight ahead.
“What’s up, Chief,” Ellis said, “did the lab work come back on Ms. Battle? Is that what this meeting is about?”
“Yeah, it was a match.”
“Well, we all pretty much knew it would be. I plan on spending the rest of the morning nailing down Reed’s exact whereabouts for each of the past nine or ten weekends. Like I told you earlier, Syd, Terry assured me that their plane left at ten, yesterday morning.”
“That gives him plenty of time to kill Rosemary Battle,” Sydney said, nodding, “because Bernie estimates the time of death to be between midnight and two a.m.” Ellis started to stand, but was stopped by Sydney. “Fellas, I’ve got something else for you this morning. Something extra special.”
“What have you got up your sleeve?” Warren asked.
“In a few minutes, a Ms. Sarah Beale is scheduled to join us.”
Ellis frowned, puzzled. “Sarah Beale? Who is Sarah Beale?”
“Lieutenant Murphy—over in Jersey—told me about her. Ms. Beale is some kind of serial killer expert.”
Both detectives were cynical. “What,” Ellis said, “you couldn’t find a ghostbuster?”
“Very funny,” Sydney said, chuckling. “At this point, I’m ready to try just about anything. Hell, Murphy said she helped nail that guy over in St. Louis—the one who was killing teenage girls. What was his name?”
“Roberto Santos,” Ellis said.
“Yeah, Santos—he said she helped bring the guy down.”
“Helped them how?” Ellis asked skeptically.
“She took the facts, then told them what to look for. As it turned out, he fit her profile perfectly. Besides, what is a few minutes of our time gonna hurt?”
“We’re not giving her any of the things we’re keeping from the press, right?” Warren asked.
Sydney shook his head. “Hell no.”
A knock interrupted them. “Enter,” he called out. The door opened. Gert ushered a tiny, grey haired woman into the room.
The detectives rose in unison, cognizant of their manners.
“Ms. Beale,” Sydney said, smiling, “I’m Lieutenant Berry and these are Sergeants’ Moore and Burroughs.”
“Gentlemen,” she replied with a nod.
Sydney pulled out a chair for the elderly woman. “Thank you for coming.”
“I’m always eager to help when I can,” she replied sweetly.
“Good, then let’s get started,” Sydney said. “Oh, can I get you some coffee… tea… water?”
“No… thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Okay then… I’m sure you’re familiar with the case?”
She smiled, nodding. “I’ve read everything that has been written and I have heard everything that has been said in the press, but what I need from you are the things that you haven’t made public.”
Sydney was charmed by the sweet old lady, finding it difficult to turn her down. “Ms. Beale, please don’t take this personally, but I feel uncomfortable about giving you potentially crucial facts about the case—facts we have kept to ourselves for strategic reasons.” As he finished the statement, he smiled at the sweet, little old lady.
“What is this bullshit?” she asked in her sweet, little old lady voice, shocking them all.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Sydney asked, taken aback.
“Then what the hell did you call me all the way over here for?”
Sydney blushed sheepishly. “Ms. Beale, please don’t misunder—”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Lieutenant,” she said rising from her chair. “Either you tell me everything, or I walk. It’s that simple. I’ve got two daughters of my own—and four granddaughters—so I would never do anything to jeopardize catching this killing machine you have on your hands.”
The three detectives made eye contact with one another, silently agreeing to trust her. “Okay, Ms. Beale,” Sydney said, “you win. Please sit back down and we will tell you everything.”
She smiled sweetly at the trio. “Fine.”
Sydney started to speak, but she stopped him, holding up one bony finger. “Lieutenant, why don’t I ask you a few questions and see if you have the answers. That might save us some time.” Sydney nodded, so she continued, “First, there has been no mention of semen, hair, blood, or any other physical evidence being left behind by the killer.”
“There was semen present with each victim,” Sydney said, “but no other physical evidence to speak of.”
“The newspaper stated that the victims were not violated sexually,” she said, frowning.
“That’s the press for you,” Sydney said, nodding. “They asked about violation, mentioning all of the usual methods of abuse. I answered no.”
“You misled them,” she said, smiling.
“No ma’am,” he replied innocently, “they just took what I said and ran with it. The victims were not raped or sodomized. The semen was found liberally in and about the abdominal wounds.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, ma’am—and we also obtained samples from the sheets of two of the victims.”
“What type of secretor are you dealing with?”
“PGM 1, class A secretor,” Sydney replied.
“Good, not very common,” she said, nodding. “That could prove to be very important.”
“I’ve been told that it is very uncommon,” Sydney interjected.
“Suffice it to say that your killer’s type would appear ten to fifteen times in one hundred. That is not very common, though short of uncommon.”
Sydney nodded, impressed with the wily old lady. “What else do you need to know?”
“Were there any connections between the victims?”
Sydney rubbed his jaw, debating whether to tell her the entire truth. He decided to trust her. “At least two of the victims had some involvement with the local democratic party,” he said, glancing at Ellis and Warren, “and at least three of the victims came in contact with the same man within days—even hours—of their deaths.”
She smiled, nodding eagerly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me everything.”
Sydney did tell her everything, from the first killing to Senator Dexter Reed’s possible connection. Warren and Ellis piped in occasionally, as Sydney laid the entire investigation before her.
After he finished, she took a deep breath while shaking her head slowly. “I don’t envy you having to investigate a United States senator… but the facts certainly warrant it.”
“Officially, we are not investigating the man. By telling you, I’m putting my butt on the line here.”
“Oh, I understand the delicate position you’re in.”
Sydney frowned, wrestling with something. “Ms. Beale, isn’t the senator considerably older than the typical serial killer?”
“Yes, but there are several cases of men his age and older who have broken the pattern. Late twenties to mid-thirties is the typical profile, but you cannot allow that to limit the scope of your investigation. For instance, the majority of people who die in automobile accidents are killed on weekends, but if a person is killed on a Tuesday night, isn’t that person just as dead?”
The detectives chuckled at her logic. “Good point,” Sydney admitted.
“I must admit that I am very skeptical of a senator being involved in this. Are you investigating his aide, this Morrell fellow?”
“He’s got an extremely clean past,” Warren answered, nodding. “Valedictorian of his high school, honor graduate of Harvard—he hasn’t had so much as a speeding ticket.”
“I like the kid,” Ellis piped in. “My gut feeling is that he’s a hardworking, bright kid with a hell of a future ahead of him.”
“My advice,” Sarah said, “is for all of you to remain open-minded. Senator Reed sounds like an arrogant, pompous, oversexed pervert—and I’m sure you all find it very easy to dislike him. You must remember, however, he obviously does a pretty darn good job on the Senate floor. He was one of the youngest senators ever elected in the state. If the polls are correct, he stands a great chance of being re-elected by a landslide. The fact that he is not a good human being stops far short of qualifying him as a serial killer.”
Sydney nodded his agreement. “Ted Bundy was liked and respected by nearly everyone he came in contact with.”
“Except his victims,” Sarah noted. “To be quite frank, Terry Morrell seems to be much more in line with the typical serial killer, in that his past record would lead one to think him incapable of such abhorrent behavior.”
Sydney had a growing confidence in the strange little woman. “What else can you tell us, Ms. Beale?”
“I can give you my guess as to the profile of your killer. I believe that it is an educated guess based on what information we have—but a guess just the same.”
“Any ideas you might have would be greatly appreciated.”
“I believe the killer is probably sexually dysfunctional in some way. He may be unable to have sex with the victims in the normal way.”
“So he masturbates over them,” Ellis chimed in.
Sarah’s brow furrowed as she pondered the question. “Perhaps, but I don’t really think so. There’s an even more disturbing possibility.”
“I don’t know,” Ellis said, “the evidence would seem to point to masturbation.”
She shook her head, her lips pursed. “No, I think that the act of butchering these women is the equivalent to sex for this fellow. He climaxes as he cuts them. He is impotent without the knife.”
“Could there be a rage inside the guy because of his impotence?” Warren asked. “Could that possibly be what triggers him?”
Sarah raised a bony finger to her chin, scratching it, deep in thought. “Perhaps, but it could be something even more sinister.” The detectives listened intently, spellbound. “It is quite possible that the killer doesn’t consider himself impotent at all. Physiologically speaking, he would be correct.”
Sensing where she was going, Sydney added, “He just might think that climaxing while killing is the best thing going.”
“Exactly,” she said. “There could also be some pre-adult sexual history which would help explain the psychology of the murders.”
Ellis groaned loudly. “Please don’t say that his mother made him do it.”
“As worn out as it may sound,” she said, chuckling softly, “either parent is usually an excellent place to start.”
“Why did he kill a hooker this time?” Ellis queried.
“If it is someone who is randomly killing young women, she fits perfectly. The democratic party and Reed angles are compelling, but could very well be totally coincidental—a red herring if you will. Then again, if either Reed or Morrell is your man, it fits as well.”
“How so?” Ellis asked.
“The killer changed his operating procedure. He felt the compulsion to kill again, but found himself without a victim and short on time. Why the sense of urgency? He had a plane trip in the morning.” She smiled at the detectives. “Who is the most accessible prospect for a last-minute killing?”
“A hooker, of course,” Warren answered, nodding at the logic.
“The butchering was done with less care and attention,” she continued, “possibly because of a time problem and the threat of discovery.”
“That theory does appear sound,” Sydney said.
Sarah Beale smiled, shaking her head. “The only problem, gentlemen, is that a random killing is just as viable a possibility. It would be great for everything to fit in a nice little box, but at this point, I don’t see it.”
Sydney closed his notebook, standing. “Well, I have definitely learned some things today. Thank you for your input, Ms. Beale.”
She rose from the chair. “Lieutenant, you have quite a dilemma on your hands, in that future murders may be the only way to answer the Reed, Morrell question. If they are in town when and if the next one occurs, it definitely adds to the intrigue.”
“The problem there is that they are both now aware of our interest in them,” Sydney added. “If one of them is indeed the killer, I would imagine that he would become more random.”
“Or, it could very well have the opposite effect,” Sarah said. “He may actually enjoy taunting you. That would also be typical of a serial killer.”
“Just like Berkowitz,” Ellis interjected.
“Exactly,” she said. “He wrote notes to the police, daring them to catch him.” She strode toward the door. “Well, I’m off gentlemen. You will call me if I can help further?”
“Yes ma’am,” Sydney replied, “you can count on it.”
After she had left, Ellis turned to Warren and Sydney. “I learned some things, but to be honest with you, I’m more discouraged now than I was when I got up this morning.”
Warren nodded, completely in tune with his partner’s thought process. “Yeah, it could be Reed, Morrell, or some anonymous asshole we know absolutely nothing about.”
Sydney shook his head. “Wrong, we know one thing about him. He’s gonna slip up eventually and then we will nail his ass.”
Ellis pursed his lips at the pep talk. “The sooner the better, Syd,” he said, glancing at the bulletin board. “That board is as full as it ever needs to be.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The seven-year-old boy approached the open casket, his entire body trembling with fear. He knew very little about death, but anything that evoked such wailing and crying was certainly to be dreaded. He walked behind aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends of the family. Finally, he found himself beside the still body of his father. Even though he had no idea what to expect, he was shocked when he gazed into the casket. His father appeared to be sleeping.
He felt the urge to shake him, hug him, scream at him, Get up Daddy! You’re not dead! He felt the tears forming, realizing that the person he loved more than anyone on earth was, indeed, gone forever. Feeling the tears brimming in his eyes, he nervously glanced at her, hoping against hope that crying might actually be acceptable on such an occasion. This thought was quickly squelched, when, with one cold glare, she brought the somber, expressionless look back to his otherwise handsome features.
He slowly turned, once again, to what had been the best part of his life. He startled himself by mentally replacing his father’s peaceful form with someone else. His lips curled upward, ever so slightly, as he silently wished that it had been her instead of his father.
God in heaven, he wished it had been her.