“It’s bothering me,” I said to Marsha Russo.
We were sitting in my office, listening to the rain as it pelted the windowpane, the storm having already reached its peak, diminishing now as it moved south.
“What is?”
“There’s something about these murders that keeps gnawing at me. Maybe it’s their meticulousness. The huge amount of planning in order for the conditions to be just right.”
“So?”
“I don’t know, Marsha. It rankles. It feels…I don’t quite know how to say it cohesively…it feels like the killer has been doing this for a while. A number of times. My gut tells me it’s less about the actual killings and more about the fastidiousness of the crimes. Does that make any sense?”
“Go on.”
I stood and began mindlessly pacing the office. “Let’s assume the perp has satisfied his need to kill. We know he’s done it before. But what if he didn’t totally appease his psychotic needs? What if he’s now raising the stakes of the game.”
“The game?”
“Forgive me for using that term. But in truth, it feels to me as if, with regards to this particular killer, it is a game. I believe it’s less about the need to kill and more about the logistics. A psychotic need to commit the perfect crime. Repeatedly.”
I sat back down and listened to the rain for a while. “Let’s assume you’re right,” Marsha said. “How do you go about solving it?”
“Good question.”
“And the answer?”
“Are you up for some added responsibility?”
“Who, me?”
“Of course you. Who else am I talking to?”
“What kind of added responsibility?”
“Legwork.”
“What legwork?”
“Helping me find the killer.”
“You know something, Buddy? You’re very skilled at talking in circles.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
“So, what’s your answer?”
“My answer to what?”
“Doing legwork.”
“What exactly is it you want me to do?”
“Make use of your exceptional technological skills.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Buddy.”
“Listen to me, Marsha. If I’m right, this killer has a history. Somewhere out there are a number of unsolved, serial-style murders. They could be anywhere. I want you to research and locate these unsolveds and see if we can find any kind of pattern that fits the profile of our guy.”
“Or girl.”
“Her, too.”
Marsha sat silently for several moments. Then she said, “I can do that.”
“There’s every chance it will be time-consuming and possibly even fruitless.”
“I’ll still do it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Buddy. It certainly isn’t out of any measure of devotion or kiss-ass need to please you.”
“How depressing.”
“But I like your train of thought.”
“And?”
“I’m a glutton for punishment.” Marsha stood and headed for the door.
I stopped her. “One thing more.”
“It’s always something.”
“Let’s keep this to ourselves.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that. Only you and I can know about it.”
“Why?”
“Call it my coply intuition.”
“Which means?”
“I wish I knew.”