Wulf wanted to know why he hadn’t called him immediately.
Hastings said, “Detective Escobar called me first. It was a tip. But we weren’t sure it was anything legitimate until we checked it out.”
“And now?”
“We think he wrote the letter.”
“You think who wrote the letter?”
“The killer.”
“That’s your theory,” Wulf said.
“It’s my thinking, yes.” Hastings said, “Detective Escobar thinks so too.”
Wulf looked away. Since Escobar didn’t work for him, his viewpoint didn’t count.
Hastings saw that Wulf was pissed off. He wanted to have the killer in custody. He wanted it to be Larry MacPherson because they already had MacPherson in the county lockup and that would make things easier for everyone. Hastings didn’t blame Wulf for being angry, generally. But he suspected that Wulf had found out about the letter from his counterpart at the County Police Department, rather than from his own people. This had cost Wulf some face on top of being wrong about MacPherson’s being the killer.
Hastings said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you right away. I didn’t know it would turn out to be something key.”
“You still don’t know that.”
Christ, Hastings thought. He said, “Perhaps not. But it’s been confirmed that Marla Hilsheimer is missing.”
Wulf shrugged.
And Hastings said, “And the thing about the earring. The earring belonging to Adele Sayers. Springheel Jim made a mention of that. That detail wasn’t available to the public.”
Wulf still wanted to fight him for some reason. He said, “It could have come from someone who had access to the task force’s documentation,” still wanting to fight him.
“It’s possible,” Hastings said. Though he didn’t think it was possible. “But it’s not at all likely. But putting the earring aside, how could he have known about the disappearance of Marla Hilsheimer?”
“You’re presuming she’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. I’m presuming he killed her.”
“And you want to tell this to her husband? Her family? Are you that sure?”
It was a shitty question. An unfair one, geared to emotions. Hastings said, “I can hope that I’m wrong. But if you order me to give my opinion to the family, I will.” Hastings hesitated, then he said, “Listen, do you think we should fax a copy of the letter to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit?”
Wulf seemed to consider this. The lieutenant was asking his opinion. It was intended to flatter him, though Hastings hoped that Wulf would not detect it.
He didn’t. Wulf said, “Yes. Do that.” Some of his authority had been regained.
Hastings figured that it would take the FBI profilers at least two days to render an opinion on Springheel Jim’s letter. Yes, it was written by the killer. No, it was not. Perhaps it may have been. Whatever their finding would be was of little importance to Hastings. He thought it was written by the killer, and that was all that mattered to him.
Hastings was familiar with the Green River serial killer investigation. There were few homicide detectives who weren’t. In that case, the killer had sent a letter to the local newspaper. The Seattle task force forwarded a copy to the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. After review, the FBI said that the letter had “no connection with the Green River homicides” and that the letter was a “feeble and amateurish attempt to gain some personal importance by manipulating the investigation.”
They were right about the letter being an attempt to gain some personal importance, but they were wrong about it not being written by the murderer. Gary Ridgeway, the Green River serial killer, later testified in court that he did write and send that letter. And that after he wrote it, he’d gone on to kill several more young women.
Hastings had had no role in that investigation. It was in another city and it was before his time. He had no reason to think that the FBI analyst had acted in bad faith or was incompetent. To his way of thinking, it was the culture in law enforcement that was probably to blame. The overconfident belief in the all-knowing profiler.
But for whatever reason, men like Ronnie Wulf seemed to take comfort in sending things to the FBI. Perhaps it was because Wulf actually believed the feds were expert in making such determinations. But Hastings had worked in law enforcement long enough to know that that would only be part of it. FBI assistance would take some political heat off the chief of detectives and, by extension, the Metropolitan Police Department itself. Whether FBI assistance was helpful or not, Wulf would be better able to claim he’d done everything he could.
Which was fine with Hastings. He had no personal beef with Ronnie Wulf. The existence of a random killer loose in the city frightened people. And the longer the killer remained at large, the more police officers’ nerves became frayed and department morale declined. Wulf was in charge of the task force, and he had to answer directly to people that Hastings did not. And it was obvious that the investigation was wearing on Wulf, making him irritable and at times even petty. Hastings had to remind himself that Wulf was essentially a good man and that he probably had not wanted to be put in charge of this.
Now Hastings could see that Wulf’s anger was off him. At least at this moment. Hastings said, “Is there anything else you’d recommend?”
“You’ve interviewed the reporter?”
“Yes. I spoke with the one that spoke with Springheel Jim.”
“Did he tape the call?”
“No. But I summarized what the reporter remembered in my report. The reporter seemed to believe that the caller was an educated man.”
“Why’s that?”
“He used a couple of big words. Prosaic being one of them.”
“Prosaic.”
“Yeah. It means ordinary. Common—”
“I know what it means. So we’re dealing with a college-degreed murderer, huh?”
“I don’t know,” Hastings said. “I do think he’s smart though.”
“No prints on the letter or the book?”
“No.”
Ronnie Wulf sighed. “No, there’s nothing else I can suggest. Just go back to work.”
Hastings left Wulf’s office and started his drive home. It was almost midnight. Hastings cursed to himself. Earlier, he had dropped Amy off at the McGregors’, neighbors who had a daughter Amy’s age. Hastings liked Terry McGregor, the kid’s mom, but found the husband pretty tiresome. If he picked Amy up now, he would likely wake up the parents, inconveniencing them even more. Terry was a good lady and she had never once complained about having Amy over. But sometimes Hastings feared that he was taking her for granted.
He thought back to what he had said when he left Amy there hours ago. Something to the effect that he should be gone for only a couple of hours. And Terry McGregor had said not to worry because it was perfectly fine if Amy stayed the night. A casual offer inconsiderately accepted.
Shit. Well, he would drive by their house on the way home. If a light was on, or the flashing light of a flickering television screen, he would give a couple of soft knocks on the door. If not, he would have to let Amy stay the night and then pick her up early in the morning.
There was no light on, though, flickering or otherwise. And Hastings drove home alone, feeling like a crappy parent.
He unlocked the door to his condo and walked to the kitchen. There was too much on his mind to go straight to sleep. He made himself a whiskey, two fingers on ice, and a splash of water on top. He left the television off and put a George Jones record on the turntable.
Alone now, and he would still be alone if Amy were down the hall asleep in her bedroom. But he felt better when she was in the house with him. He felt more secure, more complete. He did not believe he was the sort to mope over the past. But tonight he thought about the past. He thought about what his life would be like if Eileen hadn’t left him. They would still be a family, and he wouldn’t have to feel shitty for dropping Amy off at a friend’s and taking advantage of a decent, generous woman whom he didn’t know well enough to be taking advantage of. It would be different if Eileen hadn’t left. Maybe not better and almost certainly not happier or calmer, but they would be a family under one roof.
A family. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could round out the circle. He wondered if Carol McGuire could fill that role. Not just as a wife but as a stepmother. He feared that he knew the answer. Carol had always been nice to Amy. Had never said an unkind word to her or about her. (Though she’d said plenty about Eileen.) But, though there was nothing negative on Carol’s part regarding Amy, there had been nothing positive either. Not much concern either way. She had once said to him, “You need to take better care of yourself.” And Hastings had not liked that, had not liked that at all. It was not so much the words she had used as the context in which she’d used them. In that conversation, he had taken Carol to mean that he should pay more attention to himself than he did to his kid.
But he had chickened out of that conversation. He had an idea of what she had meant, but he wasn’t entirely sure. She could have meant that he should eat better or exercise more or get more sleep. It may not have been a suggestion that he give less of his time and less of himself to his daughter. He could have asked Carol to explain her comment then, to elaborate. But he hadn’t. He had let it drop. Perhaps to avoid conflict. Perhaps because he didn’t want to know the truth.
He wondered about it from time to time. And when he did, he wondered if he and Carol McGuire would go further in their relationship. Whether they were building to something or if they had reached their zenith. He wondered if what they had now was enough for him. He’d never asked her if it was enough for her.
Eileen, Amy, Carol, Terry McGregor. Hastings was a cop, an ex-jock, a die-hard Nebraska college football fan, a hunter and an outdoorsman and a country music fan. A man’s man, by God. Yet his personal life was wrapped up with women and girls. He had no son. His only close male friends were the police officers he worked with. His relationship with his father had been terrible. His mother had been a sweet and gentle soul, and he had spent much of his childhood protecting her from his father’s petty cruelty. He wondered if there was some sort of connection there.
And he wondered about Springheel Jim.
What had his childhood been like? Had it been normal? Had it been unhealthy? Had abuse or neglect played a part in making him a monster? Had there been some concrete incident or series of incidents that caused him to hate women? To look upon them with nothing but contempt and callousness and a complete absence of empathy? To see them not as women or as human beings but as objects to fulfill his dark, pitiless fantasies. Was there a cause? Or did he just exist?
Hastings did not like to think about this man. He did not want to contemplate this beast at the same time that he contemplated people he cared about. Women he cared about. This beast who looked upon women as not quite human.
If you were not a psychopath, it was difficult to get at. It was difficult to understand. It was difficult to get into the killer’s head, because he thinks in ways normal people are not capable of thinking.
The most hardened policeman will weep at the sight of a child’s corpse at the scene of a traffic accident. Will wince if he sees the accident happening. Shoulders hunch as the vehicles collide because the normal person hopes that no one will be hurt. Please, God, don’t let someone die. Please let it be all right.
But the psychopath doesn’t think that way. He is not affected. He lacks the capability to feel the affect. To him, death and cruelty and destruction are mere images. It’s not in him to feel.
No, Hastings thought. That’s not entirely true. They feel, all right. They feel the thrill and joy of being wicked. For them, it is liberating. And they feed on fear. The fear can be almost intoxicating.
That’s why you wrote that letter, isn’t it? Hastings thought. You wanted attention and you wanted to brag and you wanted to show the police and the press how smart you were. But you wanted to create fear too. Like a cat batting at a mouse. You want to feed on that, don’t you?
He was vain, this killer. He had placed his letter in a book about Jack the Ripper. Look at me! A modern-day Jack the Ripper, see? Ha-ha! He liked being clever. Apart from creating sensation, Springheel Jim wanted to let the public know that serial killers were by no means a recent creation. They had been around for centuries. Indeed, the FBI had taught Hastings that the medieval myths of vampires, demons, and werewolves stemmed not just from German folklore but from actual gruesome murders. Even back then, people could not comprehend that human beings could commit such atrocities. It had to be attributed to the supernatural because it could not be comprehended that a man could do such things. The existence of Stoker’s Dracula was easier to contemplate than history’s Vlad the Impaler.
It was these thoughts that put the minor issues with Ronnie Wulf in perspective. Wulf was getting worn-out. Maybe it had something to do with age too. Maybe Wulf had liked the thrill of pursuing the enemy, the chase, when he was younger, but now he was getting leaned on from people above him. Or maybe he was just tired. It could happen to the best of officers. Maybe it would happen to Hastings one day as well, and he too would seek refuge in an administrative position.
But not yet, Hastings thought. Not yet, Jim.