CHAPTER 38

Ever sat down with a serial killer?”

The next day Rodriguez took me to a one-room apartment above a Jimmy John’s in the Streeterville section of Chicago. The apartment’s sole occupant was long and thin, a lot of bones and angles, with muttonchops and a gray handlebar mustache. Sixty, maybe a bit more, he wore a Fat Tire T-shirt and smoked a lot of dope. At least that is what the bag of weed on the coffee table would have the private investigator in me believe.

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

Robert J. Trent III took a sip of his ginger tea and offered a measured look into the abyss. I snuck a look at Rodriguez, who held up a hand for patience. According to the detective, Trent had bumped knees with more than a hundred serial killers. Even better, he had actually gotten results, offering profiles and breaking major cases with the FBI and beyond. I never heard of the guy. According to Rodriguez, that was by design. Trent was a freelance criminal profiler, a guy who never got the degrees or worked the mainstream press, a guy who lived under the radar because “that’s where the killers were.”

“Tricky business,” Trent said. “Need to be strong-willed.

Don’t let them get into your head. Because once they get in, they never get out.”

“I don’t expect to have any nightmares,” I said.

“Few do. I know a homicide detective who spent a couple hours with Ted Bundy down in Florida. Cop went home. Seemed fine. Two weeks later he woke up in the middle of the night. Bundy was sitting at the bottom of his bed. Not doing anything. Just sitting there, grinning. Guy’s wife had to call 911. Took three cops and a syringe full of Valium to calm this guy down. He quit the force six months later. Now he’s divorced, sells stationery, and drinks a fifth of vodka before he shuts his eyes at night. Bottom line…these guys prey on the weak.”

“What can you tell us about Grime specifically?” Rodriguez said.

“Never spoke with him. Am I to take it you’re the one going in?”

Trent offered me a set of watery red eyes over a pair of half-moon, CVS-issue reading glasses.

“Working on it,” I said.

Trent pushed the glasses up on his nose and hooked one knee over the other.

“Very good. Let me just review the facts here. At least as Detective Rodriguez presented them over the phone.”

Trent gave Rodriguez a sideways look, as if using the phone was somehow beneath us all, then continued.

“As I understand things, Mr. Grime has somehow ferreted his DNA out of prison and into the eager hands of an accomplice. Hmm?”

Rodriguez and I nodded. Trent pressed his lips together, consulted his notes, and continued.

“You gentlemen believe Mr. Grime has had this accomplice insinuate said semen into the particulars of an attempted sexual assault, thereby, and on the surface at least improbably, implicating Mr. Grime himself.”

More nods.

“Very good. You also suspect that said accomplice himself is and has been actively assaulting women over a period of years, perhaps at Mr. Grime’s urging and behest.”

Trent was on a roll now and didn’t wait for our acknowledgment.

“Further, you suspect this accomplice was actually a participant in the original set of serial murders for which Mr. Grime himself is currently looking at multiple death sentences. Finally, you contend that you will be able to prove all of this with DNA.”

“Not so sure about the last part,” Rodriguez said. “We have the accomplice’s DNA but no idea as to who it might be.”

“Hence the conversation with Grime,” Trent said.

“Hence,” I replied.

“Does it add up for you?” Rodriguez said.

Trent took a sip of tea, unhooked then rehooked his legs, crooked an elbow, and laid the long palm of his hand flat under an even longer chin. Finally, he looked up our way and answered.

“Oh, it adds up, Detective. It adds up beautifully. Classic serial killer. Classic Grime.”

“How so?” I said.

“John Grime is all about two things,” Trent said. “Controlling the present and reliving the past. Both are powerful narcotics. If, as you suggest, he is capable of pulling the strings on an active rapist or killer, it offers the ultimate release.”

“He relives his own crimes through the actions of his accomplice,” I said.

“Even better, Mr. Kelly. Even better. In his mind he physically places himself at the scene by putting his own semen there. His signature, if you will.”

“And he’s in control,” Rodriguez said.

Trent nodded and shifted back in his chair.

“Completely. Killing, raping by remote control. From a cell on death row. I abhor it, gentlemen, but you must admit, if even close to true, awfully impressive.”

“Fuck impressive,” I said. “How can we get him to talk? Give up the name of his accomplice?”

Trent shook his head.

“I don’t know exactly what will work. But I can surely tell you what will not. Don’t bother confronting Mr. Grime with facts he has gone to such lengths to arrange.”

“Explain,” I said.

Trent shrugged.

“His semen found at the latest assault. He knows it’s there. In a very real sense, he put it there. He also knows that you know it’s there and that he put it there. By acknowledging any of this, you give him more control, more enjoyment, less reason to do anything but shut up.”

“Shit,” Rodriguez said.

“Precisely,” Trent offered.

“So what can we do?” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, the name of his accomplice.”

Trent considered that for a moment and answered.

“I will tell you what I tell anyone who talks to a serial killer. Don’t lie. Even the least artful of these serial types are better liars than any of us could ever dream of being. With Grime, you are talking state of the art. His IQ is off the charts. Not genius level, but close. He will have this thing thought through.

“Tell him the truth. Make it a hard truth. Something he doesn’t want to hear. Gives you credibility. Gives you respect. Gives you at least a bit of strength. Then somehow convince him that giving up the name of his accomplice is in his best interest. Ultimately, Mr. Kelly, these guys are, for lack of a better word, selfish fucks. They will act in their own self-interest one hundred times out of one hundred. Therein lies their intrigue and their vulnerability. Use it, but don’t expect too much.”

“You don’t think he’ll talk?” I said.

“You never know,” Trent said. “You never know.”

The profiler picked up the bag of weed and some rolling papers. In less than a minute he had tapped out a professional-looking joint.

“Sorry, Detective, but you know. Glaucoma.”

Trent fired up and smoked. Just a toke or two. Then he pinched off the joint, closed his eyes, and sat back. After a few seconds’ repose, he continued.

“I will offer one more item for your consideration. Nothing more than a guess, but I believe Mr. Grime wants very much to help you identify his accomplice. If nothing else, it raises the stakes, pushes the rush.”

“Helps his God complex,” Rodriguez said.

“Exactly,” Trent replied. “He decides when the fun is over, who gets caught, and when. As for the accomplice himself…”

“Yes?” I said.

“Impossible to say how he would react to Grime’s betrayal. I will, however, say this. It seems more likely than not that he will continue to hunt and continue to attack women.”

“Until he is caught,” I said.

“No, Mr. Kelly. Until he is killed.”