“What sort of occupation, exactly?” I asked uneasily.
“Could be just about anything. I’m willing to bet he’s shrewd enough, competent enough, to do just about anything he likes.”
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,” I heard Marino say.
I reminded Fortosis, “You’ve changed your mind. Originally you assumed he might have a criminal record or history of mental illness, maybe both. Someone who was just let out of a mental institution or prison—”
He interrupted, “In light of these last two homicides, particularly if Abby Turnbull figures in, I don’t think that at all. Psychotic offenders rarely, if ever, have the wherewithal to repeatedly elude the police. I’m of the opinion that the killer in Richmond is experienced, has probably been murdering for years in other places, and has escaped apprehension as successfully in the past as he’s escaping it now.”
“You’re thinking he moves to a new place and kills for several months, then moves on?”
“Not necessarily,” he replied. “He may be disciplined enough to move to a new place and get himself settled in his job. It’s possible he can go for quite a while until he starts. When he starts, he can’t stop. And with each new territory it’s taking more to satisfy him. He’s becoming increasingly daring, more out of control. He’s taunting the police and enjoying making himself the major preoccupation of the city, that is, through the press—and possibly through his victim selection.”
“Abby,” I muttered. “If he really was after her.”
He nodded. “That was new, the most daring, reckless thing he’s done—if he set out to murder a highly visible police reporter. It would have been his greatest performance. There could be other components, ideas of reference, projection. Abby writes about him and he thinks he has something personal with her. He develops a relationship with her. His rage, his fantasies, focus on her.”
“But he screwed up,” I angrily retorted. “His so-called greatest performance and he completely screwed it up.”
“Exactly. He may not have been familiar enough with Abby to know what she looks like, know that her sister moved in with her last fall.” His eyes were steady as he added, “It’s entirely possible he didn’t know until he watched the news or read the papers that the woman he murdered wasn’t Abby.”
I was startled by the thought. It hadn’t occurred to me.
“And this worries me considerably.” He leaned back in the chair.
“What? He might come after her again?” I seriously doubted it.
“It worries me.” He seemed to be thinking out loud now. “It didn’t happen the way he planned. In his own mind, he made a fool of himself. This may only serve to make him more vicious.”
“How violent does he have to be to qualify as ’more vicious’?” I blurted out loudly. “You know what he did to Lori. And now Henna . . .”
The look on his face stopped me.
“I rang up Marino shortly before you got here, Kay.”
Fortosis knew.
He knew Henna Yarborough’s vaginal swabs were negative.
The killer probably misfired. Most of the seminal fluid I collected was on the bedcovers and her legs. Or else the only instrument he successfully inserted was his knife. The sheets beneath her were stiff and dark with dried blood. Had he not strangled her, she probably would have bled to death.
We sat in oppressive silence with the terrible image of a person who could take pleasure in causing such horrendous pain to another human being.
When I looked at Fortosis his eyes were dull, his face drained. I think it was the first time I’d ever realized he was old beyond his years. He could hear, he could see what happened to Henna. He knew these things even more vividly than I. The room closed in on us.
We both got up at the same time.
I took the long way back to my car, veering across the campus instead of following the direct route of the narrow road leading to the parking deck. The Blue Ridge Mountains were a hazy frozen ocean in the distance, the dome of the rotunda bright white, and long fingers of shadow were spreading across the lawn. I could smell the scent of trees and grass still warm in the sun.
Knots of students drifted past, laughing and chatting and paying me no attention. As I walked beneath the spreading arms of a giant oak, my heart jumped into my throat at the sudden sound of running feet behind me. I abruptly spun around, and a young jogger met my startled gaze, his lips parting in surprise. He was a flash of red shorts and long brown legs as he cut across a sidewalk and was gone.
Chapter 13
THE NEXT MORNING I WAS AT THE OFFICE BY SIX. No one else was in, the phones up front still coded to roll over to the state switchboard.