“I agree. Small, intimate items belonging to the female is most probable. No valuables—that could be reported. He can fantasize, imagine, plot, and plan.”
“He has to know when to go in. He has to watch them,” Olsen added.
“Somebody with plenty of free time,” Eve agreed. “Either has money enough he doesn’t have to work every day—or at all—or has a job that allows him to go out of the office or place of business. Or a job or position that gives him access to their schedules.”
“They broadcast a lot of it.” In a world-weary way, Tredway shook his head. “Through the society channels, and on their own social media. Fricking invites a breakin, you ask me.”
“I wouldn’t argue,” Baxter said, “but even bimbos aren’t likely to broadcast they’re going to buy panties today. A combo of watching them virtually and otherwise, I’d say.”
“It started in earnest in April of last year at the Celebrate Art Gala.” Eve rose, paced to the board. “He may have harassed women before that time, and likely did. May have broken into their homes and taken panties to sniff. But what we have points to this night. Every victim on this board attended that gala. So did he.”
She closed her eyes a moment, let it circle in her mind, turned back.
“Mira profiles him between thirty and fifty. I think forty is top age. He’s younger, but old enough to have control and patience. Not as much patience as we previously thought, as he’s clearly used other avenues to satisfy his needs. Between thirty and forty, most likely white. Around five feet, eight inches tall. Average build. He’s either one of this social group or he knows how to blend with them.”
She gestured to Anson Wright’s photo.
“That doesn’t take the bartender out. An actor knows how to inhabit a role—and that’s pretty much what he told me in Interview. In fact, made a point of it. He won’t be married, won’t have a cohab or a serious relationship. He hoards. He has to have a place where he can keep all the loot he takes from his hits, as there’s no evidence he disposes of it.”
She walked from one end of the board to the other. “He takes surrogates. Married couples only, exceptionally beautiful woman. Rape is the primary goal. And it is about sex as much as power and causing fear. Violent sex, the sort that eases—temporarily—his frustration at not having the true object of his desire. At not being able to punish and humiliate her for rejecting him, to do the same to the male for having what he couldn’t have.
“The ’link calls, the texts, the … putting moves on, even the breakins to steal underwear, that’s all foreplay for him. Adds excitement, anticipation. But since he killed Strazza, everything changed, opened, expanded. He doesn’t need that kind of foreplay now—a grope in the dark, a voice over a ’link. He needs the kill, the climax. Now when he chooses his costume, does his makeup, goes in to set the stage, he knows those first performances were just—what do you call them—dress rehearsals. These are the real shows. And he just can’t fucking wait to step onstage again.”
“He won’t wait long,” Tredway agreed. “Maybe a couple of days.”
“Then we’d better find him first. We’re all going to go over the guest list, the list of staff and support staff for the gala. We’re going to cull out every man between thirty and forty, white—but it was bad light, so we need to consider mixed race. We have his approximate build. Unmarried males, no cohabs. He’s going to live alone. And when we have those, we’re going to look at his mother, a stepmother, or an older sister maybe. She’s going to be exceptionally beautiful.”
“Lieutenant?”
She gave Trueheart the nod.
“It could have been a teacher—the person he’s fixated on. I just mean to say I, ah, had a pretty hard crush on my English Lit teacher in high school.”
“You dog,” Baxter said with a laugh.
“I got over it, but for a few weeks there, it was pretty intense in my head. Or it could have been a friend’s mom, a neighbor, or—”
“Christ, you’re right. Someone he saw regularly, had a connection to, a relationship with. Enough to stick in his twisted brain. She’ll be married, and upper middle class at least. Start with mothers. We’ll work down the list of possible others. Look for any sort of complaint—even juvie. Dig in, maybe his parents sent him to therapy or rehab. Work the levels.
“Peabody, divvy it up so we’re not stepping on each other’s feet. He could be a little taller or a little shorter,” she considered. “Make it five-seven to five-ten. Let’s not let him slip through because we restricted too much.”