“What the fuck?” said Mary.
They watched speechlessly as one image dissolved into another. Candid shots, slightly out of focus. They’d been taken outdoors, in a variety of locations: a busy urban street, a strip mall parking lot. Some were close shots, tightly focused on the woman’s face. In others, background was visible: parked cars, a palm tree, the golden arches of a distant McDonald’s.
Mary said, “What the hell am I looking at?”
“Clinics,” said Claudia. “All these women are patients.”
On the screen, another blonde dissolved into a brunette wearing sunglasses. Over her shoulder, in the distance, was a green street sign, the letters so tiny they were barely legible: MERCY.
“Mary,” said Claudia. “That’s us.”
WHEN CLAUDIA LEFT WORK IT WAS ALREADY DARK, A FINE SNOW falling. Behind her left eye, the pulsing continued. She and Mary had spent the afternoon studying the demented website, trying to determine which of the women were Mercy Street patients. It wasn’t easy to do. In an average week, Mary did hundreds of intakes—ABs, Pap smears, IUD insertions, STD tests. In the end they identified nine patients. All had been seen within the last five months.
Claudia paused in front of the clinic, noting the position of the security cameras. One was aimed at Mercy Street, the patch of sidewalk where protestors typically gathered. A second camera pointed squarely at the front door. A patient arriving for her appointment would walk past both of them. With any luck, whoever had taken the photos had been captured on video.
She crossed the street, looking over her shoulder. At the corner, two pedestrians waited for the light to change. A guy in tights sat astride his bicycle, one foot on the curb. In front of the dim sum place, a man in an apron smoked a cigarette. Each was staring at a cell phone.
At any given moment, the entire city of Boston had a camera in its pocket.
It could have been anyone.
THAT NIGHT SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE. WHEN CLAUDIA CLOSED her eyes, she saw the crowd on Mercy Street, patients arriving for their appointments, protesters carrying signs. A faceless man lurking near the entrance, waiting with his cell phone. The man was everywhere, he was nowhere. It was possible—likely, even—that she’d seen him herself.
At midnight she got up and turned on the television. She clicked past reality shows, comedies, the Home Shopping Network, and settled on a rerun of Dateline.
There was literally nothing in the world she’d rather watch than a rerun of Dateline, except maybe a brand-new Dateline. Supply was the problem. The show was produced at the glacial pace of one episode per week. There was simply not enough Dateline in the world to satisfy the appetite of a fan like Claudia, if that is what she was.
She was not uncritical.
That the victim was nearly always a woman wasn’t, strictly speaking, Dateline’s fault. The Dateline producers didn’t kill these people. Statistically, men were murdered more often than women, but apparently in a less entertaining way.
Claudia was aware that the show had shaped her worldview. She would never even consider buying life insurance. She carried her driver’s license at all times—to aid police in identifying her body, should the need arise. The first forty-eight hours of an investigation were crucial. A little advance planning on the victim side could save precious days or weeks.
Because the killer was nearly always the victim’s boyfriend or husband or ex-husband, celibacy was another commonsense precaution she was seriously considering.
Boyfriend, husband, ex-husband. Because every viewer knew this, the Dateline producers had to work hard to maintain suspense. Alternative suspects were identified, investigative blunders explored. Time was spent developing the character of the victim. The heartbroken parents were interviewed, the bereaved siblings, the teary best friend.
Like most serial killers, Dateline was drawn to a particular type. Its ideal victim was relatable and sympathetic, a devoted wife and mother. She need not be wealthy; it was enough to be attractive, young, and White. When prompted, her survivors would agree that her children were the center of her world. Such a devoted mother, surely, didn’t deserve to be shot or bludgeoned or shoved off a cliff.