I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and scribbled a few questions I’d been pondering on the ride in from LAX.
M. Lowenstein-Bell—how did someone get inside the house?
Does this killer have some kind of hit list? An established order? Are there other less-obvious connections between the victims? Don’t there have to be?
The most common formula in my profession is this: How plus why equals who. If I wanted to know Mary Smith, I had to consider the similarities and differences—the combination of the two—from site to site on every one of the murders. That meant a stop at the Lowenstein-Bell residence.
I wrote, E-mailer? / Perp?
I kept coming back to that point. How much intersection was there between the killer’s personality and the persona in the e-mails? How honest, for lack of a better word, was Mary Smith’s writing? And how much of it, if any, was misdirection?
Until I could figure that out, it was like chasing two suspects. If I was lucky, my next appointment would shed some light on the e-mails.
I wrote another note to myself. Tool sets?
Most pattern killers had two sets of tools, as did Mary Smith.
First were the tools of the actual murder. The gun was a sure thing here. We knew she used the same one each time. We weren’t as sure about the knife.
And a car had to be considered. Any other way of getting in and out seemed unfeasible.
Then there were the “tools” that helped her satisfy her psychoemotional needs.
The children’s stickers marked A or B, and the e-mails themselves. Usually, these were more important to the killer than the actual weapons. They were her way of saying “I was here” or “This is me.”
Or, possibly, and this was the troubling part, “This is who I want you to think I am.”
In any case, it was a kind of taunting—something that could be taken as “Come and get me. If you can.”
I scribbled that last thought down, too.
Come and get me? If you can?
Then I wrote down something that kept sticking in my craw—Truscott. Appeared six weeks ago. Who is James Truscott? What is his deal?
Suddenly I looked at my watch. It was time to leave the office if I didn’t want to be late for my first appointment. Requisitioning a Bureau vehicle would have meant one more person looking over my shoulder, and that’s exactly why I’d rented a car at the airport.
I left without telling anyone where I was headed. If I was going to be acting like a homicide detective again, I was going to do it right.
Chapter 43
THIS WAS REAL POLICE WORK at least, and I threw myself into it with renewed energy and enthusiasm. Actually, I was pumped up. Professor Deborah Papadakis had my full attention as she beckoned me into her book-lined office, number twenty-two, in the Rolfe Building at UCLA. She took a neatly piled stack of manuscripts from the only available chair and set them on the floor.
“I can see you’re busy, Professor. God, are you ever busy. Thank you for agreeing to meet,” I said.
“Happy to help if I can.” She motioned for me to sit. “I haven’t seen Los Angeles so preoccupied since, I don’t know, maybe since Rodney King. It’s kind of sad.”
Then she raised a hand and quickly added, “Although that’s not the same, is it? Anyway, this is a bit unusual for me. I’m more of a short-story and personal-essay kind of person. I don’t read true crime, or even mysteries for that matter. Well, I do read Walter Mosley, but he’s a closet sociologist.”
“Whatever you can do,” I said, and handed her copies of Mary Smith’s e-mails. “At the risk of repeating myself, we would appreciate your complete confidence on this.” That was for my own sake as well as the investigation’s. I hadn’t gotten official permission to share the e-mails with her or anyone else.
Professor Papadakis poured me a cup of coffee from an old percolator, and I waited while she read, then reread, the e-mails.
Her office seemed to be a bit of prime real estate at the university. It looked out to a courtyard and sculpture garden, where students wrote and soaked up the perfect Southern California weather. Most offices in the building faced out to the street. Ms. Papadakis, with her antique pine desk and O. Henry Award on the wall, gave the impression of someone who had long since paid her dues.
Except for the occasional “hm,” she was unresponsive while she read. Finally, she looked up and stared my way. A bit of the color was gone from her face.
“Well,” she said with a deep breath, “first impressions are important, so I’ll start there.”