Jack & Jill (Alex Cross 3)

To kill, to kill, to kill.

CHAPTER

21

“THE GOOD DOCTOR CROSS, the master of disaster. Well, I’ll be. Alex—hey, Alex—over here!”

I was lost in a bad jumble of thoughts and impressions about the murders when I heard my name. I recognized the voice immediately, and it brought a smile to my lips.

I turned and saw Kyle Craig of the FBI. Another dragonslayer, this one originally from Lexington, Massachusetts. Kyle was not your typical FBI agent. He was a totally straight shooter. He wasn’t uptight, and he usually wasn’t bureaucratic. Kyle and I had worked together on some very bad cases in the past. He was a specialist in high-profile crimes that were marked by extreme violence or multiple murders. Kyle was an expert in the nasty, scary stuff most Bureau agents didn’t want to be involved with on a regular basis. Beyond that, he was a friend.

“They’ve got all the big guns out on this one,” Kyle said as we shook hands in the foyer. He was tall, still gaunt. Distinctive features and strikingly black hair, coal black hair. He had a long hawk’s nose that looked sharp enough to cut.

“Who’s here so far, Kyle?” I asked him. He would have everything scoped out by now. He was smart and observant, and his instincts were usually good. Kyle also knew who everybody was and how they fit into the larger picture.

Kyle puckered up. He made a face as if he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. “Who the hell isn’t here, Alex? Detectives from D.C., your own compadres. The Bureau, of course. DEA, believe it or not. The blue suit is CIA. You can tell by the clipped wings. Your close friend Chief Pittman is in visiting with Ms. Sheehan’s lovely corpse. They’re in the boudoir as we speak.”

“Now that’s scary,” I said and smiled thinly. “About as grotesque as you can get.”

Kyle pointed to a closed door, which I assumed was the bedroom. “I don’t think they want to be disturbed. A rumor circulating at Quantico has it that Chief of Detectives Pittman is a necrophiliac,” he said with a deadpan look. “Could that be true?”

“Victimless crimes,” I said.

“How about a little respect for the dead,” Kyle said, peering down his nose at me. “Even in death, I’m certain Ms. Sheehan would find a way to rebuff your chief of detectives.”

I wasn’t surprised that The Jefe himself had come to the Jefferson. This was developing into the biggest D.C. homicide case in years. It definitely would be if Jack and Jill struck again soon—as they had promised.

Reluctantly, I parted company with Kyle and walked toward the closed bedroom door. I opened it slowly, as if it might be booby-trapped.

The one and only Chief George Pittman was in the bedroom with a man in a gray suit. Probably a foren

sics guy. They both glanced around at me. Pittman was chomping on an unlit Bauza cigar. Pittman frowned and shook his head when he saw who it was. Nothing he could do about it. It was Commissioner Clouser’s invitation-order that I be on the case. It was obvious that The Jefe didn’t want me here.

He muttered “the late Alex Cross” to the other suit. So much for polite introductions and light banter.

The two of them turned back to the famous corpse on the bed. Chief Pittman had been abusive for no apparent reason. I didn’t let it bother me too much. It was business-pretty-much-as-usual with the rude, bullying prick. What a useless bastard, a real horse’s ass. All he ever did was get in the way.

I breathed in slowly a couple of times. Got into the job, the homicide scene. I walked over to the bed and started my routine: the collection of raw impressions.

A G-string was pulled partly over Natalie Sheehan’s head, and the waistband was wrapped around her throat. Panties covered her nose, chin, and mouth. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She was still wearing black stockings and a blue bra that matched the panties.

Here was evidence of kinkiness again, and yet I didn’t quite believe it. Everything was too orderly and arranged. Why would they want us to suspect kinky sex might be involved? Was that something? Were Jack and Jill frustrated lovers? Was Jack impotent? We needed to know whether anyone had sex with the victim.

It was a particularly disturbing death scene. Natalie Sheehan had been dead for about eight hours, according to Kyle’s information. She was no longer beautiful, though, not even close. Ironically, she had taken her biggest news story with her to the grave. She knew Jack—and maybe Jill.

I could remember watching her on TV, and it was almost as if someone I knew personally had been murdered. Maybe that’s why there’s such fascination with celebrity murder cases. We see people like Natalie Sheehan on almost a daily basis; we come to think that we know them. And we believe they lead such interesting lives. Even their deaths are interesting.

I could already see that there were some obvious and striking similarities to the murder of Senator Fitzpatrick. The element of kinky sadism for one thing. Natalie Sheehan was manacled to the bedposts with handcuffs. She was seminude. She also seemed to have been “executed,” just as the senator had been.

The news celebrity had received one close-range gunshot to the left side of her head, which hung to one side as if her long neck had been broken. Maybe it had been.

Was this the Jack and Jill pattern? Organized, efficient, and cold-blooded as hell. Kinky for some reason known only to them. Pseudokinky? Sexual obsession, or a sign of impotence? What was the pattern telling us? What was it communicating?

I was beginning to formulate a psychological personality print for the killers. The method and style of the killings were more important to me than any physical evidence. Always. Both murders had been carefully planned—methodical, very structured, and leisurely—Jack and Jill were playing a cold-blooded game. So far, there had been no significant slipups that I knew of. The only physical evidence left at the scenes was intentional—the notes.

Sexual fantasy was obvious—both in exhibiting the female on her bed and in the senator’s case, male mutilation. Did Jack and Jill have trouble with sex?

My initial impression was that both killers were white, somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty-five—probably closer to the latter, based on the high level of organization in both murders. I suspected well above average intelligence, but also persuasiveness and physical attractiveness. That was particularly telling, and bizarre to me—since the killers had managed to get inside the celebrities’ apartments. It was the best clue we had.