Mary nodded solemnly. “I know. So am I, so am I. Isn’t it awful? Those poor, poor children. It just makes you want to cry your eyes out.”
Chapter 48
ACCORDING TO THE STATISTICS I was reading at my desk, something like 89 percent of known female serial killers used poison, suffocation, or lethal injection on their victims. Less than 10 percent of various killers employed a gun as their weapon of choice, and none I had found on record used a knife.
Is Mary Smith the exception that proves the rule?
I didn’t think so. But I seemed to be all alone on that.
I scanned the deskful of clippings, photos, and articles spread out in front of me like pieces from several different jigsaw puzzles.
Aileen Wuornos was a shooter. In 1989 and ’90, she killed at least seven men in Florida. When she was arrested, the media dubbed her America’s first female serial killer. She was probably the most famous, but nowhere near the first. Almost half of those on record were black widows—husband-killers—or else motivated by revenge. Most had some relationship with their victims.
Bobbie Sue Terrell, a nurse, injected twelve patients with lethal doses of insulin.
Dorothea Montalvo Puente poisoned nine boarders in her home so she could get their Social Security checks.
A secretary at the field office, Maureen, poked her head in.
“You want anything from In-n-Out Burger?”
I looked up and realized it was dark already, and that, actually, I was starving.
“If they have a grilled chicken sandwich, that’d be good. And an orange juice, thanks.”
She laughed merrily. “You want a hamburger or a cheeseburger?”
Since my sleep and personal life were something of a mess, I was trying to keep the junk food intake in check. I hadn’t worked out in days. The last thing I needed was to get sick out here. I told Maureen never mind, I’d get something eventually.
A minute later, Agent Page was hovering at my desk. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Anything yet?”
I spread my arms to indicate the breadth of information on the desk. “She doesn’t fit in.”
“Which was probably true for about half the female serial killers in history at the time of their activity,” said Page. The young agent was impressing me more and more.
“So what about our good friends at LAPD? Anything new from them?”
“Sure is,” he said. “Ballistics came back on that gun of hers. Hear this—it’s a golden oldie. A Walther PPK, same one every time. There’s a full briefing tomorrow if you want to be there. If not, I’ll cover.”
That was surprising news, and very odd—the age of the murder weapon.
“How old is the gun? Do they know?”
“At least twenty years, which deepens the mystery some, huh? Could be hard to trace.”
“You think that’s her reason? Traceability?” I asked, mostly just thinking out loud. Page quickly ticked off a handful of possibilities.
“She’s not a professional, right? Maybe it’s a weapon she’s had for a long time. Or maybe she’s been killing a lot longer than we think. Maybe she found it. Maybe it was her father’s.”
All solid guesses from a rapid-fire mind. “How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.
He gave me a sideways glance. “Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to ask that.”
“Relax,” I said. “It’s not a job interview. I’m just wondering. You’re a lot quicker than some of the folks I see coming out of Quantico lately.”
“I’m twenty-six,” he said, grinning widely.
“You’re pretty good, Page. Need to work on that game face, though.”