-10-
"What do you think of this guy?" asked Jane as Connolly and she walked on the curb in front of Singer's property.
Connolly squinted into the sun and discreetly waved his palm back and forth in front of his face. "He's batty."
"You think so? I'm not so sure. What if he had something to do with the murders himself back then?"
"Him?" Connolly shook his head. "He was only half a kid!"
"Well, fifteen, sixteen, after all," Jane countered. "You know yourself what youngsters are capable of. He's quite handsome, muscular, and he seems to feel some attachment to Scully. A convicted serial killer, whose house he lives in, whose bed he might sleep in. That's pretty creepy, but I wouldn't just dismiss it as a 'crank.'"
"Jane. Let's face it. We're talking about double murders of couples. With a gun."
"And with no clear sexual component, right? Did they find semen or traces of sexual intercourse at that time?"
Connolly took a deep breath. "No."
"You see. Just like today. What if he can't get it up? Back in the middle of puberty, all his friends running around like libidinous zombies. Everything's about sex. And him? Dead pants. Identity crisis. Aggression. I'll take it a step further: Maybe the first murder was an act of passion. He's wandering around in the woods, maybe he's got some porn magazines stashed somewhere so he can at least jerk off. Then he sees a couple, maybe he even knows them. Or, even better, they see him. He goes nuts, kills them both -"
"Sure," Connolly interrupted her mockingly. "He shoots them with the gun he had with his porno mags. Along with the duct tape. Sounds perfectly logical."
"Damn it," Jane hissed. "I'm not trying to mess with any of you here, don't you realize that? But this guy has something to do with this." She tapped her belly. "Don't you feel that too, and if only way down deep?"
"I only feel one thing, and that's hunger," Connolly replied. "Let's go get something to eat, or my brain will go into overdrive."
More stubborn, Jane almost said, but she swallowed it. She, too, was hungry for something hot and a cold Coke.
They decided to go to the diner around the corner. While Jane released the handbrake, she took one last look at Singer's house. This time there was no curtain wobbling. But Jane was sure he hadn't let them out of his sight.
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Nina had a gym bag hanging over her shoulder and looked like she was on her way to the gym. Jane knew, of course, that inside was her own keyboard, all sorts of cables, and lots of storage media. She had returned from lunch a few minutes ago and had decided to stretch her legs a bit more outside. Connolly had gotten a message from his team leader and had taken a cab back to Boston.
Before entering the property with Nina, Jane read a message from her wife asking if she could still count on Jane tonight.
"What house?" asked Nina out of nowhere.
Jane pointed her index finger at the left house while her eyes lingered on something. On someone. At the corner of the other house stood a nondescript woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties. She was without makeup and wore pink cotton pants with a white shirt. Her wrist was in a gray and white bandage.
"I'll be right there," Jane murmured to Nina, turning toward the woman. Raised her hand to let her know she wanted to talk to her. The stranger acknowledged this with a shy look, placing two fingers of her healthy hand on her sternum. Jane nodded and tried to put on a trusting smile.
"Do you want to see me?" Her voice sounded soft, almost squeaky. As if she didn't want to attract attention. Or didn't think she should. Yet she didn't have to hide in any way, Jane noticed as she got closer. Beneath the shapeless pants and baggy shirt was an attractive woman with enviably toned curves that didn't get out of shape even without a bra.
"Yes," Jane answered the posed question. "Detective Jane Rizzoli. Boston PD."
"Police? Jesus, did something happen?" Her head bobbed toward her neighbor, just as her IT colleagues had begun their work.
"Sorry?", Jane seized the opportunity.
"You were earlier there ... Weren't you?"
"Do you know each other better?"
"Just like neighbors know each other." The woman ran a shaky motion through her shoulder-length hair.
"May I know your name?"
She stated her name. Jane thanked her and reached for her notepad. Linda Marx. "Okay, noted." Jane smiled and asked after a few seconds. "I just had the feeling that between you and your neighbor -"
"What should there be?", Marx interrupted her hastily. Instantly she was changed, and all ease seemed gone.
"I don't know. I just felt something." Jane cleared her throat. "Occupational disease, you know."
"Mhm. What if I don't want to talk about it?" Linda Marx had taken two steps backward. She was now so far behind the corner of the house that she couldn't be seen from next door.
Jane also took a big step forward. "Don't you want him to notice we're talking?" She gestured toward the house with her thumb.
The woman pursed her lips, recognition written all over her face as she said, "You really get everything, huh?"
"I try," Jane replied with a shrug. "What exactly didn't I catch just now?"
Linda Marx dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Oh, it's nothing really. We've just been living next door to each other for a while."
"He's your landlord."
"Mm."
"And you don't like him."
Linda Marx gave a throaty laugh. "Can you tell that clearly? I guess I need to work on my body language."
"Well," Jane objected, "it's just my job to look closely. Why don't you like him?"
Again Linda squinted suspiciously in the direction of the neighbor's house. "He's just not my type," she said quietly. "And I think he very much wishes that were different."
"Has he ... become pushy?"
Another smile. "No! He wouldn't dare." Very quietly, she continued speaking, after staring at her wall for a moment, as if trying to see through it to make sure Singer wasn't behind it. "He just keeps trying. And ever since I got this handicap -" She raised her bandaged hand. "A stupid fraction." She shrugged. "Anyway, that was the opportunity for him. He was right there on the mat, wanting to do my yard, take out the garbage cans, take me to the grocery store, et cetera." She sighed. "Well, I eventually got into it out of convenience. I guess that was the proverbial Pandora's box then."
"How exactly am I to understand that? Are you a couple?"
The throaty laugh rang out. "No, for God's sake. I've had myself chauffeured once and cooked once. That was all."
"When was that?"
Linda Marx gave the date; it was quite a while ago. Jane noted.
"Are you feeling better now?" the detective inquired.
Linda nodded slowly. "I just have to be careful as hell. I don't think the wrist is going to be that stable again."
"Hmm. Getting back to Singer ... Do you think he's hoping for more than just neighborhood help?"
"Yeah. Sure!" Linda laughed again. "But I just don't. I've been wanting to pop it in his head that I'm a lesbian. But I'm afraid Axel is one of those guys who would take that as a special incentive. Who believes that a homosexual woman would only lack the right experience with a man. And firmly believe that they are that man to turn a lesbian into a woman who likes men."
Jane gritted her teeth and nodded slowly. She was no stranger to this behavior from some men. "Do you want me to give him a message when I go over?" she asked with a playful smile. "That you're just screwing your fitness coach or something like that?"
"Just don't," Linda giggled, waving it off. "I'll have to work that out on my own."
"All right." Jane thought of something else. "Do you actually know what this house is about?"
Linda's face remained blank. "What do you mean?"
Jane bit her lower lip. She should have phrased her question differently to avoid having to give a specific answer. "If you don't know, it doesn't mean anything," she tried to squirm out. But Linda Marx remained curious.
"Come on. We, women, have to stick together, don't we?"
Wait a minute! Is she flirting with me? Jane didn't like to give up the reins. "Maybe next time," she replied with regained quick wit and put on a meaningful eye-roll. "Then we'll have a reason to continue our conversation."
Would that conversation ever happen? Jane doubted it. And basically, it didn't mean anything to her, either. Besides, Jane thought, as she trotted to Singer's front door, sooner or later he would want to impress Linda himself with his knowledge of the history of this house.
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Axel Singer had made himself comfortable on a plush armchair.
When Jane put her hand on the headrest, she felt how scratchy the cover was. Almost as if it had been fixed with hairspray. An object of discomfort in these low, narrow rooms choked with dark furniture.
Nina brought Jane up to date. "The e-mail originated here, but it didn't -"
"Didn't it come from!", Singer harangued her.
"But not from this computer," Nina finished her sentence.
Singer could see Nina's face; Jane was standing behind the chair. She formed. 'Other computer?" with her lips.
As if it was her own thought, Nina asked, "Do you have another smartphone, tablet, or another device?"
"Well, I guess I would have shown you," Singer grumbled.
Jane stepped around the armchair. "Not if you used it to send the email and now find yourself at a dead end." She cleared her throat. "Mr. Singer, word of honor, you can be straight with us. If you tell us the truth now, we won't make you any -"
"Damn it! Am I speaking Spanish?"
"No, que yo sepa," said a voice from another side of the room, and all three heads turned to the source.
"Yeah, what?" said Ben Tomas, shrugging, looking almost intimidated. "That is, not that I know of." He grinned. "Semester abroad in Barcelona."
Jane stifled a laugh. "Can we please stick to the point?"
"Yes, fine," Tomas replied, looking almost sheepish. "Well, as far as I can get my head around it, it's pretty straightforward." He lectured briefly on the role of various devices involved in sending an email. Router, server, provider. He also used the terms host, IP, and repeater - Jane tried hard not to lose her train of thought.
"In short," Nina demonstratively held up the printout of the email. "this email came from this house. No matter how Spanish or Chinese that may seem to some."
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"I'd be in favor of calling it a day." Frankie yawned and stretched extensively in his desk chair.
"Knock yourself out," Jane replied, clicking through the Internet, lost in thought. The media reports were consistently similar, with more or less lurid headlines.
New murder in the city forest
Couple murderer active again
Who will protect us from the Moonshine Killer?
Then her breath caught. "Shit!"
"What the hell? Don't get all worked up -"
Yet Jane did just that. To be precise, she would have preferred to explode, feeling as if a critical mass was condensing inside her, the detonation of which would turn everything around her into dust. With a shaky finger, she clicked the computer mouse a few times and gestured for her brother to take a look.
On the video channel appeared the face of a well-known benefactor of the city. A prominent citizen who was involved wherever there were charitable causes - but invariably causes that were also noticed by the general public. William Rodgers was always in the vicinity of cameras, well-known presenters, or journalists who set the tone. Accordingly, he also appeared experienced when he turned his face to the camera. Undoubtedly, he had been made up beforehand, and they lit him up advantageously. The video was shot outdoors, which was apparent, even as the focus was on the sixty-year-old sultry face, speaking in a calm, haunting baritone. "If the police can't catch him, you have to think about alternatives. Hence my appeal: I offer a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for pertinent information leading to the capture of this monster."
It took a few seconds before Frankie let out his breath. "Shit."
"Told you! That asshole! What do you think is going on now. Every douchebag's running to this vigilante group, and everyone's suspecting their neighbor of being the killer."
"Yeah. And we can run a dozen tip-lines for all the idiots who think they saw something." Frankie groped back to his desk. "Who's going to tell Cavanaugh?" he wanted to know before taking his seat again.
"Can do." Jane rose. Something was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't get it out.
Frankie seemed to have less trouble in that regard. "Will you tell him the whole story then? Or does he already know it? Would be better -"
Jane sliced him with her a movement of her hand and replied frostily. "I'll handle it. Don't worry."
"I'm just saying -"
Fifteen minutes later, Jane had brought her lieutenant up to date. Of course, Cavanaugh had been particularly interested in the back story; he had a flair for things that had happened before he was the squad leader. Fortunately, he had asked few intervening questions, and Jane had been able to confine herself to the most important things she had to tell about her nemesis, William Rodgers.
It was the story of a man who always presented himself in public as a patron, a benefactor of the city. Who, in addition to his repeatedly emphasized love for Boston, also harbored a secret preference. For blood young sexual partners, the younger the better. And it was an open secret that he also lived this out, whereby all investigations had always brought to light only rumors and tissue of lies. Only once had Jane come face to face with him, but she would never be able to forget that incident. Vice's colleagues had led a woman out of an apartment, wrapped in a bathrobe and shielded on all sides. The apartment belonged to one of the many businesses Rodgers had his greasy fingers in. The woman had barely been able to walk, there was talk of injuries rarely seen even on Vice. But after her - and these images were always in Jane's mind when the newspapers reported on Rodgers - one more person had been carried to the ambulance. It was the woman's sister; she was estimated to be fourteen. At the most. She was unconscious.
In a dark green Aston Martin across the street, William Rodgers had been sitting, cell phone to his ear. Everything was so obvious, so clear, but Jane had been unable to do anything about him. She had run across the street, not a glance to the left, not a glance to the right. A guardian angel saved her from being run over. Vince Korsak saved her from losing her job that night. Before her fists could drum on the windshield, he yanked her back and held her tightly until she calmed down. By the time Jane had regained her senses, the Aston Martin was gone. So had the ambulance. Both women refused to testify, neither of them spoke a lick of English, at least they pretended to. Whether the girl would ever speak again remained to be seen. Years had passed since then. Presumably, the women had long since left the United States.
Cavanaugh turned his coffee cup between his hands. Jane thought she could see the carousel of thoughts behind his forehead until he paused and looked up. "The reward thing is normal," he began carefully. "It happens all the time, and you know it."
"Of course. But -"
"Let me finish."
Jane immediately fell silent.
"I must confess, I haven't come across this Rodgers guy before. Neither one way nor the other. And I don't want this thing to affect our work, especially you. You hear that, Rizzoli? If what you just told me is true, then he's a scumbag, a Nazi big time. But he's not the killer we're looking for. We're following up on all the leads, just like we've been doing all along. If it goes well, there's something useful among all the clues. If it goes ideally, we'll take a hundred thousand dollars from him." Cavanaugh took a deep breath. "The rest is written on a different page, understand?"
"I'm not stupid," grumbled Jane, who had long since sunk into her chair, arms folded. "Can I say something now, too?"
The lieutenant made a hand gesture. "Go ahead."
"I sometimes dream about the two women," the detective began. "You know I've experienced things myself." She alluded to the encounter with Charles Hoyt that still haunted her to this day. William Rodgers reminded her of her worst nemesis, even if Rodgers hadn't killed anyone, at least she wasn't aware of it. Rodgers was guilty, everyone knew that. Even the DA's office. But Rodgers was friends with half the brass, and he had something on some of them. It was what men like him did all the time: He waved money around and used it to control events. The whole town would be indebted to him, whatever the outcome of this case in the end.
"I know how you feel," Cavanaugh said, but then hastily shook his head and improved, "I don't know that, of course, but I know it must feel pretty shitty. And I promise you this: I'll keep Rodgers on the radar. But first up is this Moonshine Killer."
He pronounced the word the way Jane always did. With disgust. This was a serial killer, a dangerous killer. He deserved neither admiration nor attention. She wondered if he looked at himself in the mirror at night and got off on terrifying an entire city. Whether he thought he was a moon worshipper?
People like William Rodgers, at any rate, contributed to this self-perception, whether they wanted to or not. Such large sums of money were only extremely rarely promised, for the last time in the manhunt for suspected terrorists.
But there was nothing more to be done about it.
The Moonshine Killer was worth a hundred thousand dollars as of today.
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The briefing was quickly dealt with, Cavanaugh had taken great pains not to let emotions boil over. But he, too, had to feel the unbearable pressure that was weighing on his department. He even especially. The press, the vigilantes, now a private citizen. All of Boston seemed to be breathing down his neck, and yet he managed to remain matter-of-fact.
Then, of all times, Frankie had told of his encounter with the author of the Scully biography, if it could even be called that. A book full of abysses, he recited a short passage: "'Men are of no value. Very few people of any use. Even politicians. What are politicians worth? Look at what they accomplish for society. It's nothing. And if they do, they pursue their own interests. People mean nothing except that they are selfish and ruin everything around them. Human beings in themselves have only one value: they live to die. The shorter the time span, the better it is for the environment. For the whole planet. Every life I took was useless. Until the time I ended it. The only benefit of these lives was that I was allowed to determine their death. In this way, they are different from all the others that decompose in cemeteries with us.' The next paragraph then begins with this: 'I have no regrets. For I have done nothing wrong -'"
"Thank you, that's enough," Korsak groaned, running his hand over the back of his neck. "How can you get like that?"
"There's not much in the book about that." Frankie clutched his forehead. "It's the story of the murders, not the killer."
"That's too bad," Jane remarked. Because the old files didn't exactly paint what you could call a complete picture, either. With Scully's arrest and conviction, interest in him had quickly died down. The murders had stopped. One could breathe a sigh of relief. Lovers returned to the woods. Profiling and psychograms simply hadn't been in vogue then.
Cavanaugh took the floor. "Anyway, our mission is clear. Scully apparently had no sexual drive. It was pure homicidal lust. Some kind of moon-driven omnipotence fantasy, as laughable as that sounds. So we're looking for someone just like Scully. A man, single, living in the Boston area. Driver's license, car owner. Middle-class education, at least. He has a job, doesn't work shifts. His height is average." Cavanaugh briefly considered whether his list was missing something. "Guys, I know that's true of most of the male population -"
"Well, well." Korsak gave Frankie a mocking look.
Frankie just stuck up his middle finger and stifled a comment. No one else showed any reaction.
"Hey!" the lieutenant chided them both. "Lord knows I'm not in the mood for jokes!" Now his tension was evident. "We're hunting someone who is ruthless. Who gives in to his greed, for whom other people are little more than nuisances. So we are disturbing him! I don't know if it's a good idea yet, but I'm thinking about stocking all the forest areas with civilian officers. We don't know who he is, but we know when and where he prefers to strike. And he's been haughty enough so far to keep coming back. We've already disturbed him once. Now it's a matter of what he makes of it."
No one said anything.
Only after a considerable time did Jane raise her hand. "Are we observing someone?"
"Whom?" asked Cavanaugh hastily, and in his eyes, Jane could tell he knew the answer before she spoke it.
"Axel Singer. All the points apply to him."
"Hmm."
"Come on, now!" urged Jane. "You haven't seen him, but I have. Call Connolly and have him confirm it for you. Maybe he can get someone there, and we'll join in if necessary. But what's one stakeout compared to dozens -"
"All right." Cavanaugh interrupted her with a jagged hand edge cut through the air. "It's all right! I'll get in touch with Ed Barker. Sometimes less is more, Detective. You convinced me long ago."
Jane took a deep breath and thought, There you go.
"One more thing before you all go home," the lieutenant said. His index finger pointed to a couple of stacks of papers. "Here are copies of the book on Scully. I want each of you to have read through it by tomorrow."
"All of it?", Frankie's mouth twisted.
"Everything that matters," Cavanaugh returned, and it was evident from his expression that he would not discuss it further.
Jane took the initiative, stood up, and grabbed one of the stacks of papers. It was lighter than she expected. She flipped through it. The last page was numbered 238. „That can be managed," she commented, unintentionally pointed in Frankie's direction. "You can leave out the vita and the trappings. I'll take care of that. That leaves just under a hundred and eighty pages. Is this guy, this Blair, credible?"
Frankie and Korsak exchanged a quick glance.
"He's a little quirky," Frankie then said, "but he seems to have looked into it conscientiously. And he's not a fan of Scully. Not a buddy either."
"And he definitely doesn't fit the profile," Korsak feigned with a wave of his hand over his belly.