of the photographs from the stack, sliding them across the table into my and Fredrik’s view.
“The victims,” Ware says, “are missing all of their teeth, though they’re not pulled from the victim’s mouths, they’re cut out; the gums are always gaping and butchered, not indicative of a clean extraction.” He holds up his index finger to indicate that he has more. “And as if the missing teeth weren’t similar enough, all of the victims are found strapped to chairs—all different kinds of chairs, unlike your…well that chair you often use to do interrogations, but chairs nonetheless.”
“And you thought,” Fredrik says, preparing to make a point, “that I and this serial killer were the same person?” He shakes his head with disbelief. “For someone who’s studied serial killers for most of his life—I’m assuming—and hunted this one in particular for a good deal of it, it disappoints me that you seem to have forgotten—or overlooked?—the number one similarity that all serial killers have: they tend to stick to their M.O.. I never cut out the teeth”—he glances over at me and purses his lips—“though that’s not a bad idea, Faust; maybe I’ll use that during my next interrogation.” I shrug, and he turns back to Ware. “And I always use the same chair, when I use a chair, which isn’t always the case. Yeah, I see the similarities, but clearly we are not the same person.”
Ware is red in the face, but he manages to defend himself quickly enough.
“Yes, I realize that,” he says, “but I thought you had evolved, as most serial killers do. The last victim—before the most recent one—was found three years ago; I thought for sure you had evolved since then, opting for clean extractions, and possibly forming a bond with a particular chair and decided to stick with that one.”
Fredrik laughs—until he realizes that he can’t very well make fun of Ware for the bonding chair comment when Fredrik does, in fact, have a special bond with his dentist chair. Of course, I can’t read his mind, but I’m confident that is what he was thinking—it is what I was thinking, too.
“And what about the most recent victim?” Fredrik asks.
Ware sifts through the top section of photographs until he finds the one he is looking for. He places it on the table toward us; the other men in the room continue to watch and listen, absorbing it all.
“He was found three months ago,” Ware begins, “here in the United States—Atlanta, Georgia. Still the same M.O.; nothing about the killer’s technique had evolved.” He nods in Flynn’s direction. “And according to Mr. Flynn, you had an alibi for the time of the murder; you weren’t even in the country.”
“So this serial killer crosses borders,” I say.
“Yes,” David Darros, the calm, experienced one speaks up for the first time; his voice is smooth, with confident undertones, and heavily accented. “And dat ees vy I am here.” He is definitely German; though his accent is much thicker than my brother’s. “I am liaison for Interpol. Dees serial killer ees vanted in five countries: France, Sveden, England, Germany and United States.”
“And those are just the countries where bodies found have been linked to this serial killer, so far,” Barrett says, finally playing the ‘good cop’ for a change. “We believe there are more.”
“And how many are there at present?” I ask.
“Thirteen,” Connors answers. “All of them men.”
Fredrik sits up straight, growing more interested.
“And how much,” I ask, “is catching this serial killer worth to you? And I’m assuming it will not be a hit?”
“Twenty million dollars,” Connors says.
“And definitely not a hit,” Ware interjects—it would probably crush his little black heart to see this serial killer go the way of the grave; he would much rather spend the rest of his years interviewing and studying and wetting his dick in the cold, dark mind of the killer he has longed to capture. “Just find him and lead us to him and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“We will, of course”—Connors clears his throat—“be the ones taking all the credit for the capture, since we can’t very well tell anyone about you.”
I smile slimly. “Of course,” I say with a mock smile. “We are not in this business for the publicity, or the fame, Mr. Connors—by all means, revel in it all you like.”
“So then do we have a deal?” Connors asks.
I think on it a moment, and then turn to Gustavsson.
“Does working this case with Mr. Ware interest you?” I