copy of the letter, chewing on his pen. “That’s the problem with killers. They’re all a bunch of goddamn liars. Maybe there’s an elevator and maybe not. Maybe there’s a David, maybe not. We have to run it down, though, every bit of it.” Rauser had already pulled together more investigators than had ever been assigned to a task force in Atlanta, something the mayor had announced proudly and the media had criticized as excessive spending. Rauser had also set up twenty-four-hour tip lines. The most expensive task force ever wasn’t getting results, or so the reports claimed.
“Something to think about,” I said carefully. “He may have a good understanding of what this means in terms of manpower.” My heart rate spiked a little. Was the person killing and bragging about it in letters to Rauser familiar with law enforcement? And if so, how familiar?
Rauser looked at me, then shot me with his forefinger and thumb. “Good point,” he said, and called one of his detectives. “Williams, you and Bevins start checking out every denied application for the police academy in the last fifteen years,” he said into the phone. “Run ’em down. All of them. Cop wannabes on file, CSI freaks, find them too and check their alibis. And I want you to personally and very quietly, please, get a list of everybody we’ve had disciplined because of excessive force, sexual harassment issues, abusive language or sexual assaults, anyone on probation or paid leave with that kind of stuff pending, I want their files on my desk by noon.”
Rauser took the crime scene photos from his case and spread them around my coffee table. “Guy’s obviously intelligent,” he said, arranging them in groups from first to last murder—Anne Chambers, Bob Shelby, Elicia Richardson, Lei Koto. “FBI talked about him being a frustrated underachiever. Is that what you see?”
“No,” I answered. “I see a perfectionist. Someone careful and focused who wants to appear brilliant, who wants to impress others. The two letters tell us that. I don’t see some guy who still lives in his mama’s basement.”
Rauser nodded his agreement. “So I’ve got a potential victim named David and a goddamn elevator, that’s what I got from this shit.” He thumped the letter with his forefinger.
“Well, there are a couple other things to get from it. For one, this person would be extremely controlling in life,” I said. “Family members, lovers, coworkers, would have experienced this on some level. Also, the sadistic behaviors probably need acting out with sexual partners even in the cooling-off periods. He probably pays for this or finds them in S/M communities where there’s curiosity play with pain and bondage, but he wouldn’t like his partners having boundaries or using safe words. People like this get bad reputations in communities where it’s controlled. I’d start asking questions there. He’s probably also looking at websites that help him fuel the domination fantasy. He’s careful, though. The whole social veneer idea, it’s really true, Rauser. On the surface, I think he is what he says he is. Extremely good at the game.”
“All the other victims were fairly easy access, but if David has a family and wears expensive suits, it’ll be different. He’ll have a security system, maybe a nanny or a stay-at-home wife, a dog or two.”
“Elicia Richardson had a security system,” I said, and picked up a picture of her lying facedown with her legs spread, bruised and bitten. Dark-stained oak floors surrounded the Chinese rug where she’d been left like an abandoned rag doll. Savage bite marks covered her shoulders and inner thighs, stab wounds on the thighs and buttocks, on her sides and lower back. I imagined him walking into her home. Had she been expecting him? I closed my eyes and tried to be there, see Elicia in life, through his eyes. I ring the bell and wait. She’s pretty. She smiles. Does she know me? She wants me here. Why? I step into her home. I’m nervous, but then my lungs fill with the air she’s breathing and I feel the power. I know I own her now just like I own the doorway I’ve stepped through and the air we’re sharing and the rug under my feet. All I can think about is when, when will I hit her that first time? I like the blitz. I like the surprise. I like seeing her plead while I get out my wire and my knife.
“Yeah, but the security system wasn’t activated,” Rauser