“Who swore you to silence? The police? FBI?”
I gave the sort of half-nod and shrug that could mean yes or no or anything in between.
“You can’t expect me to hazard an opinion unless I know the details of what the authorities found,” he said, sounding pissy.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t say,” I repeated.
“Can’t you give me a hint? Just a little one?” His beetroot-stained lips stretched into a smile. “I’m a psychologist, you know, a colleague. Your secrets are safe with me.”
When somebody doesn’t hear your no, they’re trying to control you. Where had I heard that? “No,” I said bluntly.
Deaver sniffed, looking both disappointed and miffed. A loud buzzing underscored the sudden silence. The bee was back, circling the African violet this time.
“Could you perhaps tell us, in general terms, what it would mean if you found something left with the body?” Perry said, giving me a look that clearly advised me to be more conciliatory.
“Yes, Professor Deaver,” I said, softening my tone. “I’d be very appreciative of anything you can tell me, even if only in general terms.”
Deaver looked mollified. “Are they even sure he left it? It could be something that was already there, or subsequently left by someone else.”
“They’re pretty sure he left it, I think.”
The bee lifted off the violet and drifted closer to Deaver; he batted it away from his food. “It might mean nothing; it might be something he dropped at the scene accidentally. Or it could be his ‘calling card.’”
That wasn’t enough of an answer for me. “And what could you hypothesize about him — the killer — from the type of item left at the site?”
“Again, I can’t tell you without more detail.” He cast me a sidelong glance, but I said nothing. “I suppose if it’s something that has a general symbolic meaning — a crucifix, a peace sign, or a heart — we could make some guesses. If he were to leave a red rose with his victim, for example, that might symbolize love for the one he killed or for all women like her. Or that he killed her as a proxy because in some way she reminded him of his true love.”
So what might a button mean? Connecting things, maybe? Fastening separate pieces?
The bee circled back and landed on Deaver’s little mound of pineapple. He frowned and fanned it away then closed his lunchbox. “But often the meaning of the object is more subjective, privately symbolic rather than generally so.”
Perry leaned forward, curious. “You’re saying it could mean something to him because of his personality or history?”
“Exactly,” Deaver said, his gaze following the path of the thwarted bee from over his head to a resting spot on Perry’s desk, where it paused to wipe its antennae. “Perhaps his mother once ripped his back to shreds by beating him with a bunch of thorny red roses or his father made him work in the family garden center instead of letting him party with his friends. Or he might just want the media to christen him the Red Rose Killer.”
So basically, a button could mean literally anything. Wonderful.
Deaver half-rose from his chair and leaned forward slowly. Then quick as a flash, he upended the empty glass over the bee, trapping it inside. “Hah!” he said in satisfaction and sat back down.
Perry squinted from the glass to Deaver and looked set to challenge this incarceration, but while I felt sorry for the bee, I was running out of time to pick Deaver’s brain, so I quickly asked, “What sorts of things are commonly left behind?”
“Again, it could be anything,” Deaver replied, watching impassively as the bee furiously dashed itself against the walls of the glass. “Keith Hunter Jesperson, the so-called Happy Face Killer, always left a sketch of a smiley face. The Beltway Snipers in Virginia left tarot cards.”
My mother would be interested to hear that.
He reopened his lunch box and took out the bread roll. “Sometimes, of course, it’s not an item per se. Killers might leave bitemarks or a distinctive knot in the ligatures or cover the victim’s face with her own clothing.” He took a big bite of the roll and chewed it meditatively. “Henry Ramirez, the Night Stalker, would use the victim’s own lipstick to draw an inverted pentagram on walls or mirrors at the scene, sometimes on the victim’s own skin. But he didn’t always leave one. Why not?” Another bite. More chewing. “And why an upside-down pentagram? Did that mean something to him personally? Was he making a statement of some kind, or did he perhaps have dyslexia and not know which way was up? And why use lipstick? These are the things that keep the machinery of my mind turning when I should be sound asleep.” Chuckling, he popped the last piece of roll into his mouth, dusted crumbs from his shirt and jacket into the Tupperware, and closed its lid, leaving the pineapple uneaten.
“If they want to evade detection, why leave anything at the scene?” Perry asked.
“Some theorists argue that they don’t want to escape detection, that they have a subconscious wish to be caught and stopped. I, however, tend to believe that they simply want to take credit for their kills. It’s at least partly that age-old desire to stamp your presence on a place, or in this case, a person or scene.” Deaver placed his lunch container on the desk, beside the overturned glass where the bee raged silently against its imprisonment. “The teen rebel paints graffiti on a wall, the impassioned lover carves a heart into a tree, the big game hunter wants a photograph with his foot on the lion’s neck.” There was a slight smile on Deaver’s lips as he contemplated those images. “It says, ‘I was here. I did this. I exist.’”
“I kill, therefore I am?” I said.
Deaver nodded and winked at me.
“I don’t know how you can immerse yourself in this awful stuff, Brad,” Perry said. “It turns my stomach just thinking about it.”
“I find it fascinating. But” — Deaver turned to me — “our time’s almost up. Any last questions?”
“Yes.,” I said. “Do serial killers typically have only one way of killing?”
“For the disorganized type, there’s a wide range of variability, but organized killers generally favor one modus operandi, although not necessarily. No rules, remember? Additionally, the method usually evolves over time because they tinker, reiterate, and refine, always aiming for the perfect kill that matches their fantasy.”
I frowned. “Their fantasy?”
“One theory about what finally tips disturbed individuals into killing is that they’ve invested huge amounts of time and emotional energy into dreaming about catching and killing and torturing a victim. They frequently use pornography, especially of the nastier paraphilias, to fuel this process. And one day, dreaming about it is no longer enough. They want more. The real thing rather than a pale imitation. They want to experiment with bringing their monstrous fantasy to life. So they kill. And initially, it’s wonderful,” he said, rolling the word around in his mouth like a sweet, firm grape. “They feel excited, aroused, ecstatic!”
I stared at Deaver, whose face was alight with a kind of manic intensity. Perry’s gaze was fixed on the poor bee, which was now crawling in circles under the glass on his desk.