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“Nice to see a guy handle a kid that way, and enjoy it,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah. Wonder what a guy, a successful guy, thinks about pulling in a professional father stipend, dealing with an offspring, while the mother’s being a busy exec at a major firm every day. Some guys would resent that. Some might think the little lady’s pushy, domineering. Maybe his mother was the same—Breen’s mother is a neurologist and his father went the professional parent route. You know,” Eve added, looking up the stairs, “some guys would build up a nasty little resentment of women over that kind of setup.”
“That’s really sexist.”
“Yeah, it is. Some people are.”
Peabody frowned up the steps. “It’s some brain that could take a nice, homey scene like we just witnessed and turn it on its head into a motive for murder.”
“Just one of my natural-born talents, Peabody.”
Chapter 9
Breen set them up in a roomy office just off the kitchen. Two large windows faced the rear, where they could see a kind of tidy patio skirted by a low wall. Behind the wall were leafy trees. With the view, they might have been in some quiet suburb rather than the city.
Someone had put pots of flowers on the patio, along with a couple of loungers. There was a small table shaded by a jaunty blue-and-white striped umbrella.
A couple of big plastic trucks lay on their sides, along with their colorful plastic occupants, as if there had been a terrible vehicular accident.
Why, Eve wondered, were kids always bashing toys together? Maybe it was some sort of primitive cave-dweller instinct that, if things went well, the kid outgrew or at least restrained into adulthood.
Jed’s father looked civilized enough, sitting in his rolly chair that he’d scooted around from his workstation. Then again, he made the bulk of his living writing about people who restrained nothing, and rather than outgrowing any destructive instincts, had bumped it up from plastic toys to flesh and blood.
It took, Eve was very aware, all kinds.
“So, how can I help?”
“You’ve done considerable research into serial killers,” Eve began.
“Historical figures, primarily. Though I have interviewed a few contemporary subjects.”
“Why is that, Mr. Breen?”
“Tom. Why?” He looked surprised for a moment. “It’s fascinating. You’ve been up close and personal with the breed. Don’t you find them fascinating?”
“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”
He leaned forward. “But you have to wonder what makes them who they are, don’t you? What separates them from the rest of us? Is it something more or something less? Are they born to kill, or does that need evolve in them? Is it a single instance that turns them, or a series of events? And really, the answer isn’t always the same, and that’s fascinating. One guy spends his childhood in poverty and abuse”—he tapped his index fingers together—“and becomes a productive member of society. A bank president, faithful husband, good father, loyal friend. Plays golf on the weekend and walks his pet schnauzer every night. He uses his background to springboard himself into something better, higher, right?”
“And another uses it as an excuse to dive into the muck. Yeah, I get it. Why do you write about the muck?”
He sat back again. “Well, I could give you a lot of jive about how studying the killer and the muck he wades in gives society insight into how and why. And understanding, information, is power against fear. It would be true,” he added with his quick and boyish smile. “But on another level entirely, it’s just fun. I’ve been into it since I was a kid. Jack the Ripper was the big one for me. I read everything about him, watched every vid ever produced, surfed the Web sites, made up stories where I was a cop back then and tracked him down. Along the way I expanded, studied up on profiling and types, the steps and the stages—you know, trolling, hunting, the rush and the lull.”
He shrugged now. “I went through a phase where I thought I’d be a cop, chase the bad guys. But I got over that one. Considered going into psychology, but it just didn’t suit me. What I really wanted to do was write, and that’s what I was good at. So I write about my lifelong interest.”
“I hear some writers need to experience the subject they’re writing about. Need that hands-on approach before they can put it down in words.”
Amusement bloomed on his face. “So, you’re asking if I’ve gone out and carved up a couple of street LCs in the name of research?” His laughter rolled out, then stopped, like a wave hitting a wall as Eve only continued to watch him.
He blinked, several times, then swallowed audibly. “Holy shit, you really are. I’m a suspect?” The healthy color in his face had drained away to leave it pale and shiny. “For real?”
“I’d like to know where you were on September second, between midnight and three A.M.”
“I was home, probably. I don’t . . .” He lifted both hands, rubbed the sides of his head. “Man, my brain’s gone fuzzy. I figured you wanted me to consult. Was pretty juiced about it. Ah . . . I was here. Jule—Julietta, my wife—had a late meeting, and didn’t get home until about ten. She was whipped and went straight up to bed. I put in some writing time. With Jed, the only time the house is really quiet is the middle of the night. I worked until one, maybe a little after. I can check my disc log.”
He opened drawers in his workstation, began to root around. “I, ah, Jesus, did the man of the house routine. I go through it every night before I turn in. Check the security, make sure everything’s locked up. Look in on Jed. That’s it.”
“How about Sunday morning?”
