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“We need to get to the heart of the problem. Elvis Bisbee isn’t going to be much help.”
“Asa Surrette is at the center of it all?”
“Yeah, the guy who probably wants to do things to Alafair that most people can’t imagine. I can’t sleep thinking about it. We’ve got to put this guy out of business.”
“To what degree?”
When I didn’t reply, he picked up his fork and started eating. His food had grown cold; he was chewing and swallowing it as he would cardboard. He drank a glass of water and looked at me, his face round and flat. “Answer my question, Dave. How do we play this one?”
“We wipe him off the planet,” I said.
“That’s more like it, big mon.”
No, it wasn’t. Grandiosity is always the mark of fear and uncertainty, and as soon as I’d spoken those words, I knew they would come back to mock me.
ASA SURRETTE WAS officially dead, even though he had left a note under Alafair’s windshield wiper outside the Lolo post office. I wanted to be angry at the authorities in Kansas and also at the FBI for concluding that he had died in the collision of the prison van with the tanker truck. Unfortunately, I had been guilty of the same obtuseness when Alafair told me she was sure Surrette was stalking her.
After we returned from the jail with Gretchen, I sat down with a legal pad and a felt-tip pen by our bedroom window and began writing down as many details as I could about Surrette. Any detective who has investigated serial killings, or any psychiatrist who has spent time interviewing psychopaths such as the cousins Angelo Buono, Jr., and Kenneth Bianchi or the satanist Richard Ramirez or the BTK killer, Dennis Rader, will be the first to tell you that behavioral science tends to fall apart when you probe the souls of men like these. It’s not unlike an attempt to fathom the origins of the universe. At a certain point, the laws of science lose their applicability.
When it came to motivation, misogyny was often in the mix. So was pedophilia. These two forms of psychosis did not explain the level of violence and savagery the perpetrators inflicted on their victims. I have my speculations, although they are founded on personal experience and not the results of any study I’m aware of. I have known many cruel people in my life. Their cruelty, in my opinion, was the mask for their fear. It’s that simple.
We all agree that anyone who is cruel to animals is a moral and physical coward and undeserving of the air he breathes. This same person, however, has a way of working himself into a position of authority over others, often children, even though all the warning signs are there. I’ve never understood our collective unwillingness to question the authority of a predator who happens to acquire a badge or an insignia or a clerical collar or who carries a whistle on a lanyard around his neck. Without our sanction, these pitiful excuses for human beings would wither and die like amphibians gasping for oxygen and water on the surface of Mars.
The motivations of a psychopath are almost irrelevant in an investigation. Psychoanalytical speculation about a moral imbecile makes for great entertainment, but it doesn’t put a net over anyone, and you do yourself no favor by trying to place yourself inside his head. The methodology of the psychopath is a different issue, one that frequently proves to be his undoing. In all probability, the perpetrator’s pattern will repeat itself, primarily because he’s a narcissist and thinks his method, if it has worked once, is fail-safe; second, the psychopath is not interested in the hunt but, rather, in assaulting and murdering his prey, unlike a professional thief, who is usually a pragmatist and considers theft an occupation and not a personal attack upon his victim.
Asa Surrette’s pattern in Kansas was not imaginative. He used his job as an electrician to enter the victim’s home and lie in wait. He bound and tortured and suffocated most of his victims and ejaculated on the women and girls but did not penetrate them. He posed them and took trophies home—purses, underwear, costume jewelry, wedding rings, driver’s licenses. If he took money from the crime scene, it was coincidental.
I had created two columns on my legal pad, one detailing the characteristics of Surrette’s crimes and the other a list of his jobs, the uniforms he might have worn, his travels, and his known friends.
I compared the inf
ormation I had written on the legal pad with what I knew about his crimes in Montana, if indeed Asa Surrette was the same man who had shot an arrow at Alafair and left the message on the cave wall and murdered Angel Deer Heart and Bill Pepper and perhaps the pilot whose twin-engine Cessna had exploded west of Missoula.
The murders in Wichita were aimed at women and girls with whom he had no known prior contact. Was the same true of Angel Deer Heart? Why would a seventeen-year-old girl leave a biker nightclub full of music and excitement and go off with a seedy old man who had the social appeal of a soiled litter box?
Unless she knew him.
There was another troubling issue. To anyone’s knowledge, with the exception of the farmer from whom he possibly stole a truck, Surrette had never attacked a lone male. If Surrette was our man, why would he go after Bill Pepper in the cottage up at Swan Lake, and why would he sexually mutilate him?
I had only one answer: Surrette had planted the bug in Clete’s cabin and learned that Pepper had kidnapped and sexually abused Gretchen Horowitz. He murdered Pepper, knowing there was a good chance Clete or Gretchen would be blamed for his death.
Why go to all this trouble to do injury to Clete and Gretchen, neither of whom had done him any harm? It wasn’t adding up. Also, what was Surrette living on?
Crime is about money, sex, or power. I had a feeling all three were involved with our visitor from the land of the Yellow Brick Road. As I stared down at my legal pad, I realized there was one element missing from all the forensic evidence gathered by authorities during the twenty-year period Surrette had been torturing and murdering people. He had not left messages with biblical or messianic overtones. Even when he called the authorities or the news media to tell them where they could find a body, he made no grandiose claims. Where and when had he taken on his new persona? In prison? Or had the transformation not been of his choosing?
Some people in A.A. say a recovering drunk should not go inside his own head without an escort. I was beginning to think they were right.
I went into Alafair’s room. She had worked all night on her new novel and had eaten breakfast while the sky was dark, then had gone to bed. She was sleeping on her side, her long black hair scattered on her face, her mouth slightly parted. She had grown into a tall and lithe young woman who spoke with a South Louisiana accent and whose posture was always erect and whose eye was clear and whose sense of principle governed every aspect of her life. Even in sleep, an aura of peace and strength seemed to radiate from her face. The window was open, and up the hillside I could see the darkness of the pines and cedars and fir trees, and I knew that inside the deep shade on the hillside was the tiger William Blake had written about, burning brightly in the forests of the night, his brain dipped from a furnace and forged with a hammer and chain. The tiger was Asa Surrette, the bane of us all, the trees lighting when he padded through the undergrowth, his guttural sounds a prelude of things to come.
Where are you, sir? How brave and fearsome would you be on a level playing field? Do you swell with pride when you remember the child you hung from a pipe in a basement? I wonder how well you would fare if you were faced with the prospect of eating eight rounds from a 1911-model .45 auto?
Alafair’s eyes opened and looked into mine. She lifted herself on one elbow and pushed her hair over her forehead. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
“It’s fine,” I replied.
“That look on your face.”
“Let’s stay close together until this stuff with Surrette is over.”
