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“And you’re getting sentimental,” I shot back. “Still wearing your childhood ring.” Then I softened, adding, “I know it means a lot to you.”
She nodded her thanks, then leapt back into the fray. “I’m just busting your balls after the way you treated my ASAC at the meeting the other day. I should tell you he’s got someone in the mayor’s office listening to him.”
“We didn’t treat him badly. We just shot down his idea. There’s a difference, whether Robert Lincoln can see it or not. And the truth is, no one in the mayor’s office really listens. He might be telling them things, but they won’t do anything about it unless it helps them.”
“Cynical.”
“Only about government bureaucracy. You have no idea what goes on with the New York mayor’s office. It doesn’t matter who’s the mayor.” I sighed, then leaned forward. “Look, we have some theories about our killer. You might be able to help us.”
“Me personally? Or the FBI as an agency?”
“I was hoping to deal with you personally. At least until we figure a few things out. That a problem?”
Emily smiled, and I knew she was about to lay some kind of trap.
She said, “Let me make sure I understand. You want the benefits of FBI resources without actually dealing with the FBI?”
“I wouldn’t say it quite like that.”
“How would you say it?”
“I’d like to ask you, as my friend, to use FBI resources to help me. Because I’m your friend.” I was pleased to see that my rogue diplomacy made her laugh.
When she regained her composure, Emily said, “So what can I do to help the great Michael Bennett? According to the newspapers over the years, you already have all the answers.”
“If I had all the answers, I probably wouldn’t still be a cop.”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s your theory? I’ll help you if I can.”
I told her how Hollis and I had found what we thought could be similar cases in San Francisco and Atlanta. Then I said, “It’d be nice to know if the FBI was involved in those cases. It’d be great to have those reports. And most importantly, what do you think of Hollis’s theory that this could be the same killer, that he travels around?”
The FBI agent took a few moments to consider everything I’d said. “Let me run it past someone I know at Quantico. The behavioral science people are in a better position to talk about theories like that. I’ll keep it quiet. Nothing official.”
I said, “What about the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program or the Radford Serial Killer Database?”
“Databases are only as good as the information entered,” she warned. “ViCAP has been around since the 1980s. People relied on ViCAP for a long time until they realized its limitations. Also, whatever I run through the databases will track back to me. If anyone starts asking questions, an electronic trail might make it official.”
“If it helps us stop this killer, I could live with that.”
Chapter 20
By midafternoon, Daniel Ott decided it was time to take steps toward making life more interesting. For everyone.
He wasn’t an hourly employee, so he was free to slip out of the office early. Besides, as usual, no one noticed him leave. He headed back into Manhattan. He’d been working hard on his plan. He needed to use a computer that couldn’t be traced back to him. Which was why he ended up at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.
He even took a few extra minutes to explore the iconic building before getting down to business. The woodwork on the walls and high ceilings gave it such a solemn and scholarly feel that the idea of coming here to use a public computer seemed tacky. At the same time, however, he resented the amount of money spent on a building like this. Not just the marble walls and wood carved in dramatic shapes on the ceilings and shelving and tables but also the cost of maintaining it. The money could feed half the Midwest, he assumed. He hated the obvious opulence serving pretentious New Yorkers’ egos.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind for the moment. It was time to ratchet up the stress on the cops investigating his killings. This was a wrinkle he had been considering for a long while.
He’d begun leaving messages behind, starting with the third woman he had ever killed. He liked numbers and wanted the police to know he was counting his kills. Since then, almost ten years ago, he’d found he couldn’t stop. In fact, he often fought the urge to make the markers he left more and more obvious.
Ott didn’t know if anyone had ever figured out any of his taunts—mixing the blood of past and present victims, stabbing them in the eye. He liked the control of puncturing the eye, the splash of the aqueous and vitreous fluids as they released from the anterior and posterior chambers. He liked the definitive proof of that final stab wound—the proof that his was the last face they’d ever see. He still hadn’t noticed any mention in the media. Which was why he needed to take this extra step. Get his message heard.
He’d already prepared everything he needed. Technically, patrons were supposed to use library cards to access the computers, but Ott had noticed that if he came there in the afternoon, he could get on to a library computer without anyone caring.
He stepped into the dark paneled room and glanced around quickly. There was one librarian presiding over a computer table with five open machines. He slipped into the seat farthest away from the librarian and immediately created a new Gmail account in the name of Bobby Fisher. He’d used the name Boris Spassky once before and liked the symmetry of his choices.
It took him only a moment to find the email address he needed and another thirty seconds to upload the document from a thumb drive. If the police were too dim to notice his messages, he’d alert the media. Soon everyone would be paying attention to him, the most dangerous killer ever to hit New York. And the only one with a lesson plan.
