At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(33)
There were titters of laughter in the lecture hall. Verraday felt a pang of guilt over his not-particularly-subtle put-down of Koller but decided it was worth it. A bit of applied psychology and tough love was exactly what this kid needed.
“Now, if we can move along, I’ve still got a lot of material to cover today. Mr. Koller, if you’d like to discuss this further, you’re welcome to come see me in my office during the scheduled time, between nine and ten AM Thursdays.”
Koller looked pissed off, but settled in and didn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the lecture. Ninety minutes later, Verraday was happy to hear the rustling of backpacks and paper and the tearing of Velcro that indicated the end of today’s class.
CHAPTER 17
Verraday’s agitated mood began to return when he got home. He was still chafing from Maclean’s rejection of his help. But he decided that sharing the information about Destiny with Maclean was the right thing to do anyway, even if she was too damned bullheaded to do anything useful with it. He grabbed his cell and typed in the contact information along with a terse message: “In case you care, the other girl in the photo with Rachel is named Destiny. This is where you can reach her.” Then he hit send. That was it. He was done with Maclean and the investigation now. He had fulfilled his obligation, done as much as he could for the cause of justice.
He resolved to get a head start on the midterm exam, on the off chance that he decided he wouldn’t feel completely foolish going to the steampunk convention that weekend with Penny. So he poured himself a glass of wine, turned on the gas fireplace, and sat down on the sofa with the coursework and his laptop, determined to write some new questions this year. He spent the next hour wading through various scholarly papers and writing, and, satisfied that he’d now come up with the beginnings of something that was not only fresh but also genuinely useful to his students, he put his work away and retired upstairs to the den to check his e-mail.
Most of the messages were questions about the midterm. Predictably, there was one from Koller, continuing to argue the point about psychopaths being more intelligent than the average person and including a link to a dubious pop psychology website that reinforced his belief.
Then there was an e-mail from Jensen, the mousy, nondescript girl.
“Dear Professor Verraday, I have a question about the course material. I’m still not entirely clear on the difference between modus operandi and signature in serial killers. The material from the FBI suggests that a criminal usually has a ‘signature’ that identifies them. But couldn’t a repeat offender confuse investigators by intentionally changing their signature?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Verraday replied, “To a logical mind, that seems like the obvious thing to do. But the short answer is, killers with a signature behavior do what they do because it’s what gratifies them. A strangler would feel cheated if he had to shoot someone. Interviews with convicted killers have confirmed this. It’s analogous to the way certain people always have coffee after dinner, while someone else might prefer tea, and a third person would choose brandy instead. They all eat dinner, but their rituals around it are different. And while they savor their own rituals, they would find each other’s rituals unsatisfying. I’m glad that you raised this issue, and I will bring it up in the next class.”
When he closed her e-mail, he saw that three junk e-mails had popped up on his screen in the meantime. He was surprised. His spam filter usually caught them, but there were always exceptions. The first one had a subject line indicating that hot Russian MILFS were looking for relationships with him. The second one hinted at some especially repugnant form of kiddie porn. He promptly deleted both without looking at them.
The third one was an announcement of a special photographic exhibition of Bettie Page at the MoMA in New York. It sounded interesting. So he clicked the mouse and opened the e-mail. He didn’t notice a date, but there was a vintage photo of Bettie Page, wearing a merry widow, brandishing a whip and her trademark grin. Bettie was campy but sexy. And more to the point, as a twelve-year-old, Verraday had stumbled across postcards of her in a used books and comics store in Pike Place Market. He’d had no idea at the time who Bettie Page was, but the effect on his hormone-flooded adolescent brain was as profound as if some alternate-universe fairy godmother in black had tapped him with her wand. Bettie and her provocative and highly distinctive lingerie had been imprinted on his erotic sensibilities then and there. And as his first sexual icon, she still held considerable sway. Not enough to make him fly to New York City just to see an exhibit of photos that he could probably find anywhere on the Internet, mind you, but he couldn’t resist at least checking the web page. He clicked on the link. A moment later, he was gazing at a montage of Bettie photos. In one, a corseted Bettie was being spanked by a woman in stockings and a bra. He’d seen that one dozens of times. Ditto on the next picture, in which Bettie was tied up and gagged. In another one, she was taking part in a clumsily staged catfight with a blonde woman. It was classic Bettie Page—erotic, racy yet somehow slightly goofy in spite of the taboo nature of the acts depicted. It was a great idea for a MoMA exhibit, thought Verraday, but the images were a bit well worn and predictable for a gallery whose collection included some of the most imaginative and sublime works of Frank Gehry, Chagall, and Van Gogh.
Then down the side of the screen, he noticed a few thumbnails, photos of Bettie that he’d never seen before. They teased with shadow and light and were artistic, even highbrow, compared to the workmanlike creations of Bettie’s usual photographers, Irving Klaw and Bunny Yeager, which had become famous for their subject matter rather than the quality of their execution.