Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(62)

Hodges shakes his head.

“Not even a parrot? In one of those old movies, you’d at least have a parrot in your office that would say rude things to prospective clients.”

“Sure. And you’d be my receptionist. Lola instead of Janey.”

“Or Velma.”

He grins. There’s a wavelength, and they’re on it.

She leans forward, once again creating that enticing view. “Profile this guy for me.”

“That was never my job. We had guys who specialized in that. One on the force and two on call from the psych department at the state university.”

“Do it anyway. I Googled you, you know, and it looks to me like you were just about the best the police department had. Commendations up the wazoo.”

“I got lucky a few times.”

It comes out sounding falsely modest, but luck really is a big part of it. Luck, and being ready. Woody Allen was right: eighty percent of success is just showing up.

“Take a shot, okay? If you do a good job, maybe we’ll revisit the bedroom.” She wrinkles her nose at him. “Unless you’re too old for twosies.”

The way he feels right now, he might not be too old for threesies. There have been a lot of celibate nights, which gives him an account to draw on. Or so he hopes. Part of him—a large part—still can’t believe this isn’t an incredibly detailed dream.

He sips his wine, rolling it around in his mouth, giving himself time to think. The top of her robe is closed again, which helps him concentrate.

“Okay. He’s probably young, that’s the first thing. I’m guessing between twenty and thirty-five. That’s partly because of his computer savvy, but not entirely. When an older guy murders a bunch of people, the ones he mostly goes after are family, co-workers, or both. Then he finishes by putting the gun to his own head. You look, you find a reason. A motive. Wife kicked him out, then got a restraining order. Boss downsized him, then humiliated him by having a couple of security guys stand by while he cleaned out his office. Loans overdue. Credit cards maxed out. House underwater. Car repo’d.”

“But what about serial killers? Wasn’t that guy in Kansas a middle-aged man?”

“Dennis Rader, yeah. And he was middle-aged when they bagged him, but only thirty or so when he started. Also, those were sex killings. Mr. Mercedes isn’t a sex-killer, and he’s not a serial killer in the traditional sense. He started with a bunch, but since then he’s settled on individuals—first your sister, now me. And he didn’t come after either of us with a gun or a stolen car, did he?”

“Not yet, anyway,” Janey says.

“Our guy is a hybrid, but he has certain things in common with younger men who kill. He’s more like Lee Malvo—one of the Beltway Snipers—than Rader. Malvo and his partner planned to kill six white people a day. Just random killings. Whoever had the bad luck to walk into their gunsights went down. Sex and age didn’t matter. They ended up getting ten, not a bad score for a couple of homicidal maniacs. The stated motive was racial, and with John Allen Muhammad—he was Malvo’s partner, much older, a kind of father figure—that might have been true, or partially true. I think Malvo’s motivation was a lot more complex, a whole stew of things he didn’t understand himself. Look closely and you’d probably find sexual confusion and upbringing were major players. I think the same is true with our guy. He’s young. He’s bright. He’s good at fitting in, so good that a lot of his associates don’t realize he’s basically a loner. When he’s caught, they’ll all say, ‘I can’t believe it was so-and-so, he was always so nice.’”

“Like Dexter Morgan on that TV show.”

Hodges knows the one she’s talking about and shakes his head emphatically. Not just because the show is fantasyland bullshit, either.

“Dexter knows why he’s doing what he’s doing. Our guy doesn’t. He’s almost certainly unmarried. He doesn’t date. He may be impotent. There’s a good chance he’s still living at home. If so, it’s probably with a single parent. If it’s Father, the relationship is cold and distant—ships passing in the night. If it’s Mother, there’s a good chance Mr. Mercedes is her surrogate husband.” He sees her start to speak and raises his hand. “That doesn’t mean they’re having a sexual relationship.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll tell you something, Bill. You don’t have to sleep with a guy to be having a sexual relationship with him. Sometimes it’s in the eye contact, or the clothes you wear when you know he’s going to be around, or what you do with your hands—touching, patting, caressing, hugging. Sex has got to be in this somewhere. I mean, that letter he sent you . . . the stuff about wearing a condom while he did it . . .” She shivers in her white robe.

“Ninety percent of that letter is white noise, but sure, sex is in it somewhere. Always is. Also anger, aggression, loneliness, feelings of inadequacy . . . but it doesn’t do to get lost in stuff like that. It’s not profiling, it’s analysis. Which was way above my pay-grade even when I had a pay-grade.”

“Okay . . .”

“He’s broken,” Hodges says simply. “And evil. Like an apple that looks okay on the outside, but when you cut it open, it’s black and full of worms.”