Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(39)

Mira set her tea aside. “He selects married couples. The third makes that a very clear pattern.”

“Yeah, that’s important.”

“I believe it is, and I can add to the initial profile. Certainly his victims are surrogates, perhaps for his own parents. They may have, or one of them may have, bullied and abused him. Or brushed off and ignored those who did. He certainly had sexual feelings for his mother.”

“His—huh.”

“Possibly stepmother. It’s possible his father remarried—younger woman, attractive woman, and he developed feelings for her. And he has a deep hatred for his father, or father figure. At the same time a deep envy of him. His father had authority, power over him, and, more, had a sexual relationship with the mother your killer wanted. If we follow this line, it’s most likely the killer came from some privilege.”

“Not that he envied that lifestyle, but had it.” Eve eased back on the corner of the desk. “I lean there.”

“I believe he grew up in a wealthy home, but never had what he most wanted. Power, control, physicality, and courage. He hides behind masks, elaborate ones, monstrous ones. They add to his sense of power, and probably theatrics as well. The stealing isn’t beside the point. He takes the tangible as well. Strips things away from them.”

“And keeps them—all. It’s looking like he hasn’t sold or pawned any of the jewelry or valuables, from—so far—the three hits.”

“Hmm. I missed that. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Not just a souvenir, a token, a remembrance, but all. Greed. The theft isn’t, even on a minor level, about profit. It’s about having, holding, seeing, touching. He needs the tangible as well.”

Pausing, Mira looked at the board. “He selects beautiful women—I believe they come first. He must find one, then find one who’s married. The couple must be wealthy, privileged.”

“No kids.”

“Yes, that’s another requirement. It may be because having children in the house adds complications to his plans, or—”

“He doesn’t want the competition.”

Mira smiled. “Exactly. I doubt very much he was an only child, and true or not, felt his sibling or siblings garnered the most love and attention—took what was rightfully his. He won’t be married. If he’s in a relationship it’s a front. Another mask. He won’t have children. He will be financially solvent, very likely successful. He knows how to become what’s needed, even enjoys the false fronts, how he fools the people around him. His sex life is pedestrian if it exists. He needs to rape to feel true release. He needs to hear the victim praise him, to tell the father figure he’s better, more virile, a better lover. By this time, he’s impotent unless it’s rape.”

“How about jerking off?” Eve asked. “He takes an outfit from the female victims. Maybe dresses up a droid or whatever.”

“Yes, he could achieve release by reenacting the experience, though that will become more difficult, more frustrating. He’s probably between thirty and fifty. Old enough for control, for planning rather than impulse, for patience. He’ll continue to plan—he has no desire to be caught, to be stopped. And he’ll continue to escalate, to attack at shorter intervals.”

“And he’ll kill again now.”

“Yes, almost certainly. He didn’t plan on murder, but he will with the next. Eventually, he’ll kill both mother and father figure.”

“Not if I find him first. Thanks. I’ve got a picture.”

“Will you tell me how you feel?”

Eve glanced away from her board, into those soft blue eyes. “What?”

“Eve. Clearly there are similarities between what happened to you and to Daphne Strazza.”

“I’m dealing with it. It’s not in my way.” But she pushed up, stuck her hands in her pockets, paced to her skinny window. “Won’t get in the way. I can empathize, sure. I’m not where I was a couple years ago. I don’t shake as easy on things like this. It gave me some bad moments, and may give me more, but I can handle it.”

“I don’t doubt you can handle it. You’re strong, and always have been. Even then, Eve, even at eight, you had strength or you’d never have survived it.”

“Plenty of cracks. Less of them now.” Eve turned back. “You get credit for some of that.”

“I’ll take it.” Mira rose. “And tell you to remember that if you need to lean, need to talk, just need someone to listen.”

“I do remember it. And if I start to shake, I’ll come to you.”

“Good.” Mira rose, gathered her coat. “I’ve got an early session, but I’m available if needed.”

“Thanks.”

Eve turned back to her board, studied the hard, handsome face of Anthony Strazza, the bloody broken body she’d recorded.

She had a strong instinct that he’d been a mean son of a bitch. But he was her victim.

She wouldn’t shake.

Moments after Mira clicked out of the office, Peabody clomped in.

“I’ve got Neville Patrick, at his office at his studio. I made a push to speak to his wife at the same time, and he balked about speaking to her at all. But given the choice of us going to his house, he’s going to talk to her about coming into the studio this morning.”