Dance of Death (33 page)

No doubt.

Sitting on the middle of her desk was a thin report, just in, from the top guy in the forensic profiling division. He had confirmed that the homicides were psychologically consistent and could have been committed by the same perp. What's more, he had prepared a profile of the killer. It was startling, to say the least.

D.C. and New Orleans didn't know it yet; the FBI didn't know it yet; not even Singleton or Rocker knew it yet: but they were dealing with a serial killer. A meticulous, intelligent, methodical, cool, and utterly insane serial killer.

She spun, strode, spun again. As soon as she showed Rocker that she'd connected the cases, the shit would hit the fan. The FBI, already involved because of Decker's murder, would descend like a ton of bricks. There would be an earthquake of publicity-serial killers always garnered big headlines. But a serial killer like
this
was totally unheard of. She could almost see the screaming 72-point headline in the
Post.
The mayor would get involved, maybe even the governor. It was going to be a mess. A god-awful mess.

But she couldn't call Rocker until she had the last piece of evidence, the last piece of the puzzle. The smoking gun. She was going to get raked over the coals, no matter what. The political fallout would be terrible. It was important she had all her ducks in a row- that was the only thing that could save her ass.

A timid rap came on the door, and she halted midstride. "Come in," she said.

A man holding a manila envelope poked his head in.

"Where've you been? I was supposed to have this report two hours ago!"

"I'm sorry," the man stammered, taking a few tentative steps inside the office. "As I explained on the phone, we had to run the match three times because-"

"Never mind. Just give me the report, please."

He held it out from a distance, almost as if fearful of being bitten.

"You got a DNA match?" she asked, taking the report.

"Yes. A pair of beautiful matches, blood from the box cutter and the spot on the floor. Both from the same individual, not the victim. But here's the problem: the DNA wasn't in any of the FBI criminal or juvenile databases, so we did like you asked and ran it against all the DNA databases. When we finally did get a match, it was in a federal database, and we had a major problem because of confidentiality issues and ... well..." He hesitated.

"Go on," Hayward said as gently as she could.

"The reason I had to run the program three times was to be absolutely sure about this match. This is explosive stuff, Captain. We can't afford to be wrong."

"And?" Hayward could hardly breathe.

"You aren't going to believe this. The DNA matched one of the Bureau's top agents."

Hayward breathed out. "I believe it. God help us, I believe it."

FORTY-ONE

ELI Glinn waited in his small private office on the fourth floor of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. It was a sober room, containing only a table, several computers, a small bookshelf, and a clock. The walls were painted gray, and there was nothing of a personal nature in the office, save for a small photograph of a stately blonde woman wearing the uniform of a ship's captain, waving from what appeared to be the bridge of a tanker. A line from a W. H. Auden poem was handwritten beneath.

The office lights had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a large flat-panel monitor, which carried a high-definition digital feed from an office in the basement of the EES building. The video feed showed two people: the subject, Pendergast, with EES's psychological specialist, Rolf Krasner, who was preparing the subject for questioning.

Glinn observed the slender figure of Pendergast with interest. The man's insight into Glinn's own psychology, his extraordinary ability to pick out and interpret a few details scattered about a room which itself was a very morass of detail, had nearly unnerved Glinn-and, in a curious way, deeply impressed him.

While still watching the proceedings on the monitor, the audio turned off, he turned again to the folder Pendergast had given him.

Although unimportant in the larger scheme of things, Pendergast's case was not without its points. For example, there was the near mythical Cain and Abel relationship between these two extraordinary brothers. For Pendergast
was
extraordinary-Glinn had never before met a man whose intellect he could respect as equal to his own. Glinn had always felt somewhat alienated from the mass of humanity-and yet here was a man he could, in the revolting parlance of the present age,
identify
with. That Pendergast's brother appeared to be even more intelligent, and yet utterly malevolent, Glinn found even more intriguing. This was a man so consumed by hatred that he had devoted his life to the object of his hatred, not unlike a man under the spell of obsessive love. Whatever lay at the bottom of that hatred was something perhaps unique in human experience.

Glinn glanced back at the monitor. The chitchat was over and Rolf Krasner was getting down to business. The EES psychologist combined a disarmingly friendly air with consummate professionalism. You could hardly believe that this cheerful, round-faced, unassuming man with the Viennese accent could be considered a threat. Indeed, at first glance, he seemed about the most unthreatening personality imaginable-until you saw him in action. Glinn knew just how effective that Jekyll and Hyde strategy could be with an unsuspecting subject.

On the other hand, Krasner had never had a subject like this one.

Glinn leaned over and switched on the audio feed.

"Mr. Pendergast," Krasner was saying cheerily, "is there anything I can get you before we begin? Water? A soft drink? A double martini?" A chuckle.

"Nothing, thank you."

Pendergast appeared ill at ease, as well he should. EES had developed three different modes of interrogation, each for a particular personality type, along with an experimental fourth mode to be used only on the most difficult, resistant-and intelligent-subjects. After they had read through Pendergast's folder and discussed the situation, there was no argument over which mode would be used. Pendergast would be only the sixth person to undergo this fourth type of interrogation. It had never failed.

"We use some of the techniques of good, old-fashioned psychoanalysis," Krasner said. "And one of them is that we ask you to lie down on a couch, out of view of the questioner. Would you please make yourself comfortable?"

The figure lay down on the richly brocaded couch and folded his white hands on his chest. Except for the ragged clothes, he looked alarmingly like the corpse at a wake.
What a fascinating creature this man is,
Glinn thought as he moved his wheelchair closer to the monitor.

"Perhaps you recognize the office we're in, Mr. Pendergast?" Krasner said, bustling about, getting ready.

"I do. Number 19 Berggasse."

"Exactly! Modeled after Freud's own office in Vienna. We even managed to acquire some of his African carvings. And that Persian carpet in the center also belonged to him. Freud called his office
gemütlich,
which is an almost untranslatable German word meaning agreeable, comfortable, cozy, friendly-and that is the atmosphere we have strived to create. Do you speak German, Mr. Pendergast?"

"German is not one of my languages, much to my regret. I should have liked to read Goethe's
Faust
in the original."

"A marvelous work, vigorous and yet poetic." Krasner took a seat on a wooden stool out of Pendergast's view.

"Do you employ the free-association methods of psychoanalysis?" Pendergast asked dryly.

"Oh, no! We've developed a technique all our own. It's very straightforward, actually-no tricks, no dream interpretations. The only thing Freudian about our technique is the office decor." He chuckled again.

Glinn found himself smiling. The fourth interrogation mode used tricks-they all did-but, of course, the subject wasn't supposed to see them. Indeed, this fourth mode seemed like pure simplicity itself ... on the surface. Highly intelligent people could be fooled, but only with the greatest of care and subtlety.

"I'm going to help you through some simple visualization techniques, which will also involve questioning. It's simple and there is no hypnosis involved. It's just a way to induce a calm and focused mind, receptive to questioning. Does that suit you, Aloysius? May I call you by your first name?"

"You may, and I am at your disposal, Dr. Krasner. I am only concerned that I may not be able to give you the information you desire, because I do not believe it exists."

"Do not concern yourself with that. Simply relax, follow my instructions, and answer the questions as best you can."

Relax.
Glinn knew this was about the last thing Pendergast would be able to do, once Krasner got started.

"Wonderful. Now I'm going to turn down the lights. I will also ask you to close your eyes."

"As you wish."

The lights dimmed to a faint diffuse glow.

"Now we will allow three minutes to pass in silence," said Krasner.

The minutes crawled by.

"Let us begin." Krasner's voice had taken on a hushed, velvety tone. Another long silence, and then he resumed.

"Breathe in slowly. Hold it. Now let it out even more slowly. Again. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Relax. Very good. Now, I want you to imagine you are at your favorite place in all the world. The place where you feel most at home, most comfortable. Take a minute to place yourself there. Now turn around, examine your surroundings. Sample the air. Take in the scents, the sounds. Now, tell me: What do you see?"

A momentary silence. Glinn leaned still closer to the monitor.

"I am on a vast green lawn at the edge of an ancient beechwood forest. There is a summerhouse at the far end of the lawn. There are gardens and a millhouse to the west, where a brook flows. The lawn sweeps up to a stone mansion, shaded by elms."

"What is this place?"

"Ravenscry. The estate of my Great-Aunt Cornelia."

"And what is the year and season?"

"It is 1972, the ides of August."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Inhale the air again. What scents can you smell?"

"Freshly cut grass, with a faint overlay of peonies from the garden."

"What are the sounds?"

"A whip-poor-will. The rustle of beech leaves. The distant murmur of water."

"Good. Very good. Now I want you to rise. Rise off the ground, let yourself float... Look down as you rise. Do you see the lawn, the house, from above?"

"Yes."

"Now rise further. One hundred feet. Two hundred. Look down again. What do you see?"

"The great sprawling house, the carriage house, the gardens, lawns, millhouse, trout hatchery, arboretum, greenhouses, the beechwood forest, and the drive winding to the stone gates. The encircling wall."

"And beyond that?"

"The road to Haddam."

"Now. Make it night."

"It is night."

"Make it day."

"It is day."

"Do you understand that you are in control, that all this is in your head, that none of this is real?"

"Yes."

"During this process, you must always keep that in mind. You are in control, and none of what is happening is real. It is all in your mind."

"I understand that."

"Below, on the lawn, put the members of your family. Who are they? Name them, please."

"My father, Linnaeus. My mother, Isabella. My Great-Aunt Cornelia. Cyril, the gardener, working to one side..."

There was a long pause.

"Anyone else?"

"And my brother. Diogenes."

"His age?"

"Ten."

"What are they doing?"

"Standing around just where I put them." The voice sounded dry and ironic. Glinn could see very well that Pendergast was maintaining an ironic detachment and would attempt to do so as long as possible.

"Put them in some kind of typical activity," Krasner went on smoothly. "What are they doing now?"

"Finishing tea on a blanket spread out on the lawn."

"Now I want you to drift down. Slowly. Join them."

"I am there."

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"Tea is over and Great-Aunt Cornelia is passing a plate of petits fours. She has them brought up from New Orleans."

"Are they good?"

"Naturally. Great-Aunt Cornelia has the highest standards." The tone of Pendergast's voice was laden with irony, and Glinn wondered just who this Great-Aunt Cornelia was. He glanced down at an abstract attached to Pendergast's file, flipped through it, and came to the answer of his question. A chill crept up his spine. He quickly shut the file-right now that was a distraction.

"What kind of tea did you take?" asked Krasner.

"Great-Aunt Cornelia will only drink T. G. Tips, which she has sent over from England."

"Now look around the blanket. Look at everyone. Gaze around until your eyes come to rest on Diogenes."