Skin Deep (15 page)

“Bird-watching, my ass.”

Neil turned onto 93 South toward Boston. The interview with Pendergast had elevated him from his funk of the last few days.

“He probably sits in the dark up there and watches the coeds undress.”

“So,” said Steve, “you think he had something going on with her?”

“What do you think? The guy's a cocksman plain and simple. A stack of student sex complaints plus a lewd and lash with a seventeen-year-old. The bastard can't keep it in his pants is all. Plus he's got a dozen behavioral indicators.”

Steve decided to play dumb. “Like what?”

“Like what? The guy's a fucking mess of tics and blinks. He's lying about his relationship with her. Plus you saw his office. It's superorganized. The damn books on the shelves are arranged alphabetically.”

“So he's neat.”

“Not neat.
Obsessive.
And obsessive people are psychopathic, disorganized people are psychotic. He's the kind who plans, who's careful, and cleans up after himself.”

“Except we've got nothing hard connecting him to her apartment.”

Obsessive. Kinda getting close to home, pal.

“Not yet. But he's got a history of sexual offenses, which is a good start in my book.”

Steve nodded. “Asking a student out is not a sexual offense.”

“He got a year's suspension, so somebody thinks so.”

“But schools are uptight about sexual harassment. Word gets out some professor's screwing his students and parents think twice about sending their kids. Plus consensual sex among adults isn't against the law.”

“Then what about the Clark thing and the lewd and lash at UNH?”

“Yeah, but a big leap to murder one.”

“It's a good start. Besides, one of his own students called him a pervert.”

“Except someone might see a guy who likes attractive women and who wants them to like him. Plus he's got no record of violence. Terry Farina was killed in a moment of rage, not horniness.”

Neil turned his face toward him, his black glasses filling his face. “The guy's a slimeball who's lied to us point-blank. We don't know the kind of violence he's capable of or what makes his dick tick. He could be another Ted Bundy is all.”

Steve could feel the heat of conviction radiating from Neil. But his own confidence was rapidly fading. “He didn't lie. He just didn't fess up until he was aware we had something on him.”

“You're splitting hairs. If he had nothing to hide, why was he so nervous?”

“Maybe because two homicide cops show up asking about a murdered stripper.”

Neil looked over at him again. “What's your problem, man? He stinks of guilt.”

What's my problem? So do I.

“I don't want to hang the guy because you don't like him.”

“Yeah, I don't like him, but every instinct in me says he's our man. And if we don't arrest him, he'll be gone to England and wherever.”

“Which is why we put in an application for his computers.”

Neil nodded and tapped some text message notes into his PDA. “You ask me, he's just another fucking low-life with a bunch of college degrees.”

“There you go, mincing words again.”

Neil let slip a smile as he continued text messaging notes for the computer warrant. “Remember I've got a sixteen-year-old daughter.”

“We won't tell him.”

They drove in silence for a while as Steve stared out the window. In the distance the Boston skyline against the low gray clouds revealed a profile of glass slabs, needles, cubistic spires, a tower surmounted by a skeletalized dome, and redbrick town houses stacked up against Beacon Hill. Architecturally it was postmodern schizophrenia, but a cityscape he loved.

“So, what's happening with you and Dana?”

“Nothing's happening.”

“What about getting back together?”

“She wants to live alone for a while.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me, too.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I think I need a makeover.”

It means she's gearing up to meet other men.

“It means she wants to live alone.”

“That's too bad. She's a nice woman.”

Steve had introduced him to Dana shortly before their separation. They took Neil out to eat when he was partnered with Steve. “Yup.”

“When I first met you guys I was envious. You had yourself a nice beautiful woman,” Neil said. “I thought you guys had the jackpot marriage.”

“So did I.”

“You're not going to believe this,” said Sergeant Vaughn, “but he wiped clean the hard drive of his home PC. No files, no links, no surfing history, no cookies, no e-mails—nothing. He downloaded some software and did a clean sweep.”

“What's his explanation?” Steve asked.

“Said that he was donating it to a local school.”

“Yeah, right,” Hogan said.

“But,” Neil said, “his office machine is loaded.” Neil's face looked like a polished McIntosh.

It was around eight that night, and a unit meeting had been called because the warrant request for Pendergast's computers had come through. With the cooperation of campus security, the office machine had been confiscated and turned over to the lab. Dacey and two patrols had showed up at Pendergast's home to collect his only personal computer. He did not contest the seizure. Later that afternoon and evening, Neil and Sergeant Vaughn reviewed what the cyber lab discovered on the hard drives and were tag teaming on their report.

“He regularly trolled the Internet for porn sites, strip clubs, and escort services,” Neil read from his notes. “Eye Candy Pleasures, Exotic Temptations, Love Express, and a lot of others specializing in finding sexual partners. He also visited sites that featured underage girls, which we can use to hold him.”

On the projection screen Neil had set up a PowerPoint display of site names and blogs from Pendergast's home computer. The list sent a wave of relief through Steve. It didn't fill Steve's fifteen-hour blackout hole, but Pendergast was looking dirtier by the minute.

“Also interesting,” Neil continued, “he visited sites specializing in naked women with red hair.”

“Why's that interesting?” asked Dacey.

“Seems to be his fetish. He actively blogged strip clubs in southern New England and reported where you could find real redheads. His blog name was Pale Prince.”

“Pale Prince?” Dacey said.

“It's from a poem by John Keats,” Steve said. “He's published scholarly articles on him.”

“You might be the only cop in existence who knows that,” Reardon said.

“There's a claim to fame.”

The blogs were arranged from oldest to most recent, which was dated a few weeks ago. It was the confessional of a man who loved redheads with “porcelain” skin:

Neil highlighted a block of sentences with the cursor. “This one here was posted about a month ago.”

Neil left the blogs on the screen. “I think these speak for themselves.”

The room was silent as the team stared at the screen.
Yes,
Steve thought as the words seeped into the core of his brain.

“And if you want a second smoking gun…,” Neil continued. On the screen appeared a list of various Web sites Pendergast had visited. “Four of these are extreme sex sites that discuss autoerotic asphyxia.”

“Nice going,” Dacey said. “The dots are connecting.”

“Yeah,” Neil said, “and it spells
premeditation.
”

Heads nodded. “Except why would he take the chance to download all this stuff on his office computer?” Dacey asked.

“Even though the school technically owns it, the contents are the intellectual property of the user. He's protected by privacy expectations.”

“I can only imagine what was on his home PC,” Dacey said.

“Any theory on his motive?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Neil said. “He's fucking obsessed.”

Steve nodded. “Except a prosecutor would say that obsession is not a motive nor a probable cause, especially without a history of violence.”

Neil glared at him, his face swelling red. “Give me a break, man.”

“I'm trying to.”
You have no idea how much,
Steve thought. “A prosecutor looks at this and sees Pendergast profiling as a guy who likes sexy redheads, not one who wants to kill them.”

“Maybe because he never got caught.”

“So what do you think his motive was?” Reardon asked Neil.

“I don't know. Maybe he doesn't like how she turns him on.”

“The guy's a strip-club junkie. Must be a hundred women who turn him on.”

“But she's special, he confessed that on his blog. And they were friends. So he goes over with the intention of killing her because maybe she went too far with him, made him feel bad about himself. Maybe she rejected him another time. Maybe he's impotent and she knew and made fun of him. Whatever, he has a fit and kills her with the same stocking that makes his eyeballs smoke. And being a sex freak, he knows about autoerotica and puts together the scene, wipes the place clean, and heads home.”

Reardon nodded and turned to Steve. “What do you think?”

I think it's him or me.
“I think Neil's right about the guy's obsession. But as much as I like to believe he's it, I'm not sure we have enough to pull him in.”

“Well, I am,” Neil said.

Breaking the deadlock, Kevin Hogan said, “Speaking of redheads, we found an unopened bottle of L'Oreal Sunset Blaze number seventy-seven in her bathroom. Maybe she used it, or maybe she had it done professionally. But the M.E. says she's not a natural.”

“So much for ‘the flaming thatch,'” Dacey said.

That got a snicker. “According to Mickey DeLuca who manages the Mermaid, she began to color her hair red about a month ago.”

“So what's your take on where we should aim?” Reardon asked Steve.

“The Mermaid clientele. Some strip-joint groupies don't have both oars in the water. Get a psycho who thinks the naked lady is dancing just for him, he becomes obsessed and begins stalking her. We look for guys with records of violence against women.”

“We've got him,” Neil said.

“Right,” Steve said, “but we also look elsewhere.”

“Then tell me what I'm missing here.”

What you're missing, partner, is some hard evidence to flatten that friggin' pea I'm riding.
“What we're missing is evidence that he's a killer. All we have so far is a guy looking for some fantasy woman, preferably with red hair. It's what he does instead of pursuing healthy relationships. The guy's a Mister Lonely Heart in search of a mate he'll never find, not a victim.”

“You been watching Dr. Phil or something?” Reardon asked.

“Sounds more like Dr. Ruth,” said Dacey. “I'm no expert profiler, but I have to agree with the lieutenant. He strikes me as a user who goes to women for sex.”

Neil made a dismissive hissing sound but said no more.

Growing weary of the back-and-forth, Reardon said, “Okay, we dig deeper with Pendergast and continue going through the club list.”

“I think we should bring him in is all,” Neil said. “He's scheduled to fly to Europe next Wednesday. He goes and we may never find him.”

Reardon's face looked like a clenched fist. He stood up. “Okay. You can question him again, but I want you to find some real evidence—a witness, solid forensics, a paper trail. Anything. Just come back with something to chew on, because the prosecutor eats nails for breakfast and won't take the case unless we do.”

WINTER
1973

“Hey, Beauty Boy, I want you to come here a sec.”

He was in his room doing his math when she called him from the hall bathroom. He didn't want to go in there because she was getting dressed. But he knew if he didn't obey she'd get mad. And when she got mad, she got mean and didn't speak to him, which he couldn't take. So he got off his bed and crossed the hall, but stopped outside the bathroom. The door was open as it always was when she was doing makeup or fixing her hair.

He made a quick glance inside and pulled back. She was at the mirror in her underwear.

“For heaven's sake, I'm not gonna bite you.”

“Mom, you're not even dressed.”

“You've seen more at the seashore.”

Her bra and panties were made of some kind of black lacy see-through material—nothing he'd ever seen at Hampton Beach.

She ran a brush through her hair, a lustrous coppery mane. Without looking at him she said, “You know, there's gonna come a day when you'll pay money to see a woman in her underpants.”

He couldn't imagine that, but said nothing and moved to the doorway.

Shalimar. It was the cologne she always wore, and the scent filled the room with a cloying sweetness. The bottle sat on the glass shelf with other bottles and jars: creams, foundations, lotions, makeup, lip gloss—all the stuff she put on her face when she was going out.
Slops,
his father called them.

She fluffed up her hair then put on lipstick. When she was satisfied she turned to him full-front and put her hands on her hips. Her lips were the color of bubble gum. “Well, what do you think?”

It was their ritual. Whenever she got dressed she would pose for him, waiting for him to say she looked pretty, that he liked her dress or blouse or her hairdo or new bathing suit. Nothing she'd ever do with his father, who was either in the air or too disinterested.

“You look pretty.” Her black dress was on a hanger attached to the shower stall.

“You didn't even look, for pete's sake.” When he didn't raise his eyes, she snapped, “Hey! I'm talking to you, Buster. What's the problem?”

“I have to do my homework.” He was getting uncomfortable and could feel the scratch of her eyes on him. And something else—a slightly askew stare, one eye fixed on him, the other focusing someplace else, making her appear as if she were only half in the moment.

She adjusted her stance and moved her hip so that the dark mound of her sex thrust out at him and her breasts rose to full attention. “Well?”

“I said you're pretty.”

“Pretty?
Is that the best you can do?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What about
beautiful
?”

“You're beautiful.”

She gave him a hard look. “You didn't say it like you really mean it.”

He said nothing, just wanted to go back to his room. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she drank she got mean.

“Well?” She glowered at him with those wild off-center eyes.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? What kind of an answer it that?”

“Yeah, you're beautiful.”

He didn't even know what “beautiful” was supposed to look like. At twelve years old he didn't think in those terms. But he guessed she was beautiful, otherwise she wouldn't have been an artist's model or in magazine ads or on TV. Over the last two years she had landed a few small roles on shows shot in Boston—like that episode of
Banacek
with George Peppard last year. She also performed in community theater and summer stock, all the time waiting for the big break.

Tonight she was getting dressed for a dinner party she and his father were attending. At the moment he was out buying wine. When she looked back at him again, her eyes were almost normal. “I just wish your
father
would tell me that.” She pronounced
father
like a swear.

He started to go back to his room.

“I haven't excused you yet.”

Her eyes were big and centered.

“Damn! You're going to be a knockout when you grow up, you know that? A damn knockout. Girls are going to be all over you. But you'll always be my Beauty Boy.” She reached out and gave him a hug when he made a move to get away.

She dropped her grip. “Okay, okay,” she muttered, repressing whatever impulse had prompted her. She snatched something off the vanity. It was a black stocking. She shook her head. “You haven't got a clue,” she said softly. “Not a flipping clue.”

He started to leave again, when she snapped at him. “Where're you going?”

“My room.”

“No, you're not. You get right back here.”

“Mom, I've got homework.”

She had tears in her eyes. “You're not leaving.”

She looked as if she were about to sob. “What's wrong?”

She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath then said, “I love your daddy. But you just don't understand what it's like some times,” she said. “A woman needs warmth and affection.” Then she caught herself again. “Heck, I sound like I'm right out of a Tennessee Williams play. It's nothing, honey, really.” She grabbed some tissues from the box and dabbed her eyes. Her mascara had run, smudging them black. “Now look at me.”

With a tissue she began to redo her eyes. Her mood shifts unnerved him. When she finished, she was calm again. But she wouldn't let him go back to his room. She sat on the toilet seat and held up one leg and slipped a stocking over one foot then stretched out her long white leg in front of him, slowly pulling up the material to her thigh. She then stood up and adjusted the lacy elastic top so it was smooth. “I should use a garter belt but they make me feel like a stripper is all.” Then she sat back down and pulled up the other stocking in exaggerated slow motion. She was doing this for him, because she kept shifting her eyes to gauge his reaction.

“I hate these things, but your
father
doesn't like panty hose. So he bought me these. But I shouldn't complain. They're Wolfords, which are
très
expensive.” She then turned toward him. “What do you think?”

“I have to go.”

“Hey.”

He didn't know if she was going to get mad and slap him or what. He just knew that he wanted to leave. Suddenly she took his face in her hands. He felt something sharp pass through his heart. Her eyes were crazy askew. Because she was tall, he only stood shoulder-high to her. So when she pulled him to her, he found his face buried in her breasts, her gold crucifix digging into his cheek. By reflex, he turned his head, but she held him against her.

Suddenly he felt scared. “Mom, what are you doing? Let me go.”

She loosened her grip, but still held his face. She said nothing as she stared at him. He could not read that twisted gaze, but he felt his blood flow faster. The moment buzzed with anticipation. Suddenly she pressed her mouth against his. It was open and wet and he felt her tongue trying to force itself into his mouth.

The next second she shoved him off of her. “Get out of here,” she said. Her voice was scathing.
“Get out of here!”
And she pushed him into the hall and slammed the door.

For a stunning moment he stood there gaping at the door. Then he dashed into his room, wiping his mouth in horror at what had just happened, but knowing that for the next several days she would not speak to him, not even look at him. That she would suffer a silent, black torment that would last until it ran its course like a fever.

In the meantime, he would be gnarled with fear and guilt.