The Watcher (20 page)

She sighed, gesturing toward the form. “I don’t see anything we didn’t expect.”

“How’d we get the blood work back so soon?”

“Dr. Wilson typed the blood and sent the rest to the state on a rush order.”

“Wilson has friends at the state lab,” Slater confirmed.

While Slater looked over her shoulder, Kate found the last page attached to the back of the autopsy report. “Here it is. The blood on the pants is type O-positive, not a match to Alison and too common to be helpful.”

She trailed a finger down the page. “Wait, look at this, Slater. This is interesting.” She angled her face toward him and he was momentarily distracted by the tangy scent of her cologne.

“What is it?”

“It’s noted in the blood type. Hold on, this is
very
unusual. The chromosomal pattern in the blood sample is XXY.”

He heard the excitement in her voice. “XXY? Is that even possible?”

“It certainly is.”

“So, what does it mean?”

She thinned her lips in grim satisfaction. “It could mean nothing,” she answered, “or it could mean everything. Remember tenth-grade biology?”

“Just the part when we cut up frogs and Sharon Hat-sis leapt into my arms because her frog squirted formaldehyde when she cut into the leg.”

“The idea of a fifteen-year-old you wielding a dissecting knife boggles my mind.” Kate grinned and Slater smiled back.

“Come on,” she continued, “you remember the part about sex determination. How the female can only give an X chromosome.”

“Right, and the male gives the Y chromosome. And definitely something about male chromosomes being faster.”

“Faster, but no staying power.”

“I don’t know one man who’d agree with that.”

She cleared her throat and ploughed on. “Most people think the sex gene is clear-cut. In other words, an XX makes a female, and an XY makes a male. We presume the unidentified suspect is indeed a man.”

“Since most serial killers are men,” Slater interjected.

Kate nodded. “So his chromosomal pattern should be XY.”

He frowned, confused. “But this guy is X-Y
and
X? That’s an extra something.”

“Exactly, an extra X chromosome, the female chromosome.”

“But why is that important? What does it mean?”

“That’s what’s strange.” She leaned back in her chair and tapped her steepled fingers together. “You’d think the extra X chromosome would produce a very feminine man or a very girly-girl, so to speak.”

“But that’s not consistent with a serial killer.”

“No, our killer is definitely prone to violence and aggression. No one knows for sure how these anomalies are tied to
behavior.
In fact, scientists did a study in the eighties in which they ran DNA on incarcerated males and discovered that a large percentage of them had, not an extra X, but an extra Y chromosome.”

He nodded, getting the connection. “Trying to tie criminal behavior to the Y chromosome.”

She lifted one shoulder. “The point is that this guy,
our
guy, is definitely a male—the Y chromosome makes him genetically male—but he’s different somehow from other males because of the added X chromosome.”

“How can knowing this help us find him?”

She dug her fingers through her hair, looking frustrated. “I don’t know yet, but our killer’s pathology is tied to his sexual drives and
that
might be tied to his chromosomes.”

She pushed back from her chair and stood. “You see, we all begin as females. Then the first wave of testosterone for males occurs
in utero
and signals the body to develop male characteristics.”

Lecturing like a professor, she paced, as if unable to think in the close confines of the miniature office. “Most XXY’s present as normal females until the second wave of hormones, triggered by the Y chromosome, kicks in at the onset of puberty,” she continued. “They can develop male secondary sex traits like facial hair and a deepening voice. Or they can show no characteristics at all. Sometimes, they never know about their chromosomal anomaly.”

Slater felt the same combination of fascination and incredulity Kate showed. “But are they men or women?” he asked.

“It’s not that simple. Sexual identity isn’t always a clear cut given. Technically, if a Y chromosome is present, they’re men, but they may look, feel, and act more like women. If an
anatomical
anomaly is also present, like a shortened penis or internal female organs but external male genitalia, an XXY person could have periods, but a fused labia. They could look ultra feminine because of the additional X chromosome, but also be anatomically male.”

“They could have periods
and
facial hair?”

She nodded. “There could be any number of inter-sexed combinations, internal and external, that fit this guy.”

“This is freaky, Kate,” he muttered, swiping his jaw.

“If it’s true, it means we can understand the inner workings of the perpetrator’s mind. Knowing his medical history would help us immensely.”

“Maybe our focus should be on that.”

She nodded agreement. “At one time it was common medical practice to determine a newborn’s sex by outward examination. If a boy baby had an unusually short penis, it was considered inadequate and removed, and he was reared as a girl.”

“Shit, that’s awful.”

“Penile enhancement was in its very early stages and not a real option. Many doctors believed that sex is elastic and determined by rearing, not genetics. We now know that sex chromosomes, reproductive systems, and external genitalia don’t always match up.”

“Are you saying that whatever we are is hardwired into our genes, but not necessarily the same as what we see on the outside?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And if our UNSUB was born with a shortened penis, he could’ve been reared as a girl.”

“Puberty would’ve been a nightmare for him,” he mused.

“The killer could be driven by some rage that arises from sexual dimorphism. If he’s middle-aged now, current research wasn’t available to his parents when he was a child. They might have considered him abnormal.”

“Like a hermaphrodite?”

“It’s more complicated than that, but if other physical anomalies occurred in him, in addition to the XXY factor, which we’re sure of, he could be acting out highly exaggerated adolescent anger. So-called normal puberty is troubling enough for most adolescents without added factors. He’d have been in a constant state of rage.”

“He selects teenage girls as the focus of his anger, not grown women,” he admitted, “and the killings are brutal.”

“And clearly sexual in nature,” she added.

“I remember adolescence as pretty rough.”

“It’s a time when teenagers are confused about sex and gender identity. Whatever drives this monster may have originated in his adolescence.”

She paused thoughtfully before continuing, turning to face him, her eyes bright with anticipation. “What if – what if the UNSUB originally came from around this area?”

“Bigler County?”

“Yeah. If we could uncover his background, get his medical records, we’d understand how to catch him.”

“I don’t know, Kate.” Slater shook his head. “That’s a lot of heavy theorizing. We could take a look at hospital records, but even if we
could
get warrants, which I doubt, that’s a huge task.”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking about the logistics. “We’re going to have to pull Bauer in on this.” He anticipated her protest and held up a hand to stop it. “I know, I know, but we’ve got to trust someone else. We can’t do this alone.”

She nodded reluctantly while he ran his hands lightly down her arms. “I think we should look at the Preston evidence again. If Mary Stuckey’s death is tied to our UNSUB as you suspected, then your sister’s murder wasn’t his first. He might’ve been careless about leaving DNA before that. Considering the limitations of small town police forces, the evidence might still be there.”

Kate nodded again. “DNA testing wasn’t as widely used at the time of my sister’s death as now. When I began my investigation, I asked about their evidence. They said it’d been degraded.”

“Regardless of what they told you,” Slater warned, “it might not even have been collected, let alone tested.” He took her hands and held them in both of his. “I swear, Kate, we’ll find this bastard.”

“What are we going to do next?” Her voice sounded more resolute.

“First, we bring Bauer in on this evidence. He’s my partner, I trust him, and we need a third person working on this. One who knows everything we do.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “And I think it’s time to call in the FBI.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Ditching the brown Nissan had been the easiest thing John Smith had done in a long time. He’d abandoned it in West Sacramento after stripping it of the stolen license plates and leaving the keys in the ignition. Right now some street gang was systematically dismantling it for parts that’d end up somewhere between Stockton and Bakersfield. The Nissan wasn’t a problem anymore.

From his recently acquired gray van, Smith spied the teenager hunched against the chain link fence of the recreation center’s perimeter. The boy aroused both disgust and sympathy in the watcher. The heavy backpack weighted the kid’s shoulders, and his hair crept over his ears and collar.

Across the courtyard a trio of girls sat on a wooden bench, whispering to each other and slanting guarded looks at the boy beside the fence. They were Smith’s real focus. He could tell they were snickering about the boy. They wanted to get the kid’s attention so that when he finally noticed them, they could cut him down.

Smith knew they’d be ruthless in their tormenting. If the boy weren’t such a weakling, if he were more of a man, he’d rip the heartless bitches apart. Smith trembled with the urge to do just that, to tear their smugly perfect bodies in half. He broke out in a cold sweat and felt dizzy as he rested his head on the seat back.

A few minutes later, the girls left, but the boy remained, looking after them with longing on his face. Suddenly, from the double doors of the recreation center, came three husky teens who circled the boy like hyenas. Their baseball caps sat backwards on their heads and their jeans rode low in the crotch, exposing a broad expanse of underwear. Chains draped from their belt loops and jangled against each other.

Smith’s eyes fluttered as he drifted away.

He was cornered in the basement corridor by two eleventh-grade boys who wouldn’t let him pass until he paid the toll. He’d gotten lost on his way to third-period class right before lunch.

“Gimme a kiss,” the large-boned, red-faced thug demanded.

A kiss?

He fled in terror through the musty halls, scrambling up the stairs to the ground floor and the school’s parking lot, his heart clattering in his throat, a scream clawing to get out.

He threw up just as he stepped onto the asphalt.

Bile rose in Smith’s throat and he lowered his forehead against the steering wheel. When he looked up again, the boys had vanished. He put the vehicle in gear and drove off.

Abandoning his search, he headed northeast. Something was wrong. He felt sick, like he was coming down with the flu. He’d go home and crawl into bed. Nothing that a little rest wouldn’t cure. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow. Crap, he was sweating like a pig.

It was dark by the time he reached the highway turnoff and crossed the dam before heading up the hill. The monotony of the broken white line lulled him. His eyelids drooped. Judas Priest, he was wiped out.

Grandfather’s voice growled like the warning of a dog getting ready to bite. The words confused the boy, but the spiteful tone was clear.

“Judas Priest. There’s somethin’ wrong with that kid, Maggie. What we got in there is somethin’ that orta be in a circus sideshow.” The old man sounded like he was spitting something nasty out of his mouth. “How’d somethin’ so god-awful weird come from us? That whore of a girl dumped this little whore-freak on us, knowing that kid’ll never be right.”

Never be right, never be right.

Smith pulled into the graveled circular drive and drove the car into the wood outbuilding that sat to the right of the house.
Never be right, never be right.
He turned off the headlights and sat in the pitch blackness of the shed, staring straight ahead.

After a few minutes, he reached into the glove compartment and got out a flashlight. Unfastening his seat belt, he swung his legs out onto the dirt floor of the shed. He brandished the light around the interior, finally lighting on the boxes stacked on crude shelves to the left.

Pulling down a container from the highest shelf, Smith settled onto a wooden crate and slowly lifted the lid.

The postcards and albums were sealed inside plastic wrap. Beneath one album was a smaller container marked twelve-gauge shells, but the boy knew it was too light for bullets.

The pictures were stuffed inside, wrapped in aluminum foil. There were over a dozen of them. Of a girl whose once-golden hair looked like straw. Whose purple eyes were hard and mean, the mouth pouty.