“One time around?”
“That’s right. I top your last round, you give me a password.”
Breslau weighed the offer for a moment, an amused half smile on his lips. “You don’t top it, you get out of my face,” Breslau said.
“Fair enough,” Behr answered. “Do I go rent a gun?”
“Use mine,” Breslau said, passing over the still-warm Browning Citori 20-gauge over-and-under with perfectly polished stock and gleaming barrels. Behr recognized it as a $2,500 firearm. It practically floated in his hands.
He dug in his coat for a pair of sunglasses, and Breslau handed him a box of shells, which he dumped in his pocket before stepping to the line. The old-timer drifted back, ready to operate the thrower.
“Pull,” Behr said, after sighting up on the high house, and commenced shooting at a pair of clay pigeons that flew by at crossed angles. He promptly missed the first, but corrected and picked up the second, eliciting an intrigued snort from Breslau. Behr rotated counterclockwise through the stations, powdering some of the disks, while others he just nicked and cracked. He finished his round, having missed numbers one and twelve, broke the smoking Browning, and handed it back to a sour-faced Breslau.
“Eighteen for twenty,” Breslau said. “Goddamnit, Behr, don’t you know it’s bad form to outshoot your host?”
Behr shrugged. “Blame it on the well-balanced gun.”
“All right,” Breslau said and indicated a picnic table behind them where his gun case rested. They went and sat down. “What have you found out that you need this?” Breslau asked.
“That it involves a signature killer,” Behr said. His words sounded stark and half ridiculous in the bucolic sporting environment. But Breslau didn’t react to what Behr had said like it was crazy. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised at all, he just sat there, and that told Behr plenty.
“You already know,” Behr uttered. The “you” implied the department, not just Breslau.
“Know that it’s a bad time to be a Northeastside prostie? Yeah, well
we’re
not gonna take out a billboard announcing it,” Breslau said.
“That’s why you’re helping me on this …” Behr said, the realization settling on him. He’d been used by the department before, at times without his knowledge, other times more willingly. At least this time there might be something tangible in it for him.
“Tell me what you have,” Breslau said.
“Looking at everything you gave me, it goes back years, and based on the dates, the killer’s cycle is accelerating.”
“Crap.” Breslau spat on the cold ground. “You sound like you’ve been studying up.”
“I
have
been studying up.”
“What else do you know?”
“This killer would be classified as organized, with elements of a disorganized profile. And the combination of the two is the most difficult to recognize, much less apprehend. I’m guessing it’s why this hasn’t been picked up in the press.”
“Right,” Breslau said.
“He’s in the sadistic-lust category. And the guy is what’s known as a picquerist. He uses knives and bladed instruments as a stand-in for his cock. Killing is sexual for him.”
“Like Jack the Ripper,” Breslau said.
“Yeah. In some ways. The only reason these guys stop is if they’re caught or die. Once in a while they just burn out and cease their activities, and then they get away with it.”
“You’re ruining my Saturday, Behr,” Breslau said.
“Believe me, it’s ruined more than that for me,” Behr said.
“Use
my
ID and password,” Breslau said, writing it down on thecardboard flap of a shell box. “That way I can keep track of where you’ve been in the system. Don’t do anything over the line or you’ll be on the other side of a firewall—and I’m not just talking about the database.”
“Got it,” Behr said.
“And don’t
you
go to the press with this,” Breslau cautioned.
“I won’t,” Behr answered, “and I think you know that.”
“That’s right. I top your last round, you give me a password.”
Breslau weighed the offer for a moment, an amused half smile on his lips. “You don’t top it, you get out of my face,” Breslau said.
“Fair enough,” Behr answered. “Do I go rent a gun?”
“Use mine,” Breslau said, passing over the still-warm Browning Citori 20-gauge over-and-under with perfectly polished stock and gleaming barrels. Behr recognized it as a $2,500 firearm. It practically floated in his hands.
He dug in his coat for a pair of sunglasses, and Breslau handed him a box of shells, which he dumped in his pocket before stepping to the line. The old-timer drifted back, ready to operate the thrower.
“Pull,” Behr said, after sighting up on the high house, and commenced shooting at a pair of clay pigeons that flew by at crossed angles. He promptly missed the first, but corrected and picked up the second, eliciting an intrigued snort from Breslau. Behr rotated counterclockwise through the stations, powdering some of the disks, while others he just nicked and cracked. He finished his round, having missed numbers one and twelve, broke the smoking Browning, and handed it back to a sour-faced Breslau.
“Eighteen for twenty,” Breslau said. “Goddamnit, Behr, don’t you know it’s bad form to outshoot your host?”
Behr shrugged. “Blame it on the well-balanced gun.”
“All right,” Breslau said and indicated a picnic table behind them where his gun case rested. They went and sat down. “What have you found out that you need this?” Breslau asked.
“That it involves a signature killer,” Behr said. His words sounded stark and half ridiculous in the bucolic sporting environment. But Breslau didn’t react to what Behr had said like it was crazy. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised at all, he just sat there, and that told Behr plenty.
“You already know,” Behr uttered. The “you” implied the department, not just Breslau.
“Know that it’s a bad time to be a Northeastside prostie? Yeah, well
we’re
not gonna take out a billboard announcing it,” Breslau said.
“That’s why you’re helping me on this …” Behr said, the realization settling on him. He’d been used by the department before, at times without his knowledge, other times more willingly. At least this time there might be something tangible in it for him.
“Tell me what you have,” Breslau said.
“Looking at everything you gave me, it goes back years, and based on the dates, the killer’s cycle is accelerating.”
“Crap.” Breslau spat on the cold ground. “You sound like you’ve been studying up.”
“I
have
been studying up.”
“What else do you know?”
“This killer would be classified as organized, with elements of a disorganized profile. And the combination of the two is the most difficult to recognize, much less apprehend. I’m guessing it’s why this hasn’t been picked up in the press.”
“Right,” Breslau said.
“He’s in the sadistic-lust category. And the guy is what’s known as a picquerist. He uses knives and bladed instruments as a stand-in for his cock. Killing is sexual for him.”
“Like Jack the Ripper,” Breslau said.
“Yeah. In some ways. The only reason these guys stop is if they’re caught or die. Once in a while they just burn out and cease their activities, and then they get away with it.”
“You’re ruining my Saturday, Behr,” Breslau said.
“Believe me, it’s ruined more than that for me,” Behr said.
“Use
my
ID and password,” Breslau said, writing it down on thecardboard flap of a shell box. “That way I can keep track of where you’ve been in the system. Don’t do anything over the line or you’ll be on the other side of a firewall—and I’m not just talking about the database.”
“Got it,” Behr said.
“And don’t
you
go to the press with this,” Breslau cautioned.
“I won’t,” Behr answered, “and I think you know that.”
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