couple, the woman’s frantic cries trailing behind as she was hustled away from the scene. The press,
a pack of them, ran toward the parents of the dead child. You could almost see light glinting in their eyes. Pathetic.
Under other circumstances, I could’ve been part of that pack, but right then I was behind Eddie Keola, scrambling up the rocky
slope to where media setups dotted the upper ledge. Local TV correspondents fed the breaking news to the cameras as the small,
twisted body was transferred by stretcher into the coroner’s van. Doors slammed and the van sped away.
“Her name was Rosa Castro,” Keola told me as we got into the Jeep. “She was twelve. Did you see those ligatures? Arms and
legs tied back like that.”
I said, “Yeah. I saw.”
I’d seen and written about violence for nearly half my life, but this little girl’s murder put such ugly pictures into my
mind that I felt physically sick. I swallowed my bile and yanked the car door closed.
Keola started up the engine, headed north, saying, “See, this is why I didn’t want to call the McDanielses. And if it
had
been Kim —”
His sentence was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He patted his jacket pocket, put his phone to his ear, said,
“Keola,” then “Levon,
Levon.
It’s not Kim. Yes. I saw the body. I’m
sure.
It’s not your daughter.” Eddie mouthed to me, “They’re watching the news on TV.”
He told the McDanielses we would stop by their hotel, and minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance to the Wailea Princess.
Barb and Levon were under the breezeway, zephyrs riffling their hair and their new Hawaiian garb. They were holding each other’s
white-knuckled hands, their faces pale with fatigue.
We walked with them into the lobby. Keola explained, without going into the unspeakable details.
Barbara asked if there could be a connection between Rosa’s death and Kim’s disappearance, her way of seeking assurances that
no one could give her. But I tried to do it anyway. I said that pattern killers had preferences, and it would be rare for
one of them to target both a child and a woman.
Rare, but not unheard of
, I neglected to add.
I wasn’t just telling Barbara what she wanted to hear, I was also comforting myself. At that time, I didn’t know that Rosa
Castro’s killer had a wide-ranging and boundless appetite for torture and murder.
And it never entered my mind that I’d already met and talked with him.
Chapter 43
HORST TASTED the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, bought at Sotheby’s for $24,000 per bottle in 2001. He told Jan to hold out
his glass. It was a joke. Jan was hundreds of miles away, but their webcam connection almost made it seem as if they were
in the same room.
The occasion of this meeting: Henri Benoit had written to Horst saying to expect a download at nine p.m., and Horst had invited
Jan, his friend of many years, to preview the newest video before sending it out to the rest of the Alliance.
A ping sounded from Horst’s computer, and he walked to his desk, told his friend he was downloading now, and then forwarded
the e-mail to Jan in his office in Amsterdam.
The images appeared simultaneously on their screens.
The background was a moonlit beach. A pretty girl was lying faceup on a large towel. She was nude, slim-hipped, small-breasted,
and her short hair was finger-combed in a boyish fashion. The black-and-white images of form and shadow gave the film a moody
quality, as though it had been shot in the 1940s.
“Beautiful composition,” said Jan. “The man has an eye.”
When Henri entered the frame, his face was digitally pixilated to a blur, and his voice had been electronically altered. Henri
talked to the girl, his voice playful, calling her a monkey and sometimes saying her name.
Horst commented to Jan, “Interesting, yes? The girl isn’t the least bit afraid. She doesn’t even appear to be drugged.”
Julia was smiling up at
a pack of them, ran toward the parents of the dead child. You could almost see light glinting in their eyes. Pathetic.
Under other circumstances, I could’ve been part of that pack, but right then I was behind Eddie Keola, scrambling up the rocky
slope to where media setups dotted the upper ledge. Local TV correspondents fed the breaking news to the cameras as the small,
twisted body was transferred by stretcher into the coroner’s van. Doors slammed and the van sped away.
“Her name was Rosa Castro,” Keola told me as we got into the Jeep. “She was twelve. Did you see those ligatures? Arms and
legs tied back like that.”
I said, “Yeah. I saw.”
I’d seen and written about violence for nearly half my life, but this little girl’s murder put such ugly pictures into my
mind that I felt physically sick. I swallowed my bile and yanked the car door closed.
Keola started up the engine, headed north, saying, “See, this is why I didn’t want to call the McDanielses. And if it
had
been Kim —”
His sentence was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He patted his jacket pocket, put his phone to his ear, said,
“Keola,” then “Levon,
Levon.
It’s not Kim. Yes. I saw the body. I’m
sure.
It’s not your daughter.” Eddie mouthed to me, “They’re watching the news on TV.”
He told the McDanielses we would stop by their hotel, and minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance to the Wailea Princess.
Barb and Levon were under the breezeway, zephyrs riffling their hair and their new Hawaiian garb. They were holding each other’s
white-knuckled hands, their faces pale with fatigue.
We walked with them into the lobby. Keola explained, without going into the unspeakable details.
Barbara asked if there could be a connection between Rosa’s death and Kim’s disappearance, her way of seeking assurances that
no one could give her. But I tried to do it anyway. I said that pattern killers had preferences, and it would be rare for
one of them to target both a child and a woman.
Rare, but not unheard of
, I neglected to add.
I wasn’t just telling Barbara what she wanted to hear, I was also comforting myself. At that time, I didn’t know that Rosa
Castro’s killer had a wide-ranging and boundless appetite for torture and murder.
And it never entered my mind that I’d already met and talked with him.
Chapter 43
HORST TASTED the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, bought at Sotheby’s for $24,000 per bottle in 2001. He told Jan to hold out
his glass. It was a joke. Jan was hundreds of miles away, but their webcam connection almost made it seem as if they were
in the same room.
The occasion of this meeting: Henri Benoit had written to Horst saying to expect a download at nine p.m., and Horst had invited
Jan, his friend of many years, to preview the newest video before sending it out to the rest of the Alliance.
A ping sounded from Horst’s computer, and he walked to his desk, told his friend he was downloading now, and then forwarded
the e-mail to Jan in his office in Amsterdam.
The images appeared simultaneously on their screens.
The background was a moonlit beach. A pretty girl was lying faceup on a large towel. She was nude, slim-hipped, small-breasted,
and her short hair was finger-combed in a boyish fashion. The black-and-white images of form and shadow gave the film a moody
quality, as though it had been shot in the 1940s.
“Beautiful composition,” said Jan. “The man has an eye.”
When Henri entered the frame, his face was digitally pixilated to a blur, and his voice had been electronically altered. Henri
talked to the girl, his voice playful, calling her a monkey and sometimes saying her name.
Horst commented to Jan, “Interesting, yes? The girl isn’t the least bit afraid. She doesn’t even appear to be drugged.”
Julia was smiling up at
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