because he’s familiar with forensic procedure. Half these guys study fuckin’ law enforcement and forensics when they’re inside.”
“Yeah. Such a wise use of their time.”
“And our money. So you figure he’s got a record.”
“Possibly.”
The two detectives stood silently.
“Where does he do ’em, Andy? He’d look like a fuckin’ abattoir worker by the time he was finished. He can’t have a wife, I wouldn’t think.”
Andy stared at the running board; at the dead faces of Roxanne, Cristelle and Catherine. Makedde’s impressive physique threatened to distract him completely. Suddenly the red pen marking her body looked like blood. He turned away.
“He doesn’t bother taking the jewellery, which is a common souvenir, and he only takes one shoe, not both. So he’s not giving them to his wife as a sick gift or anything. You’re right, he probably lives alone.But we can’t assume that. The other clothes are missing. What does he do with them?”
Jimmy didn’t have an answer.
“There’s some parallel here to the Jerome Brudos case,” Andy said.
“Brudos?”
“Jerome Henry Brudos. As a pre-teen in Oregon in the States he abducted younger girls at knife-point. He dragged them off to the family barn and made them strip. Then he’d take some photos. He’d lock them up in some shed, and a few minutes later he’d come back and pretend he was his twin brother Ed. He changed his clothes, hair, everything for this, and then he’d pretend to be horrified at what his ‘deranged sibling’ had done. He’d even make a big show of destroying the film in the camera, and he’d make the girl promise she wouldn’t tell.” Andy paused. “There’s bound to be some infraction, however minor, to indicate deviant tendencies in our killer’s youth. I’m surprised Tony’s past didn’t bring up anything.”
“Best precursor of violence is past violence,” Jimmy said. “Most people wouldn’t know what to look for, though. Getting into fights after school attracts a lot more attention than quietly dissecting household pets.”
Andy could hear Jimmy’s stomach rumble. “Finish your sandwich.”
Jimmy took a fist-sized bite out of one corner andmore tzatziki flowed down his chin. Chewing lustily he said, “So what’d this Brudos guy do when he got older?”
“He became the Stiletto Killer,” Andy said, grinning.
Jimmy laughed, and gestured at his groin. “Here, mate. Right here.”
“Actually, he advertised for models to come and model shoes and pantyhose for him. They ended up dead, hanging from his garage. He’d photograph them nude or in frilly clothes and high-heeled shoes. Always high heels.”
“Parallels? You’re not kidding. Our photographer would have all kinds of young birds around, willing to have their photos taken.”
“Exactly. ‘Trust me, I’m a photographer’.”
As Jimmy started to walk back to his desk, Andy said, “The weird thing about Brudos, well, apart from the obvious, is that he did have a wife. She never went in the garage.”
“Sounds like Angie.”
“He kept souvenirs…body parts. I bet our guy does too, but what does he do with them?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Just goes to show you, you don’t always know who you’re living with.”
Jimmy wandered off to his desk and left Andy to his laptop, concentrating on his notes:
Roxanne. Cristelle. Catherine.
June 26. July 9. July 16.
More torture. More mutilation.
This guy’s picking up speed.
By 1.30 p.m. Makedde stood before the window dressed in black pants and a fine knit sweater. Her fingers played absent-mindedly with the diamond ring on her thumb.
JT?
The two-letter puzzle had been on her mind for hours. She couldn’t recall any JTs that she knew. Perhaps it was a nickname or abbreviation. But for what? Speculation was pointless. She had more pressing matters to deal with. Soon Tony Thomas would arrive, and she would have to do her best to decipher his guilt and level of
“Yeah. Such a wise use of their time.”
“And our money. So you figure he’s got a record.”
“Possibly.”
The two detectives stood silently.
“Where does he do ’em, Andy? He’d look like a fuckin’ abattoir worker by the time he was finished. He can’t have a wife, I wouldn’t think.”
Andy stared at the running board; at the dead faces of Roxanne, Cristelle and Catherine. Makedde’s impressive physique threatened to distract him completely. Suddenly the red pen marking her body looked like blood. He turned away.
“He doesn’t bother taking the jewellery, which is a common souvenir, and he only takes one shoe, not both. So he’s not giving them to his wife as a sick gift or anything. You’re right, he probably lives alone.But we can’t assume that. The other clothes are missing. What does he do with them?”
Jimmy didn’t have an answer.
“There’s some parallel here to the Jerome Brudos case,” Andy said.
“Brudos?”
“Jerome Henry Brudos. As a pre-teen in Oregon in the States he abducted younger girls at knife-point. He dragged them off to the family barn and made them strip. Then he’d take some photos. He’d lock them up in some shed, and a few minutes later he’d come back and pretend he was his twin brother Ed. He changed his clothes, hair, everything for this, and then he’d pretend to be horrified at what his ‘deranged sibling’ had done. He’d even make a big show of destroying the film in the camera, and he’d make the girl promise she wouldn’t tell.” Andy paused. “There’s bound to be some infraction, however minor, to indicate deviant tendencies in our killer’s youth. I’m surprised Tony’s past didn’t bring up anything.”
“Best precursor of violence is past violence,” Jimmy said. “Most people wouldn’t know what to look for, though. Getting into fights after school attracts a lot more attention than quietly dissecting household pets.”
Andy could hear Jimmy’s stomach rumble. “Finish your sandwich.”
Jimmy took a fist-sized bite out of one corner andmore tzatziki flowed down his chin. Chewing lustily he said, “So what’d this Brudos guy do when he got older?”
“He became the Stiletto Killer,” Andy said, grinning.
Jimmy laughed, and gestured at his groin. “Here, mate. Right here.”
“Actually, he advertised for models to come and model shoes and pantyhose for him. They ended up dead, hanging from his garage. He’d photograph them nude or in frilly clothes and high-heeled shoes. Always high heels.”
“Parallels? You’re not kidding. Our photographer would have all kinds of young birds around, willing to have their photos taken.”
“Exactly. ‘Trust me, I’m a photographer’.”
As Jimmy started to walk back to his desk, Andy said, “The weird thing about Brudos, well, apart from the obvious, is that he did have a wife. She never went in the garage.”
“Sounds like Angie.”
“He kept souvenirs…body parts. I bet our guy does too, but what does he do with them?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Just goes to show you, you don’t always know who you’re living with.”
Jimmy wandered off to his desk and left Andy to his laptop, concentrating on his notes:
Roxanne. Cristelle. Catherine.
June 26. July 9. July 16.
More torture. More mutilation.
This guy’s picking up speed.
By 1.30 p.m. Makedde stood before the window dressed in black pants and a fine knit sweater. Her fingers played absent-mindedly with the diamond ring on her thumb.
JT?
The two-letter puzzle had been on her mind for hours. She couldn’t recall any JTs that she knew. Perhaps it was a nickname or abbreviation. But for what? Speculation was pointless. She had more pressing matters to deal with. Soon Tony Thomas would arrive, and she would have to do her best to decipher his guilt and level of
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