The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 21
I had spent two days immersed in the files, surrounded by death.
Randall Thompson, if he was the Bloody Heart Killer, had killed six boys. Six deaths and one escape. My job was to do an independent assessment based on the information I had about BH, which meant discarding anything I knew about Randall Thompson and approaching the profile without bias.
It should be easy, given how much information I had at my disposal. Full case files on each crime? I hadn’t had this much data since my doctoral days.
I stood in my office and stared at the wall between my office and Meredith’s. The two framed prints had been taken down and leaned against the love seat, giving me a large landscape to work with. I’d used a piece of chalk and divided the dark-green wall into three columns, each about six feet wide. The first column was labeled “Crime Scenes.” The second was labeled “Victims.” The third was “Possible Suspects.” I stared at the interior of each column.
Every serial killer is fed by a reason.
Some can’t handle their violent impulses. Each interaction with a person is a risk, and they control themselves through those risks until they break. After they break, they experience a reset of sorts and continue on. The kill is like a meal, one that satisfies their hunger for a period of time before they need to eat again. That type of killer is often sloppy, engages in crimes of convenience, and can be unpredictable in their choice of victim.
Others are sociopaths who see other people as dispensable. Killing isn’t done for enjoyment but as a solution. If a person is in the way or causing an annoyance in their lives, they handle them the same way they’d handle a mosquito—kill it, flick it to the side, and move on. They don’t grieve, regret, savor, or think about the killing again unless that action causes consequences or requires cleanup.
Then you have the attention seekers. They enjoy the power rush that comes from killing and want the media splash, the tearful families, the fear. They embrace the notoriety, the cat-and-mouse game with the police, the belief that they are outsmarting everyone. These killers are often the kind and helpful neighbors everyone loves, the ones no one believed would ever hurt anyone. They display their kills in public and make decisions based on the amount of media impact and legend status.
My initial steps were simple. First, gather all the information. Done. Then, establish the common characteristics and details of the killings.
There were a lot of commonalities, especially in the “victim” category. As I went through each file, I wrote details and pinned photos into the columns, building a sea of neat white fonts and images. The victims were practically cookie-cutter in nature. Seven high school seniors, all athletic, with thin builds and moderate muscle tone. Handsome and Caucasian. They were all popular, wealthy, and well liked—the studs of their respective high schools. As far as criminal profiles were concerned, these were low-risk victims who lived in safe areas and didn’t engage in dangerous activities. These weren’t the hazers or assholes of their schools. They didn’t deal drugs on the side, weren’t active in gangs, and had few to no enemies.
Each was taken from a different school, which indicated planning. The killer had probably stalked the victims prior to the kidnappings and carefully selected each from his peers.
I scanned over all the information. It looked organized—until you read it all and realized how disjointed it sounded. Still, I was making progress. I had done a superficial sweep and was now doing a deep dive of each kill, in chronological order. I was on the third boy, and patterns were beginning to emerge. I took a long sip of tea and stared at an image of Travis Patterson, victim number two.
The boys were taken from public places. Always outside, normally in parking lots. The kills never happened at the snatch point. Instead—and this was the most disturbing piece of the puzzle—BH took them to a separate site, where he held them for six to eight weeks before killing them and dumping their bodies in a third location.
Three locations was risky. It was three locations for possible DNA transfer. Three locations where he could be caught. Two times he’d have to transport a body and risk being captured on camera, having car trouble, or losing his victim to an escape.
And there was something deeply personal about the archetype of the boys that triggered something in the killer. My hypothesis was that the killer’s high school years had been traumatic with respect to his mental growth. The likeliest and easiest theory was that he was bullied by a boy very similar to the victim profile. Given the sexual nature of the torture BH inflicted, he was probably molested or raped by this bully or had struggled with a crush or sexual attraction to the boy—an attraction that could have been nurtured or rejected. Either could have led to hatred or inadequacy, which had festered and eventually sparked this series of killings.
My office door eased open, and Meredith stuck her head in. “You busy?”
“Just in my own thoughts.” I sat on the couch and tucked my feet under me.
“Well, I come bearing chocolates.”
“In that case, pull up a chair and settle in.” I patted the cushion beside me. “Close the door behind you.”
“Hush-hush stuff, huh?” She entered, stopping short when she saw my wall of notes. “Wow. How are clients reacting to this?” She gestured to the wall and offered the bag of M&M’s to me.
“I’m meeting them in the conference room this week.” I took it and shook out a handful of brightly colored chocolates.
“Good move. This is a little scary,” she said, nodding to the notes.
“Tell me about it.” I stretched out my arms and rolled my head to the side to ease a kink. “I’m cross-eyed from looking at this stuff.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You love it. Full case files?” She glanced over the stacks of green folders. “I’m surprised I’m not hearing you orgasm through the walls.”
I laughed at the crude analogy. “I’m not that ecstatic over them. But, yes. This is historic. Getting to be involved and having this glimpse into the cases . . .” I shook my head. “It makes me want to quit private practice and join the police force.”
“Seriously?” She gave me a skeptical look. “Do I need to remind you what you make in a year?”
I groaned. “Money isn’t everything. Though . . .” I yielded. “Yes, you’re right. I said it was tempting, not a serious possibility.”
“You’re in the right place,” she said. “Being hired by counsel is the best of both worlds.” She studied the wall. “What’s the crime scene column?”
“Everything I know from the evidence and autopsies. Normally it wouldn’t be so much, but in this case, the autopsies are giving us a timeline of the boys’ captivity.”
“What do you mean?”
I leaned forward and snagged Noah Watkins’s file from the stack. “Here.” I paused. “Have you eaten lunch?”
“Just an energy bar. But don’t worry.” She patted her belly. “Stomach of steel.”
I opened the file. “From drug tests on his hair, we can see that he was exposed to drugs on an almost continual basis during the eight weeks he was in captivity. Speaking of time, he was held the longest. The killer started shortening the lengths. Either he was growing more anxious for the kill, or he was getting whatever he wanted sooner.”
“Jesus.” She reached over and pulled the crime scene photo of Noah. “This is how they’re all found?”
“Yeah.” I looked away, still not conditioned to see the humiliating position of Noah’s body, one designed for maximum visual impact.
“He’s the same with every kill?”
“Pretty much. Body spread-eagled, the genitals removed, a heart carved into his chest.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “And there’s always a pinkie finger missing. Sometimes other digits, too, but always a pinkie.”
“So why isn’t he called the Pinkie Finger Killer?” Meredith asked.
“It’s a detail they’ve intentionally kept from the media.”
She absorbed the information. “So, the guy keeps a finger and his penis?”
I shook my head. “The genitals are always somewhere else on the scene. Discarded as if they’ve just been dropped, without thought.”
“Ouch.” She handed back the photo. “What does that mean?”
“You’re the sex therapist. You tell me.”
“Are the mutilations done while the boy is still alive?”
“The amputations are postdeath. The heart carving, that’s done while they’re alive.”
“And how do they die?”
“Strangulation. The deaths show a bit of mercy, though it’s a little late, given everything else the victims have been through.” I walked her through the road map of torture on the bodies. Cigarette burns. Bruises. Anal tears that indicated penetration. Handcuffs and restraint marks.
She frowned. “How sexually experienced were the victims before they were taken?”
I paused. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen a mention of that in the files I’ve gone through so far. Why?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Just wondering if it’s part of the pattern.”
“It’s worth looking into.” I returned my attention to the board. “Any other insights?”
She let out a breath. “Genital mutilation postdeath, torture and anal penetration during an extended period of captivity . . . I don’t know. I’d be really curious to see what the escaped kid . . . Seth? Scott?”
“Scott. Scott Harden.”
She nodded. “You need to see what he says. Was the abductor molding him? Nurturing him? Was there aftercare? Wait . . .” She shook her head regretfully.
“What?”
“I forgot that you’ve been hired by the defense. You can’t cherry-pick what you use from Scott’s testimony. If he fingered this guy as the killer, and your guy is saying he’s innocent, then why does it matter what else Scott says? He’s either credible and your guy is guilty, or he’s not credible and it’s a waste of time to listen to him.”
She was right. Almost everything I had on Scott had to be ignored. “Sounds like I’m wasting my time either way.”
“Yeah, but you’re getting paid the big bucks and loving every minute.” She shrugged. “Autopsy photos and psych profiles? Please. You’re in heaven.”
I grinned. “Okay, you caught me. How terrible is it that I’m enjoying this?”
“It’s terrible. But I spent last night masturbating to thoughts of my new client, so we’re going to hell together.” She returned her attention to the wall. “Okay, so what do you think?”
“I don’t know . . . ,” I said slowly. “Whoever this is, he’s got enough issues for three people. I also have to consider the fact that he’s staging the deaths and intentionally placing red herrings to catch attention or throw us all off.”
She considered the idea. “You think the genital mutilation and heart carving could all be for show?” She angled herself on the sofa to face me.
“The carving is most definitely a calling card,” I confirmed. “He wants to be famous, and he wants credit for each kill. As far as the rest . . .” I sighed. “There are inconsistencies.”
I tried to sort my thoughts into logical order. “There are standard psychological reinforcements and intrinsic motives for crimes.” I pointed to the chocolate. “It’s like the chocolate. Why do you want the chocolate?”
“Because it tastes good.” She played along.
“That’s why you think you want the chocolate. That’s everyone’s reaction when they’re asked that question, but when—”
“I understand hidden triggers,” she cut me off. “I eat it because my body craves sugar. You eat it because you like the way it tastes. Jacob eats it because putting something in his mouth is a habit, and my mother eats it because her anxiety requires dopamine.”
“Right,” I confirmed. “Well, people kill for different reasons. Mostly pleasure, but varied types of pleasure. The duration of captivity reeks of a control-oriented type, someone who derives enjoyment from exerting their dominance over the victim. The bindings, the rape, the naked bodies . . . it sounds sexual, but it’s more about making the victim feel helpless, which causes the killer to feel more in control.”
“I’m missing the chocolate connection.”
“I’m getting there. With the BH kills, the death itself is almost merciful. Quick. Strangling them until they black out and die. The means to the end versus a pleasurable activity. I eat chocolate because I’m hungry and I like the taste of it better than my second option.” I nodded to the granola bar sitting half-eaten on the side table. “They kill because they like the idea of it more than the alternative. But in the timeline of all this . . .” I waved my hand around the sea of files, notes, and images. “The death is short and quick. Almost a non-event. There is little, if any, pleasure in that specific act. Which leads me to assume that the trigger is that they’re bored of the victim and ready to move on to the next stage—the body staging and the media attention.”
“Or maybe they’re just an asshole.” She smiled.
I ignored the comment. “The death event changed with the last kill. While the others were quick and kind, Gabe Kavin’s was not.”
Her smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
I leaned forward. “The first five—strangled. But Gabe Kavin, though he did die of asphyxiation, wasn’t strangled.”
“What? Drowned?”
“Waterboarded.”
She flinched. “Like, CIA-type waterboarding?”
“Yes. It’s an extremely painful way to die. Long. Probably slow. So? Why?” I looked across the room, studying the wall, his photo tacked beside Noah Watkins. “What made Gabe Kavin different?”
A loud rap sounded on my door, and we both jumped at the sound. It eased open, and Jacob stuck his head inside. “Meredith, your four o’clock is here.”
“I’ll be right out.” She rose to her feet and glanced over the stack of files. “At least I know what you’ve been doing for the last two days. When are you meeting with the attorney again?”
“Tonight.” I turned my watch so I could see the oyster face. “At five. His office is downtown, so I’ll need to leave soon if I’m going to beat traffic.”
“Uh-huh.” She gave me a not-so-subtle once-over. “Chanel suit, no pantyhose. My mother would be proud.”
Meredith’s mother had been one of Los Angeles’s most notorious madams, so I took the comment as it was intended. “It’s not that sort of meeting.”
She popped a red chocolate in her mouth. “Still, easy access up the skirt . . . Does that bra unclip in the front?”
I ignored the insinuation and picked up my empty teacup. “Remind me to never tell you about my sex life again.”
“Ha!” She laughed. “Honey, it’s not a life. It was a fart in a silent room. That’s why it made a big stink. Trust me, if you had my sex life, you wouldn’t still be thinking about this guy. You’d move on to another muscular pogo stick and be done.”
“Please don’t compare a night of passion to a fart. And I’m not still thinking about him. At least, not in the romantic sense.”
She gave me a knowing grin. “Oh, honey. You know killers, I know sexually deprived clients. You’re definitely thinking of him, and there isn’t anything wrong with that.” She pointed a stern finger at me. “Just don’t separate starvation from good food.”
Robert Kavin was good food. I may have been starved, but the man had been a master chef of pleasure. I swallowed a response and circled the end of my desk. “Will you tell Jacob I’m heading out soon? Just in case he needs me for anything.”
“Will do.” She crumpled the empty candy bag and surveyed my pile of files. “Good luck.”
I waited until she left, then opened up my side drawer and considered the extra pack of pantyhose I kept there, in case I got a run. I stared at the shrink-wrapped package for a long moment, then closed the drawer, leaving it there.
It had not been a loud fart. That was just ridiculous.