Cowley wondered how Danilov would have reacted to this lecture. Despite the unquestionable eighty per cent statistical accuracy of behavioural profiles, Cowley found it easy to understand the Russian’s scepticism. ‘We seem to have shifted from generalities to specifics.’
‘Unavoidable,’ said Meadows, sharply. ‘Generalities again. Keep the murder area under surveillance. Asocial killers are often compelled to return to the scene. It’s another satisfaction for them, to relive the crime.’
‘Let’s revert to the sexual aspect, for a moment. Would he be heterosexual? Or could he be homosexual?’
‘Invariably heterosexual. I can’t recall a reference case where the man has been homosexual.’
‘So there would be a wife? Or girlfriend?’
‘Possibly. But not necessarily. An asocial is basically a loner: often someone abused in childhood. If there is a wife or girlfriend, he will have abused her breasts. If he’s unmarried, he might have employed a hooker, again to abuse her breasts. Probably wouldn’t have tried to screw her. I understand Moscow’s got a pretty active hooker fraternity. It would make a lot of sense to ask around.’
Cowley had the impression that he was learning and understanding a lot while at the same time discovering nothing of the man he was pursuing. Would Danilov be making any progress on his own in Moscow? Time, hopefully, to get back to specifics.
‘So when we find him he’ll be neat, his pants pressed, his jacket is cross-over, his shoes clean. He could possibly have a hair problem and be ashamed of it. He’ll live in the area we’ve already marked off. He’ll be a loner, although he might have a wife or girlfriend. He might also have used prostitutes, concentrating upon their breasts.’
‘Don’t tell me!’ protested the psychologist.
‘What?’
‘You know a hundred guys, just like him!’
Cowley smiled. ‘It
is
pretty general.’
‘I’m only sketching the outline: you’ve got to colour in the picture,’ Meadows insisted. ‘But let’s try a few more specifics. I’ve considered both autopsy reports: the Russian one was practically another attack, by the way. Your killer will be five feet eight inches tops, not less than five seven. Ann Harris was five feet five. The act of pulling her backwards, the way your killer attacks, would reduce that height by as much as five inches. So the knife goes in with just the slightest upwards bias. He’s right-handed, of course. And he’s strong. He’s not stabbing, giving himself some momentum to get the knife into the body. He’s pushing. That needs strength. And there’s strength in the hold over the mouth, leaving the nasal bruising. And that round chin abrasion is important, both on Ann Harris and on the woman who lived. Your man wears a ring, on the pinkie finger of his left hand. I read two things into those factors. He’s fit: maybe exercises. Although from the tobacco smell the Russian woman talked about he’s not fanatical about his health. And there’s a contradiction here to what I’ve already suggested. He’s not
that
obsessionally neat, to wash his hands a lot. If he’d washed his hands, he would have reduced that smell. From the way he clamps his hand over the mouth and nose he’s probably had some martial arts or military training.’
‘Something worries me about that known physical contact he had with the Russian woman, Lydia Orlenko,’ said Cowley. ‘I talked to her very soon afterwards: heard her describe it. She was revulsed by the hand. She said it was clammy, but not wet. That it didn’t feet like the skin of a hand. Neither was it any sort of glove. So what the hell could it be?’
Meadows frowned, surprised by the question. ‘I think it
was
a glove.’
‘But I just told you …’
‘… what about a
rubber
glove?’ Meadows broke in. ‘The sort of thing women wear in a kitchen. Even a surgical glove. Ever felt them, against your skin? Particularly the surgical type? It
is
a clammy sensation. But it’s not wet. Try it for yourself. I did, after the forensic guys back in Washington suggested it to me. Feels just like the woman described it.’ The man physically shuddered. ‘Nasty! And very clammy.’
‘If he wore surgical gloves, there could be some medical connection? The entry wound that killed both the man and Ann Harris went cleanly between the eighth and ninth rib. Which would indicate some medical knowledge.’
‘And the Russian woman was probably saved because the knife
hit
the rib. I’m a psychologist, not a surgeon. I would have thought in the circumstances – in a darkened alley, suddenly seizing a victim from the rear – it would be practically impossible even for a trained physician to guarantee getting between the two ribs.’
‘There’s something about the nipple fetish that worries me,’ said Cowley, speaking as the doubt came to him. ‘What about Vladimir Suzlev? Why would a man with a nipple complex attack another man? Unless our killer
is
homosexual.’
‘Whoa!’ cautioned Meadows, raising halting hands. ‘I said colour in the picture, not black it out completely! Surely there’s a much simpler explanation for the attack on Suzlev: it’s even obvious from the evidence you’ve already got. With Suzlev,
no
buttons were taken. Because your killer realized when he turned him over that he
wasn’t
a woman. Even though he wore his hair long enough to be
mistaken
for one, in the near-darkness and in the split second before the knife went in.’
Cowley nodded, taking the other man’s interpretation. ‘Lydia Orlenko talked about him feeling her breasts. At the time it seemed obviously sexual. But it could have been his assuring himself that she
was
a woman. In the bundled-up way people dress in Moscow at this time of the year, it would be difficult positively to decide anyone’s sex, particularly in a dark alley.’
‘I’d go with the confirming theory, rather than straight sex. Physical sex isn’t ever a factor in these sorts of murders.’
‘But he
does
know what he’s doing?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the psychologist, quickly. ‘And that it’s wrong. Asocial killers are invariably clever. And cunning. The game – challenging the authorities to catch them, keeping one step ahead – matters a lot to them. I’ve read Senator Burden’s complaints, about things being kept secret: a cover-up. Your killer would have been angry about that. He wants to know he’s frightening people: causing panic.’
‘How about
using
the media?’ suggested Cowley, again speaking as the idea occurred. ‘Could we evolve some way to challenge him back? Use his own madness to make him disclose himself? I think we could quite easily manipulate the Moscow media, which is what he’ll be reading and watching.’
Meadows gave another doubtful expression. ‘It’s been tried. Worked sometimes, but not often enough. And there’s a risk. You start playing mental games at a distance and you’re going to get all sorts of nuts coming out of the woodwork. You end up with copy-cat killings. And looking for more than one murderer.’ The man shook his head, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not at this stage, anyway. I know all about political pressure – that’s why I had to get the profile out as quickly as I did – but try everything else first.’
‘Anything else I should be looking for?’
Meadows pursed his lips, contemplatively. ‘General guidance,’ he offered. ‘He’ll probably have been neglected as a kid. Not properly know what love is. If he
is
married, their sex life won’t be good. As I’ve already said, asocials have trouble with the physical act. Fantasy plays a part, particularly with the violence. He’ll probably enjoy violent pornography: absorb himself fantasizing about it and carrying it forward into a definite attack. So look for pornography, when you make an arrest: it’ll be a pointer.’
‘You’ve helped a lot,’ thanked Cowley. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t rely upon it!’ warned Meadows, again. ‘The Behavioural Unit has had its successes, some pretty impressive. But it’s
not
a science: it never can be, despite a lot of people claiming that it is. At best it’s a psychological art, developed from experience. So it’s an aid to detection, not a replacement for it. You’ll still have to follow investigative procedure. And keep in mind at all times what I said at the very beginning: the profile might not be any good at all because you’re hunting a Russian, not an American.’
‘It’s still been useful,’ said Cowley.
‘I’ll be interested to see how close we made the fit, when you get him,’ said the psychologist.
‘
When
we get him,’ said Cowley.
The arrival delay was compounded by his spending more time than he’d expected at Quantico and even heavier traffic on the
95
returning to Washington, so he was quite late again getting to Judy Billington. Her apartment was less than a mile from his own shut-up flat, with a better view of the Washington Monument but nearer the airport: as he drove up, Cowley had a constant view of the commuter aircraft hovering for landing permission like predatory birds, waiting to plummet on to their prey.
The girl answered the door in a loose, figure-enveloping sweater, over jeans that in complete contrast were skin-tight. She wore loafers, although unlike the man he’d just left, Judy did not wear any socks, holed or otherwise. Her hair was so black Cowley decided it had to be dyed to deepen its natural colour. She wore it very short. The only make-up was around her eyes, and black again, as if she were trying to create an effect. He started to apologize for his lateness as he entered the apartment. She said it didn’t matter; she’d taken the entire day off, after the funeral. Cowley said he hoped it had gone OK. She grimaced at the remark, asking if funerals of murder victims ever went OK. Cowley decided he deserved the put-down.
‘You want anything? Coffee? Booze?’ There was a glass of white wine alongside a chair in which she had obviously been sitting before he got there.
Cowley declined, choosing his own seat on a couch which ran in front of the window with the panorama over the river. It was an unavoidable fact of murder investigations that a victim’s mail was read: that was how he’d located her. He was grateful, for her time.
Judy listened patiently, occasionally sipping her wine, a smile quite close. When he finished, she said: ‘Shocked by what you read?’
‘No.’
‘Hard-assed G-man, eh? You know you’re the first FBI agent I’ve ever met.’
She was trying hard with the repartee. ‘We come in all sizes,’ he said, quickly regretting his own effort, not knowing why he’d tried.
‘That must be convenient.’ The look was openly appraising, the smile finally forming. ‘I’d guess you’re the jumbo version, right?’
Why the hell was he letting this happen? ‘You and Ann were pretty close, from the letters?’
‘Close enough, I guess.’
‘I’ve only read one side of the correspondence: yours to her. Do you have hers?’
Judy shook her head. ‘She was like that at college. Kept everything. Theatre tickets. Programmes. Letters. Notes. A fucking magpie. I’m the opposite. Can’t stand clutter. Souvenirs bore me.’
Cowley guessed she said fuck to see how he’d react, which he hadn’t. He was thinking more about the point she’d made. There was a possible paradox in Ann Harris’s hoarding – neat though that hoarding had seemingly been – and her scrupulous cleanliness. ‘You didn’t keep
anything?
‘Sorry.’
‘What about personal contact, while she’d been in Moscow? Any phone conversations? Vacation visits maybe?’
‘She came back, about a year ago, on home leave. There was always talk of my going to Moscow but I never got around to it.’ She appeared surprised that her glass was empty, rising with it in her hand. ‘You sure about not wanting anything? It’s Chablis.’
‘Positive.’ She clearly knew how good her body was: there was an exaggerated hip movement as she went into the kitchen annex. She would probably have been offended if she’d known what little effect it had upon him. He tried to look as if he were enjoying it as she returned, not wanting the performance to have been entirely in vain. ‘You see much of her, when she was back?’
‘Sure. Three or four times.’
‘Think back!’ demanded Cowley. ‘As much as you can. To the visit and to the letters. I want names … any name, Christian name or nickname. A lead, to the guys she went with. Anyone.’
Judy toyed with the glass, held before her in both hands. ‘No names,’ she said at last. ‘There was a guy who worked out at the embassy gym …’
Hughes. How much of that morning’s profile could fit the economist? Would the CIA polygraphs prove the alibis a lie, after all?’
‘… and one of the diplomats, although that was a one-night disaster …’ she giggled. ‘Got drunk, couldn’t get it up and cried. That’s what she told me, anyhow … Someone she called Mr Droop. There was a musical on Broadway:
Edwin Drood
. She got it from that.’ The smile widened. ‘There was one identity. The ambassador had the hots. Always used to touch her ass or her arm, supposedly easing his way past her at receptions or when they were in the same place socially: it’s the sort of things some guys do. Always included her in official things, too. But he could never bring himself to make the big pass. Ann thought it was funny. She guessed it would have been another hold-it-for-me-while-I-cry number.’
‘What about Russians?’
‘She couldn’t stand Russia!’
‘We’re not talking about the place: we’re talking about men. She didn’t hate men.’