“Sad,” I said.
“Yeah.” He worked on his sandwich. Took a breath. “We went through Shull’s place with the proverbial teeny little comb. Great big house for one guy. All this old expensive furniture he got from Mommy. But he lived liked a pig, didn’t take care of anything. He had a camera hooked up to remote, took photos of himself and hung them all over the place. All dudded up, posed like some Ralph Lauren sophisticate, but there was rotten food and roaches on the floor. We found all the good stuff in a basement storage room–combo–wine cellar. Shull kept a nice collection of vintage reds, there. From the empties all over the floor, looks like he sampled frequently. Along with copious amounts of happy powder.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Pills, too. Pharmaceuticals, some still with hospital tags, so you were right about that. He knew the area where he picked up Erna because he bought medical dope.”
“What was Erna’s role?” I said.
“I thought you’d tell me.”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever know. My best guess is he thought of her as his crazy cousin who he could use. Exploited her instability, her love of art. We know he expropriated her name for bylines. That allowed him to cover his tracks in case the articles were connected to the victims. He probably figured Erna would be too incoherent to do any damage if she was ever linked to the byline. Eventually he changed his mind and killed her.”
“I think he also used her as a red herring,” he said. “Sending her over to the gallery and maybe to other sites, too. Figuring people would notice her, get sidetracked, and he could skulk around, check out the scene. Which is exactly what happened. Except that it backfired because looking into Erna’s death is what finally connected us to him. Best-laid plans of psychopaths and all that.”
He unfolded the napkin, patted it flat, put it aside. “You’re probably right. His main motivation was fooling with Erna’s head. For the fun of it. Like he did with Kevin Drummond. Pretending to mentor the kid, helping to finance GrooveRat so he could keep Kevin delusional about his chances as a publisher. Meanwhile, Shull had an outlet for his own crappy articles—again, with his tracks covered. This making sense to you?”
“Perfect sense,” I said. “And once again, he got too cute. Having Kevin call Petra for details on Baby Boy. He probably told Kevin it would be great material for a follow-up piece. Unless Kevin was in on the killings and the call was for his pleasure, too.”
“So far we haven’t turned up a shred indicating Kevin was anything but a dupe. Unless we do, he remains a victim—give his parents at least a little comfort.”
He got up, paced the kitchen. “Shull saw himself as a cut above, but he’s nothing but a cookie-cutter power freak. Before he made his move on Robin he spent hours driving around. Revisited the Snake Pit, Szabo and Loh’s place, the Marina where he dumped Mehrabian. Snacking on memories, working up the arousal. One thing does puzzle me, though. He changed his technique. Up until Robin, he did the smooth bit. Walking up friendly, slipping the knife in. Doing it in public places—taking risks. With Robin, it’s like he regressed. Covert break-in, blitz attack. Which is probably what he did to Angelique Bernet. Any idea why?”
“He would’ve preferred the smooth bit,” I said. “Being subtle and dramatic meshed with his sense of theater. He probably decided to be cautious because of my questions about Kevin. He didn’t feel threatened enough to stop, but he knew we were getting closer.”
“Guess so,” he said. “Still, the idiot never lost his arrogance. Drove all over town without thinking to check for a tail.”
“In the end, an amateur,” I said.
“Once a loser, always a loser.” He stretched, paced some more, sat back down. Stared past me. Crust in the corner of his eyes. Hit-or-miss shave.
All those days with no sleep.
I said, “What’s the good stuff you found in his basement?”
“Baby Boy’s guitars, seven sets of low E guitar strings, a black trench coat that had been dry-cleaned recently, a box of surgical gloves, and newspaper clippings about all the victims. Not organized, tossed together in one big box file. He clipped reviews, interviews—like the one Robin gave to that guitar magazine—and newspaper accounts of the killings.”