“I’ll keep all this in mind,” he promised, “if and when I get calls about these cases, Kay. If someone pressures me, for example, about the news accounts escalating the killer’s peaks, that sort of thing.”
A pause. “I have no intention of being used. But I can’t lie, either. The fact is, this killer’s reaction to publicity, his MO, in other words, is a little unusual.”
I just listened.
“Not all serial killers love to read about themselves, in truth. The public tends to believe the vast majority of people who commit sensational crimes want recognition, want to feel important. Like Hinckley. You shoot the President and you’re an instant hero. An inadequate, poorly integrated person who can’t keep a job and maintain a normal relationship with anyone is suddenly internationally known. These types are the exception, in my opinion. They are one extreme.
“The other extreme is your Lucases and Tooles. They do what they do and often don’t even stick around in the city long enough to read about themselves. They don’t want anybody to know. They hide the bodies and cover their tracks. They spend much of their time on the road, drifting from place to place, looking for their next targets along the way. It’s my impression, based on a close examination of the Richmond killer’s MO, that he’s a blend of both extremes: He does it because it’s a compulsion, and he absolutely doesn’t want to be caught. But he also thrives on the attention, he wants everyone to know what he’s done.”
“This is what you told Amburgey?” I asked.
“I don’t think it was quite this clear in my mind when I talked to him or anyone else last week. It took Henna Yarborough’s murder to convince me.”
“Because of Abby Turnbull.”
“Yes.”
“If she was the intended victim,” I went on, “what better way to shock the city and make national news than to kill the prizewinning reporter who’s been covering the stories.”
“If Abby Turnbull was the intended victim, her selection strikes me as rather personal. The first four, it appears, were impersonal, stranger killings. The women were unknown to the assailant, he stalked them. They were targets of opportunity.”
“The DNA test results will confirm whether it’s the same man,” I said, anticipating where I assumed his thoughts were going. “But I’m sure of it. I don’t for a minute believe Henna was murdered by somebody else, a different person who might have been after her sister.”
Fortosis said, “Abby Turnbull is a celebrity. On the one hand, I asked myself, if she was the intended victim, does it fit that the killer would make a mistake and murder her sister instead? On the other, if the intended victim was Henna Yarborough, isn’t the coincidence she’s Abby’s sister somewhat overwhelming?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Of course. Nothing is certain. We can conjecture all our lives and never pin it down. Why this or why that? Motive, for example. Was he abused by his mother, was he molested, et cetera, et cetera? Is he paying back society, showing his contempt for the world? The longer I’m in this profession the more I believe the very thing most psychiatrists don’t want to hear, which is that many of these people kill because they enjoy it.”
“I reached that conclusion a long time ago,” I angrily told him.
“I think the killer in Richmond is enjoying himself,” he calmly continued. “He’s very cunning, very deliberate. He rarely makes mistakes. We’re not dealing with some mental misfit who has damage to his right frontal lobe. Nor is he psychotic, absolutely not. He is a psychopathic sexual sadist who is above average in intelligence and able to function well enough in society to maintain an acceptable public persona. I think he’s gainfully employed in Richmond. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s involved in an occupation, a hobby, that brings him in contact with distraught or injured people, or people he can easily control.”
“What sort of occupation, exactly?” I asked uneasily.
“Could be just about anything. I’m willing to bet he’s shrewd enough, competent enough, to do just about anything he likes.”
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,” I heard Marino say.