Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [60]
“Yes?” he said.
Sergeant Ruggles poked his head in.
“Detectives Butts and Krieger have just arrived, sir.”
“Send them in,” Morton said.
Chuck and Lee exchanged a look. He wasn’t sure what Chuck was thinking, but Lee was thinking that at least they hadn’t killed each other in the lobby.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Chuck Morton poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the windowsill. A fat black fly buzzed sluggishly against the windowpane in a halfhearted attempt to escape into the steamy August air. The atmosphere was muggy and oppressive, the air heavy with rain that refused to fall.
“Okay, what do we know about this guy?” he said, slinging himself into his chair. He was feeling antsy, and more coffee probably wasn’t a good idea, but he didn’t care. Elena Krieger was at the far end of the room, putting as much distance between her and Detective Butts as possible.
Lee Campbell rested his lean body against the doorframe. Chuck thought his friend looked tired—there was a gray pallor to his face, and he cradled his injured arm in his left hand.
“There’s evidence of some confusion as to sexual preference or gender identity,” he said.
Detective Leonard Butts settled his broad backside into one of the chairs across from Chuck’s desk.
“In English, Doc?” he said, scratching his ear. His ears were large, with long, pendulous lobes, and reminded Chuck of the ears of his childhood beagle, Charlie.
“He kills men as well as women,” Lee said. “And since these probably are sexually motivated crimes, it points to an offender who is either attracted to both men and women, or is confused about where he belongs in the gender spectrum.”
“How do you know he is sexually motivated?” Krieger challenged.
“Postmortem mutilation almost always has a sexual element,” Lee replied.
“So he’s one kinky bastard,” Butts said, throwing a glance at Krieger, who stiffened. Chuck opened his mouth to reprimand Butts, but realized with a quiver of guilt that he enjoyed watching the detective bait Krieger. He turned and poured himself more coffee.
“Would that mean we’re looking for someone who is … effeminate?” Krieger asked.
More effeminate than you, Chuck wanted to say, but he took a sip of coffee instead.
“Not necessarily,” Lee replied. “He’s conflicted, but he might appear completely normal to the casual observer.”
“Let me get this straight,” Morton said. “Are we talking about a bisexual?”
“It’s not as clear cut as that,” Lee answered. “I’d say that he’s primarily heterosexual, but displays some form of feminine identification—maybe rooted in a childhood trauma of some kind.”
Butts frowned. “We talkin’ about a tranny?”
Krieger stared at him. “A trann-ee?”
“A transsexual,” Chuck explained.
Krieger flushed, color spreading from her elegant neck to her forehead. “Oh, yes—of course.”
“Very possibly,” Lee replied. “Or a transvestite. There are plenty of men who like to dress in women’s clothing, but are primarily or even solely attracted to women.”
Butts leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, frowning so that his bushy eyebrows nearly touched. “Let me get this straight. You’re talkin’ about a guy who’s a hetero but who likes to wear panty hose?”
“That’s one possibility,” Lee answered.
They all paused to consider this idea. Chuck listened to the sound of daily life in the station house. Footsteps came and went, office doors opened and closed with a click, snippets of conversation drifted into the room. Out in the lobby, someone laughed—a short, percussive sound, like a dog barking. He found the everyday ordinariness of it comforting. After the horrors of 9/11, which swept them all up the flood of disaster and its aftermath, there was something reassuring about the gradual return of daily routine.
“Is there a chance this—person—could be a woman who had an operation to become a man?” Krieger asked.
“Sexual murders of this sort are almost entirely committed by men. I don’t see it as likely—it’s not just the physical size and strength required, it’s also the amount of testosterone in the system. This killer linked