Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [66]
“Like Raskolnikov?” the Russian added hopefully.
“Not really. That would be nice, but most of the time these guys are eaten up in the end not by their crimes, but by the pressure of being on the run, having to look over their shoulder all the time.”
The Frenchman nodded. “It is very stressful, being pursued, n’est-ce pas? Like your Raskolnikov,” he added with a glance at the Russian.
The Russian scowled and clasped his books to his chest.
“So zey feel no remorse for what zey do?” the Frenchwoman asked.
Lee shook his head. “Remorse doesn’t seem to be part of the equation with most of these killers. They never really see their victims as people.”
“You mean people like Ted Bundy, for example?” Jonathan said.
“He’s a good example,” Lee said. “It’s amazing they didn’t catch him earlier. By skipping state to state, he managed to duck under every net they attempted to throw over him. Then, when they did finally collar him, he used his charm and skill to escape not once—but twice.”
“So he was charming—but he was a monster,” the Frenchman remarked.
“If anyone was, Bundy was. Like most serial predators, he dehumanized his victims in order to consummate his crimes—it’s a switch he turns to the off position before he can continue. For most of us, that switch doesn’t even exist. For the serial killer, it’s part of what makes him who he is.”
Lee was aware of a tugging on his sleeve and turned to see Kathy looking at him. The expression in her eyes was clear: she wanted to leave.
“Okay,” he murmured, irritated that, having dragged him here, she now wanted to go.
Though he usually attempted to keep any memories of his father at bay, he heard Duncan Campbell’s deep, sardonic baritone say, Isn’t that just like a woman?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was all a lark, really—they were a couple of Jersey boys on a Friday-night spree, hitting the bars on the Upper East Side, trawling for some action. But these Sex and the City chicks were so stuck up—thought they were all that, with their designer shoes and their two-hundred-dollar haircuts and expensive boob jobs. They weren’t going to mess with a couple of dagos from Bayonne, so Joe and Bobby figured they’d go down to the Village just for a gag and see what the faggots were up to.
Bobby said he knew about this place on Christopher over by the river where the trannies hung out, so they headed down there to see the freaks. They’d go in and pretend to pick one up, then give him—or was it her? Ha!—the slip, maybe even mess her up a bit. They had plenty of time and plenty of rage.
When they got to the place it was dark and crowded and smelled like a cross between a locker room and the perfume counter at Bloomingdale’s. It also smelled like sex. There was music, if you could call it that—house music with the repetitive chords and insistent drumbeat. Joe hated house music. In high school he organized a band in his parents’
garage and wrote all the songs himself. They broke up eventually, after playing a few local gigs, but Joe still thought of himself as a musician, and no self-respecting musician likes house music. He wanted to leave, but Bobby wanted to stay for a while, so they ordered drinks and looked around. The place was packed with freaks—Joe had to admit some of them looked pretty good, in their high heels and short skirts. With their shaved legs and wigs they looked like tall chicks from a distance—it’s downright creepy, he said to Bobby. But Bobby said what you have to look at is the Adam’s apple—that’s the giveaway. And the hands—the hands are bigger than a chick’s hands. There were also guys dressed regular like Bobby and Joe, but Bobby said they were all faggots.
They wandered around for a while until this one tranny started eyeing Joe. He wasn’t too tall, and had on this long, dark wig and really long legs under a little black leather skirt. A lot of the freaks were black or Hispanic or Asian, but this was a white guy—his face was actually kind of girlish, Joe thought. He wasn’t really attracted—no, that was too weird—but if the he/she