Spider - Michael Morley [39]
Howie swallowed the bitter black coffee and considered how much better it would taste with another doughnut, especially a chocolate one. Right now he could do with food to aid his troubled thoughts.
The only real clue this guy gives us is how he disposes of the bodies.
He chops them up and spreads them all over the place.
He drives to rivers, swamps, estuaries, wherever there’s deep water, and tosses the body parts in.
What does all that tell us?
Jack had asked the question many times and they’d come up with dozens of theories. He was drawn to water; he was a fisherman; he was brought up by a river; or maybe he saw his father use the river as a garbage chute. Maybe he was a sailor, perhaps he knew the local ports and used them to come and go, before and after the killings. The FBI had checked it all out, even double-checked some of it. Perhaps Jack’s simple explanation had been right all along.
‘I’ll tell you what it is, Howie; next to fire, water is the best way to get rid of a corpse. Three-quarters of our planet is covered in water; that’s a big place to hide bodies. Bury a corpse and you can almost always see the soil’s been disturbed; people walk by, animals dig it up, before you know it there’s a 911 being rung in. But weigh down body parts, then drop them in deep water and for a long time no one but Davy Jones will find out what you’ve done. When something eventually does come to the surface, it’s stripped barer than a KFC drumstick during a Superbowl. Trust me, Howie, the only fixation this guy has with water is that it’s a tool to help him. If he can find a better tool, then he’ll switch from water in a shot.’
Howie went back to his profile and added:
Organized
Careful
Intelligent
Ruthless
Meticulous
He almost also wrote down ‘pancakes, ham and fresh coffee’; because they were on his mind as he fought back another pre-breakfast grumble around his bulging belt-line.
If he had to describe the killer right now, he’d say he was looking at a white male, of above average intelligence, aged about forty-five, with no previous criminal record, who was financially independent, drove an unexceptional vehicle and probably didn’t even have a parking ticket to his name. He wasn’t a risk-taker; he was a grey type of fella who blended in with whatever was going on and never stood out from the crowd. He was single, most likely never married and was – was what? Howie paused as he considered his sexuality. Was he homosexual? Were they homosexual attacks on pretty heterosexual women? He didn’t think so. Why should they be? Howie crossed it off his mental list. Were they heterosexual lust murders? Maybe. Perhaps the dismemberment was disguising something that he did to the corpse, something so depraved that he didn’t want another living soul to discover what he’d done. It was a possibility. But there was no real trace evidence to support it. No semen on the bodies, or in body wounds, no sign of anything being rammed, jammed or slammed into any orifice. There had been some markings on the wrist and shin bones, possibly fetishist restraints, but more likely just the work of a methodical jailer making sure his prisoner didn’t escape. He wished again that Jack was there to help him. Serial sex crimes had been his buddy’s speciality. There had been no one better in the business.
‘Remember, Howie, the primary sexual organ of the male and the female is not the genitals, it’s the brain. Fantasy and planning happen in your head, not in your pants. Whatever these goons physically act out is merely a manifestation of what they mentally crave.’
Howie still didn’t know whether to write homosexual or heterosexual. He just couldn’t figure out what turned this weirdo on. And then he found the word he was searching for. Underneath Intelligent,