The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [123]
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it’s likely our offender does have a background in art history, or is an artist of some sort.”
Robby looked at Vail. “You’d already figured that out.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that,” Rudnick said. “It’ll just go to her head.”
Vail rose from her seat. “Confirmation is always nice to have,” she said. “The way things have been going, it’s good to have someone like Wayne at my back.”
“I’d much rather be at your front.” He winked. “Oh, excuse me. I’m not supposed to make those kinds of remarks. Workplace etiquette. Sexual harassment laws and such.”
“Did your expert say anything about what the murals said about the offender?”
“The fact that he paints in blood is sick.”
“Yes, Wayne. Something useful.”
Rudnick’s face hardened, as if he suddenly realized the gravity of her question. “We both feel the blood is deeply arousing to him. It follows closely with the intense relationship he has with the body. He spends an incredibly long time with the victim. First he eviscerates them, then he grooms them to match some skewed image he has of women, making them ugly, almost repulsive. Then he takes their blood and paints on the wall. In a very deliberate fashion. There is definitely artistic talent there, but it’s abstract. No one I showed the photos to could ascertain anything useful from the patterns and shapes. And despite this repetitive ‘internal order,’ overall they’re different from crime scene to crime scene. So whatever he’s painting isn’t a consistent image, which makes me think it’s not borne of a fantasy. The act of painting on the wall may be, but what he’s painting . . . no one seems to know.” Rudnick grabbed his gel ball and began squeezing it. “In sum, your guy is consistent with what we’d expect to see in this type of offender: the themes of dominance, revenge, violence, power, control, mutilation . . . they’re all there.”
Vail took a second to absorb this, then nodded. “Thanks for the help, Wayne. Stay sane.”
His face brightened again into a mischievous smirk. “Hard to do around here. I sometimes think they’ve buried us down here for a reason, like it’s some secret insane asylum. Like we’re the inmates, but in telling us we work for the FBI, they’ve calmed our murderous instincts.”
“Uh huh. Take care, Wayne. And thanks again.” Vail led the way out, Robby fast on her heels. As soon as the door clicked shut, he asked, “Stay sane? That implies he’s sane to begin with.”
Vail tilted her head and nodded. “Guess you’re right. Down here, such assumptions might be a bit of a stretch.”
WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS spread open on the main floor, Vail handed Robby her keys and told him to wait for her in the car; she forgot to ask Rudnick something on a prior case of hers and had to run back down. She appeared in the doorway to Rudnick’s office a couple minutes later, and there was the bushy haired analyst, reclining in his chair tossing the ball at the ceiling.
Vail cleared her throat and the ball skittered off his fingertips onto the floor.
He looked over. “Am I having one of those déjà vu events or are you back for something?”
“I’m back,” Vail said.
“You like it when I speak French? The people are a bit uppity, but the language does kind of roll off the tongue.”
Vail stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.
Rudnick sat up in his chair. “Uh oh. This is serious. Either you’re going to work me over or you want some privacy.”
“I want some advice,” Vail said.
“Okay. I haven’t practiced psychiatry in a gazillion years, but—”
“I’m serious, Wayne.”
“Right. Serious. Okay, what do you need?”
Vail looked down, then up at the walls—everywhere but at Rudnick’s face.
Finally, he said, “You know, your body language suggests you’re uncomfortable with what you’re about to ask me.”
Vail nodded, then finally met his eyes. “I’m having dreams. Strange dreams.” She recapped the gist of the nightmares but saved the best for last. “So the killer’s straddling the woman’s body, he drives