The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [113]
“Pattern?” J.T. quizzed.
“Was,” Marion supplied. “Jim Beckett was . . . ? Quincy has some theories. Jim Beckett was number one? Jim Beckett was here? Jim Beckett was the best? Whatever. What’s relevant is that Beckett forms his pattern based on where he leaves the bodies. Obviously that’s why he took Difford’s.”
J.T. frowned. “In other words, he’s running out of time.”
Marion looked at him with a puzzled expression. “How do you get from A to B?”
“Well, he’s been killing at each location, right? Now, however, he’s . . . recycling bodies, so to speak. Instead of leaving Difford in Springfield with the others, he took the body to a new city, gaining a new letter. Obviously he wants to finish his statement, but he realizes he doesn’t have unlimited time. Maybe since he took Sam he’s decided he has to wrap things up and get on with it. I thought he would hole up.”
Tess began rubbing her temples. She still couldn’t get the pictures out of her mind. Her four-year-old daughter being driven around in a car with Difford’s corpse in the trunk.
“Look, Marion, the man must have a hiding place or accomplice,” J.T. continued. “Surely you guys are looking into it.”
“Oh, no, J.T., we thought we’d just sit back and see how many cops he kills. Of course we’re looking into it! But you know as well as I do that the logical starting place for any investigation is friends and relatives. Beckett has none.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I read the reports, of course! His family is dead—”
“Did they check for death certificates?”
“They’re not stupid, J.T.! Yes, they checked.”
“Death certificates can be forged. How thorough was the check?”
For the first time Marion faltered. “What do you mean?”
“Did they actually call the doctors or hospitals that signed the certificates? Come on, it’s one of the most elementary ways to start a new life. Forge your own death certificate, then assume someone else’s birth certificate.”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’d have to ask.”
“Ask.”
“Well, yes, sir! Even then, J.T., it’s hard to believe a member of his family faked their own death so they could hide a killer. Far more likely is that he found a new friend. The man is good with women.” Marion’s glaze flicked to Tess.
Tess bowed her head with shame. Yes, she was the Bride of Frankenstein. She’d fed and clothed a killer. She’d even bore his child. Some nights she watched Samantha sleep so sweetly and she wondered if evil could be inherited. No one knew what caused a psychopath. Were they born? Were they made? Could they pass on that cruelty to their children?
J.T. took her hand. “If he was to find someone else, Tess,” he asked softly, “what should we look for?”
Tess shrugged. She felt weary again, but she forced herself to function. This was what it was all about. Not giving up. Not letting him win. “She’ll be blond, pretty, no older than early twenties. She won’t be a professional or college educated. She could be a waitress, a stewardess, the woman working at the dry cleaner’s. Maybe a police receptionist. He would like that.”
“It’s tough search criteria,” Marion murmured. “Not that some police officer wouldn’t love the assignment of cataloguing all the young, beautiful blondes in the area.”
J.T. shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck with his one good hand. “In other words, we have no leads. How can a man kill sixteen people, kidnap a child from beneath the police’s nose, and leave no trail?”
“It’s his specialty. He’s studied it. He’s careful.”
“Discipline is the key,” Tess whispered. Her eyes squeezed shut. She felt so much horror, because she knew the truth. It didn’t matter that he had their daughter. It didn’t matter that he’d brutally savaged Difford. Jim still wasn’t done. “He’ll strike again. He always finishes what he starts. He’ll finish the pattern. He’ll come after me.”
She saw Difford, telling her everything would be all right.