The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [30]
BECKETT: He’s disciplined?
QUINCY: Well, as disciplined as a homicidal maniac can be.
BECKETT: It’s discipline, Quincy, trust me. When the urge to kill is that strong, it takes strength and willpower to wait for the right one. You wouldn’t know that. I doubt you’ve ever had a strong, passionate impulse in your life. What about trophies?
QUINCY: Generally serial killers take trophies. From looking at a crime scene, it’s impossible to know what’s missing. Maybe the unsub took a ring to give to his wife so he can experience a cheap thrill every time he looks at her. Maybe it was just a lock of hair. He’ll take something though, to help him relive the crime later.
BECKETT: See, you’re wrong. I didn’t take anything. Why put something in my possession that would link me to a homicide? Bundy, Kemper, they thought they were smart, but they were really just animals, furious, savage animals who were slaves to their own hunger. I’m not a slave, Quincy. I controlled my impulses. I limited myself to my pattern.
QUINCY: Pattern?
BECKETT: You’ve never figured it out, have you?
QUINCY: Patterns are a favorite with Hollywood. Lunar cycles, numerology, astrology—they rarely have anything to do with it.
BECKETT: I agree entirely.
QUINCY: Then what do you mean by pattern?
BECKETT: You’re supposedly the expert, Agent. You figure it out.
Pause.
QUINCY: What about visiting the graves of your victims?
BECKETT: Never.
QUINCY: You never visited a grave site? Not even a memorial service, a vigil, anything?
BECKETT: Discipline is the key.
QUINCY: What about returning to the crime scene? You could pretend to be there as a police officer.
BECKETT: I am a Berkshire County cop. What would I be doing at a Clinton, Massachusetts, crime scene? I insist, discipline is the key. I’m not toying with you, Agent.
DIFFORD: Bullshit. The omnipotent guise is how you get your rocks off, Beckett. If you were so fucking smart, so fucking disciplined, so controlled, you wouldn’t be sitting in jail right now.
BECKETT: Have you ever thought of going on a diet, Difford? Look at you. You’re hitting the doughnuts much too hard these days.
DIFFORD: You came back for Theresa, Beckett, just like she said you would. A smart man would’ve skipped town, but not you. You couldn’t let it go, not after what she did. You weren’t so disciplined then, were you, asshole?
BECKETT: And where were you, Difford? When I wrapped my hands around my lovely wife’s neck and began to squeeze the life out of her flailing body, where was her police protection? Where was your fat, lazy ass?
QUINCY: Gentlemen . . .
BECKETT: The agent’s right. This exchange of pleasantries isn’t advancing science. But I have to say I’m not impressed, Agent Quincy. At this point you might as well have been reciting a textbook. Come on, Special Agent. Dazzle me.
Pause.
QUINCY: Your first murder wasn’t planned.
BECKETT: Elementary. What killer has ever planned his first murder? You have desire, then in a fraction of a moment of time you realize that you have opportunity. You either act or you don’t. That’s what separates the men from the boys. Me from you.
QUINCY: You pulled her over for speeding. You had every intention of writing her a legitimate ticket. You were on duty at the time. Stop me if I’m wrong, Jim. Then you see her. She’s blond, beautiful, and sitting so trustingly in her car, ready to hand you her driver’s license and vehicle registration. You’ve been under pressure for some time. You’ve been drinking—
BECKETT: I don’t drink.
QUINCY: But you’ve been under stress, even more stress than you’re used to. You realize no one’s around, the road is deserted, and this beautiful woman is looking up at you and smiling apologetically.
BECKETT: She wanted me.
QUINCY: You were sloppy, weren’t you, Jim? You thought it was about control, but you had