Read Online Now or Never by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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probably brings him to a climax he can never otherwise reach. For him, it’s probably the ultimate moment of power. The women are helpless, they feel pain—they are dying while he lives.”
Her horrified eyes met his. “Oh, my God.”
He nodded grimly. “So now you see why we have to catch him before he strikes again. From his pattern I’d guess he’ll take his time—perhaps a couple of months. He’ll survey the scene, pick out his victim, trail her, maybe even break into her house, get the feel of her, the scent of her. Like an animal stalking its prey. He’s methodical. That’s why he’s been so successful.”
“Why do men do these things?”
Harry shrugged. “Studies show that all murderers of this type come from dysfunctional homes—drug abuse, alcohol, criminal activities, you name it. There’s often mental illness in the family, and they probably suffered serious emotional and physical abuse in childhood. Usually the mothers dominated them, demeaned them, systematically emasculated them. In turn, they become sexually dysfunctional adults, unable to sustain a mature, consensual relationship with another adult.”
“You think this is what happened to our killer?”
“I wish I knew.” Harry ran his hands wearily through his still-wet hair. It stuck up spikily, and Mal thought interestedly that he looked as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.
“The public always thinks a murderer looks like a monster,” he said. “But the fact is, mostly he looks like any guy on the street. The FBI profile says our killer probably lives a ‘normal’ life. Meaning he is a man with a deep psychosis able to put up a facade of normality. He lives alone, in a house rather than an apartment because he needs privacy for his comings and goings. He’s of neat appearance and orderly in his daily life. He holds down adecentjob, white collar rather than blue. He might even be from a higher social level. He carries out his job well, has no friends, and is obsessively tidy.”
“So we’re not looking for a freak or a down-and-out vagrant roaming the streets. We’re looking for a regular guy, a man his neighbors and co-workers think quite normal. No different from you or any other man in Boston.”
“A needle in a haystack,” he agreed.
“It’s lucky you managed to get the photo-fit.”
Harry slipped the picture from the manila envelope. “One other thing. The last victim, Summer Young. Before she died, she managed to tell us two details. That he had dark staring eyes. And smooth hands.”
“So he’s definitely not a manual worker.”
“It’s unlikely.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah. She called him a bastard. Those were her dying words.”
Shaken, Mal looked away from him. She took a sip of the beer.
She studied the picture for a long minute, and Harry studied her. He liked the way her eyelashes curled, sweetly, at the tips.
“This is taken from the description of the two fishermen?” she asked at long last.
“Yes. They caught him in their flashlight for a second before he took off. But a police artist enhanced the eyes to match Summer’s memory of him.”
Mal’s voice was colder than the beer. “I’m afraid it’s not much to go on, Detective Jordan. It’s not accurate. And it’s certainly not enough to base a national TV program on. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
Picking up her jacket and purse, she slid out of the banquette.
Harry stared at her, stunned. One minute she had been ready to get out there on TV and save other youngwomen from a terrible fate. The next she had slammed the door in his face.
“Wait just a minute.” His voice was harsh. Under the table Squeeze raised his head and growled softly.
Harry leaped to his feet. She turned away, but he grabbed her shoulder. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” He let go of her and she thrust her arms hurriedly into her jacket, avoiding his eyes.
“One minute you’re hot for the story. The
Her horrified eyes met his. “Oh, my God.”
He nodded grimly. “So now you see why we have to catch him before he strikes again. From his pattern I’d guess he’ll take his time—perhaps a couple of months. He’ll survey the scene, pick out his victim, trail her, maybe even break into her house, get the feel of her, the scent of her. Like an animal stalking its prey. He’s methodical. That’s why he’s been so successful.”
“Why do men do these things?”
Harry shrugged. “Studies show that all murderers of this type come from dysfunctional homes—drug abuse, alcohol, criminal activities, you name it. There’s often mental illness in the family, and they probably suffered serious emotional and physical abuse in childhood. Usually the mothers dominated them, demeaned them, systematically emasculated them. In turn, they become sexually dysfunctional adults, unable to sustain a mature, consensual relationship with another adult.”
“You think this is what happened to our killer?”
“I wish I knew.” Harry ran his hands wearily through his still-wet hair. It stuck up spikily, and Mal thought interestedly that he looked as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.
“The public always thinks a murderer looks like a monster,” he said. “But the fact is, mostly he looks like any guy on the street. The FBI profile says our killer probably lives a ‘normal’ life. Meaning he is a man with a deep psychosis able to put up a facade of normality. He lives alone, in a house rather than an apartment because he needs privacy for his comings and goings. He’s of neat appearance and orderly in his daily life. He holds down adecentjob, white collar rather than blue. He might even be from a higher social level. He carries out his job well, has no friends, and is obsessively tidy.”
“So we’re not looking for a freak or a down-and-out vagrant roaming the streets. We’re looking for a regular guy, a man his neighbors and co-workers think quite normal. No different from you or any other man in Boston.”
“A needle in a haystack,” he agreed.
“It’s lucky you managed to get the photo-fit.”
Harry slipped the picture from the manila envelope. “One other thing. The last victim, Summer Young. Before she died, she managed to tell us two details. That he had dark staring eyes. And smooth hands.”
“So he’s definitely not a manual worker.”
“It’s unlikely.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Yeah. She called him a bastard. Those were her dying words.”
Shaken, Mal looked away from him. She took a sip of the beer.
She studied the picture for a long minute, and Harry studied her. He liked the way her eyelashes curled, sweetly, at the tips.
“This is taken from the description of the two fishermen?” she asked at long last.
“Yes. They caught him in their flashlight for a second before he took off. But a police artist enhanced the eyes to match Summer’s memory of him.”
Mal’s voice was colder than the beer. “I’m afraid it’s not much to go on, Detective Jordan. It’s not accurate. And it’s certainly not enough to base a national TV program on. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
Picking up her jacket and purse, she slid out of the banquette.
Harry stared at her, stunned. One minute she had been ready to get out there on TV and save other youngwomen from a terrible fate. The next she had slammed the door in his face.
“Wait just a minute.” His voice was harsh. Under the table Squeeze raised his head and growled softly.
Harry leaped to his feet. She turned away, but he grabbed her shoulder. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” He let go of her and she thrust her arms hurriedly into her jacket, avoiding his eyes.
“One minute you’re hot for the story. The
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