After Diesel left, they talked about what should be released to the media and when. It didn't take them long to agree to leave out the fact that Krieger was working with them on the case-though some people would certainly draw that conclusion. Apart from that, they decided to give out as much information as possible, encouraging other patrons of the Jack Hammer that night to come forward. Diesel had promised to do what he could from his end, but he wasn't scheduled to work until the weekend, and he knew his customers only by their first names-or so he said. Lee believed him, but he could tell Butts wasn't entirely persuaded.
Chuck leaned back to stretch his spine, groaning as his stiff muscles protested. "Is there anything you can add to his profile?" he asked Lee.
Lee poured himself some more coffee. Awake since before dawn, he was flagging, and needed the caffeine. "I still think he's reliving some kind of childhood trauma, something very specific."
"All right," Chuck said. "So how can that help us?"
"If we can identify how he was damaged, we'll be that much closer," Lee said, taking a sip of coffee. It was strong and startling-like Krieger, he thought.
"So how do we do that?" Butts asked.
"Let's start with the signature aspects of each crime. What do they all have in common besides water?"
"He leaves notes," Butts said.
Lee took another gulp of coffee, feeling the caffeine trickle into his bloodstream. "What do they tell us?"
"He's punishing the victims," Chuck answered.
"Right," Lee said. "So there's a motive of retribution, of punishment."
Chuck rubbed his eyes. "Punishment for what, though?" "Good question."
Butts pulled a long string of red licorice from his pocket. It was limp and covered with lint. He brushed off the lint and chewed on it, a contented expression on his cratered face. In response to a glance from Chuck, he said, "Stomach's been actin' up. The wife says this will help. She's into all this natural stuff."
"What else do we have to go on?" Chuck asked. "Well, later he starts doin' the eyeball thing," Butts remarked.
"Yes, but why? What does that mean?" said Chuck.
"It has something to do with watching," Lee replied. "Being looked at."
"Who would have been watching him like that?" Butts asked.
"The most obvious answer would be a parent," Chuck suggested, picking up the glass paperweight on his desk and shifting it from one hand to the other.
"His dad, maybe?" said Butts. "Maybe he disapproved of the whole cross-dressing thing."
"Or his mother… but how would that fit with the water?" Chuck asked.
"I have an idea," Lee said. He turned to Chuck, who was slumped in his chair, the glass paperweight dangling from his right hand. "Can I borrow your computer?"
Morton rose from his chair and waved a hand toward it wearily. "Go ahead."
Lee sat down at the computer. Butts followed him, still chewing on the piece of licorice.
"What are you lookin' for?"
"Drownings-twenty years ago, in the tristate area."
"How come?"
"I think he may have had a trauma when he was still very young, involving water-probably a drowning."
Butts bit off a piece of licorice. "That seems like a long shot."
"I know. And that's even assuming it was reported."
The detective frowned and pulled up a chair next to him. "Why wouldn't it be reported?"
"If she was drowned by someone who knew her, it could have been covered up."
"Like her husband, you mean," Chuck said, perching on the edge of his desk.
"Exactly," Lee answered. "He could have done it and gotten away with it-said she went off with another man, that kind of thing."
"But if the kid saw it happen, he would know," Butts pointed out.
"Right," said Lee. "That kind of thing is bad enough when it's accidental. But if it was murder, and if his father told him to keep quiet, he would be replaying it over and over in his mind."
Chuck put down the paperweight, stood up, and paced in front of the window. He looked animated for the first time all day. "So the reason he cuts out the eyes-"
"He doesn't want her looking at him," Lee finished for him.
"The way his mother did," Butts said.
"Right," Lee agreed, still typing. He studied the screen, frowning. "This search is too general. We'd have to comb through every newspaper from that time period."
"What about missing-person cases?" Butts suggested.
"That's a good idea," said Chuck. "If he covered up her death, someone could have still reported her as missing."
Lee typed some more, then shook his head. "It's still too general, even assuming he grew up around here. It's possible that he moved to this area at some point."
Butts shook his head as if trying to dispel the image from his mind. "Jeez. You gotta be one sick bastard to put your kid through somethin' like that."
"Not only that," said Lee, "but you are guaranteeing your kid will be-"
"One sick bastard."
"You know, this whole process kinda reminds me of bridge," Butts said, chewing on his licorice thoughtfully.
"How so?"
"Well, the wife has been playing lately, you know." "Yeah, so you said," Chuck remarked impatiently. "So when she opens with one no trump, for example, it's a code."
"Right-she's telling her partner she has a certain number of points, and asking for information back," said Lee.
"Yeah. So her partner answers in code, too-which she has to interpret. It all depends on whether he's a risky bidder or not. If he says two spades and he's a risk taker, it could mean one thing, but if he's a conservative player, it could mean something else."
"And that difference can make or break the hand," Lee observed. "You miss just one trick and you go down."
"Exactly. So part of the game of bidding depends on knowing your partner's personality, their strengths and weaknesses, and being able to guess what they mean by their bid."
Chuck stared at him. "So?"
"So this guy is talkin' to us in code-and it's our job to figure out what he's saying."
Lee gazed out the window as the soft pink light of early evening settled over the city, bathing the buildings in a strangely beautiful glow. It was in such contrast to the conversation in the rapidly darkening room. A shiver started at the back of his neck and radiated outward. He wished that the only thing at stake were a card game, but if they continued in their failure to decode the messages the killer was leaving behind, another victim would fall to his implacable rage.