Page 43 of The Perfect Poise

He put his hand on top of the folder and started to slide it toward him. He was on the verge of picking it up when he suddenly stopped, looking hesitant for some reason. She was about to ask what the problem was when he glanced to his left and began murmuring unintelligibly.

She’d seen this before. In their last encounter in this very room, as well as in the hospital room where he attacked her while she was awaiting brain surgery, he’d done the same thing. It was almost as if he was talking to some imaginary, invisible friend.

She watched silently as he paused, as if listening to someone. Whatever he heard made him increasingly agitated, to the point that he slammed his fist down on the table. The two guards both made moves to approach him, but she held up her hand for them to stop. He was still mumbling and she could have sworn she heard him mutter “this is my choice. Stop being so jealous!” Then he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

His eyes popped open.

“Yes, of course,” he said enthusiastically. “Just assuaging a few doubts. What have we got here?”

“I’m dealing with a potential serial killer, Mark,” she said, using his first name, well aware that the familiarity would melt whatever walls he’d built up in the last few moments. His giddy smile proved her right.

She proceeded to fill him in on what she knew so far, leaving out the victims’ names, which were redacted in the file, but explaining their backgrounds, including their shared, nearly unimaginable wealth. As she detailed their biographies, followed by the method of their death, Haddonfield listened intently, his eyes scanning the crime scene photos with an uncomfortable ravenousness.

When she was done talking, he continued to flip through the pages quietly, clearly deep in thought. She was starting to wonder if he was just stalling when he finally looked back up at her.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” he said, almost sweetly.

“It was part of our deal,” she replied noncommittally.

“I have some thoughts,” he said.

“I’m all ears.”

“I don’t pretend to have your experience or talent, Ms. Hunt,” he said. “But I am a serial killer, as we can both agree.”

After Jessie nodded that they could, he continued.

“I don’t think that this person is a traditional serial killer.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, sincerely intrigued.

“Well, when I was planning my kills, I spent weeks, sometimes months on them,” he said, his eyes getting slightly hazy at the memory. “It was part of the thrill for me: the organization, the build-up. At first, I didn’t really enjoy the murders themselves. They were the obligatory endpoint of the mission, although I will concede that I eventually warmed up to them. If you’ll recall, I had to make my first victim someone truly objectionable, before working up to people who were, I will acknowledge, less deserving.”

“And you think this is different, how?” she asked, keeping the focus on the current case and not Haddonfield’s exploits.

“Well, as I learned from reading transcripts of some of your seminars and speeches, sometimes the distinction between serial and spree killers gets blurred. But to me, this person feels more spree than serial.”

“Why do you say that?” Jessie asked.

“You said the first murder was last night, around 9 p.m., and the second one was earlier today at 11:15 a.m. That doesn’t cleanly follow the pattern of a traditional spree killer, going directly from one place to another to wreak carnage. But it feels more rushed than I would be comfortable with.”

“Okay,” Jessie said, willing to entertain the idea. “Anything else?”

“Yes, the method of murder, while the same with both victims—what with the knife and all—isn’t methodical. It’s frenzied. It doesn’t feel like your killer planned this out in painstaking detail. Instead it feels like they had a general plan, but in the moment, lost control and just stabbed until they couldn’t stab anymore. I know this is an odd thing to say, but these murders just feel so…angry.”

Jessie sat quietly, turning over his words in her head.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, “but I just don’t buy that these killings are exclusively about the victims being—what did you call them earlier?”

“Ultra-high-net-worth individuals.”

“Right,” he said. “I’m sure that’s somehow a factor, but these women have both been super rich for a while now. Why suddenly slaughter them in the last twenty-four hours? What was the catalyst that set off our friend, Stabby Stabberson? I don’t accept that this is some ‘eat the rich’ scenario. This feels personal more than political.”

Jessie let that last comment wash over her and, to her amazement, she had to admit that Haddonfield was right. Whatever economic motive there might be to these acts, there was an up-close intimacy to their rage that suggested something more. This was, for reasons she couldn’t yet identify, personal.

“Thank you, Mark,” she said. “This could prove very helpful.”

---