Page 13 of The Russian (Michael Bennett 13)

I shook my head. “I learn by experience.”

“Never? I’d think the topic would interest you.”

Now I turned to my partner. “I already have interests. Maybe you forgot that I have ten kids? I also have a full caseload. I even have hobbies. Reading about serial killers would be like a lifeguard going to the beach on his day off. Besides, I’m on legwork, you’re the one on research. Remember?”

He surprised me by then saying, “Not today. I need a second pair of eyes.”

Hollis explained that he had started a series of searches in newspaper databases, thinking maybe he could find a connection there that the police databases had overlooked.

I had to agree he made a good point. For the next hour we aggressively searched published records, from the New York Times to local papers to websites dedicated to identifying and tracking serial killers.

“I never knew all these disturbing details about serial killers, like how so many of them favor strangling and stabbing,” Hollis said. “This shit is horrible.”

I had to agree. The gory photographs bothered me the most. Followed closely by the knowledge that some people liked looking at crime-scene photographs. There were dozens of websites dedicated to serial killers that showed almost nothing but gruesome photos of their victims.

Then Hollis had the bright idea to widen the search beyond New York. We came across a news article from San Francisco dated almost a year earlier. There had been two murders there in the span of two weeks; both of the victims were women in their thirties who’d lived alone, and both had been stabbed by sharp implements with their faces “brutally mutilated,” according to the article. One of the women had been slashed around the neck, but the other one was what caught my attention. She had been killed by some sort of implement driven directly through her throat—just like Elaine Anastas.

The article noted that while the murders weren’t officially linked, the cops suspected it had been the same killer. Now they were both cold cases.

There’s that unsolved murder rate again, I thought.

A little while later, Hollis looked up from a search of the Southeast region and said, “There could be something in Atlanta too. Looks like about eight months ago there was a series of murders there—two in apartment buildings, one in an office, and two more in nearby suburbs. All the crime scenes were noted as being especially bloody. Then the killings stopped. Nothing since.”

Hollis picked up his sheaf of printouts. I could tell he was working up to a big reveal.

“I read the FBI’s report on serial murder. It says the concept of the traveling serial killer is a myth.”

“Is that so?” I said. I never would have consulted a report from the FBI. Not that I needed to tell Hollis that.

Hollis continued. “But there are a few notable exceptions. Such as individuals whose work involves interstate travel.” He proceeded to quote from the report. “‘The nature of their traveling lifestyle provides them with many zones of comfort in which to operate.’”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Ted Bundy is the obvious American example,” Hollis said. “He started in the Pacific Northwest and ended up in Florida. In Russia, a killer called the Red Ripper—named Chiclet or something like that—evaded the Russian cops for more than a decade because he traveled for his job. Killed, like, fifty people.”

I thought about it. Hollis raised an interesting idea. “So you’re saying we may have one of them?”

I picked up the phone.

Hollis said, “Who’re you calling?”

“The FBI.”

Chapter 17

Daniel Ott sat in a trucking office in Queens. This was his new assignment. He could not have been in higher spirits. It was a common state after completing one of his rituals. He was confident he wasn’t on any police agency’s radar. The fact that he never got too cocky kept him grounded in reality. Taunting the police by mixing a trail of fresh blood with cold-case evidence had become an increasingly important part of his urge.

Police officers weren’t stupid. They had resources. But Ott had nothing to fear here in New York City, where the police were shackled by a mountain of rules when dealing with citizens.

He still reveled in the last waves of pleasure over what he’d done to Elaine, the intern. He’d never forget the look on her face when the screwdriver annihilated her nervous system. It had been as satisfying as anything he’d ever experienced. Maybe the births of his daughters had felt slightly better. But it was close.

He chuckled when he thought about the blood he’d sprinkled across the bobbleheads at Elaine’s apartment. If the police believed there was more than one victim, but only one body present at the scene, they would be running in circles. At least for a while.

Ott wished he was home. He was usually more clearheaded and more focused on his family after he found a release for his fantasies. For now, he’d have to focus on work.

The new assignment looked interesting. The trucking company used radios as well as cell phones, and he would integrate them with one computer system. It was exactly the kind of issue Computelex’s software was designed to handle. So far, management was no-nonsense. He’d worked a lot of places, and this company actually did something. It shipped goods locally and throughout the Northeast. Got results. Not like the insurance companies or medical billing agencies that provided soft services. Electronic paperwork. It seemed like this would be an easy two-week assignment.

The software finished loading, and Ott took out a sticker. Computelex required him to slap the company logo onto any computer he worked on. The two-and-a-half-inch circle showed the company name in blue beneath a smiling, anthropomorphic computer screen with two arms, one holding a telephone, the other a radio.

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