“Great.” Margot takes another drag.
“Thrill, lust, power…it made them feel good.”
“But this can’t be just about that,” Elsie argues. “If it was just forthe thrill, surely he’d do it indiscriminately, kill when the chance presents itself, something knee-jerk to satisfy an urge.”
“Mm-hmm,” Margot agrees. “Get in and get out.”
“There has to be more to this, because the details are so specific,” continues Elsie. “I don’t think any of our husbands thought as much about the people they were killing or the optics of it all as this guy does.”
“They certainly weren’t as coordinated.” Bev leans in, lowers her voice. “Henry used different weapons, but I don’t think that was intentional. He just used whatever he could find. I think it was more about the urge to kill for him.” Her heart has picked up pace; it always does when she confronts the ugly reality of Henry’s crimes.
“The fire poker.” Margot nods gently.
“Albert got lazy with his, I think.” Elsie tilts her head. “He must have spent a long time working out how to cover his tracks, how to get rid of everything, how not to get caught, until he…” She trails off. Beverley knows she’s talking about the body that was found at Elsie and Albert’s house, in the crawl space—Lucy Glass, one of his students. He’d followed her into an alleyway with a rope.
“So, with this guy, there’s amessagehe’s trying to send, along with whatever he derives from killing. Otherwise, why bother with the details? They must have taken planning—particular weapons, places, words, even clothing. But why?”
The women look at one another, stumped.
“What about famous murderers?” Margot offers. “Lee Harvey Oswald—why’d he do it?”
“Lee Harvey Oswald was a schizophrenic,” says Elsie plainly.
“Was he, though?” asks Beverley. “I thought he was just an egomaniac.”
“That’s if JFK is even really dead.” Margot holds her hands up as if confronted by evidence she can’t contest. “I’m just saying…”
“For Christ’s sake, Margot, tell me you did not just say that.” Elsie turns in her seat so her body is faced away from Margot, who takes an extra-long drag on her cigarette.
“Okay,” Elsie continues after a while, shifting stubbornly back to the table. “So, he’s most likely a man in his mid-thirties, white, who has access to a car and is physically mobile.” She looks at the notes they’ve made. “He may have an interest in cults or some sort of religious affinity, and his killings have a ritualistic quality, a bit like the Boston Strangler’s. He’s probably not killing for money, given his victims’ profiles, and I’d question whether it’s for pleasure or other emotional reasons, too—anger, lust. I think it’s something different.”
“An abnormal motive,” Bev adds.
“Abnormal?” Elsie asks.
“The motive for his killing is obscure, not normal.”
“Is it ever normal?” Margot drains her glass.
“All right. Abnormal motive,” Elsie says. “And we have reason to believe he lives or works within striking distance of the 101.”
“A white guy with a car.” Margot sighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at this stuff, Elsie?” She taps the table. “Like puzzles or whatever. Are there rules for solving them?”
“Always start with the obvious,” Elsie answers flatly.
“Well, as I’ve said, he’sobviouslya lunatic.”
“There’s other stuff we should be looking for.” Beverley knows they’re all frustrated, but surely they can do better. “Stuff we won’t find in the books or the papers, but thingsweknow, like behavioral signs. Did you notice anything strange about Albert and Stephen in the run-up to their crimes? Because Henry could be…” Beverley falters. It’s hard for her to admit, but she still feels an unsettling guilt when she talks this way about Henry—as if she’s betraying him. She knows no one, not even Margot and Elsie, would ever understandwhat it’s like to feel that they were married to two different people, to feel that they had a past with a good man—a great father, a hard worker, a friend—but that he simply went away, and in his place: an impostor who brought the world around him crashing down.
“Go on,” Elsie prompts.
Beverley takes a breath. “He could be very controlling.”
“I love you, Bev, but that’s hardly a newsflash,” Margot says gently.
“It got worse,” she adds, “periodically, like in a cycle.”
“What do you mean?”
