Imitation in Death

He sat back again. “Well, I could give you a lot of jive about how studying the killer and the muck he wades in gives society insight into how and why. And understanding, information, is power against fear. It would be true,” he added with his quick and boyish smile. “But on another level entirely, it’s just fun. I’ve been into it since I was a kid.Jack the Ripper was the big one for me. I read everything about him, watched every vid ever produced, surfed the web sites, made up stories where I was a cop back then and tracked him down. Along the way I expanded, studied up on profiling and types, the steps and the stages-you know, trolling, hunting, the rush and the kill.”

He shrugged now. “I went through a phase where I thought I’d be a cop, chase the bad guys. But I got over that one. Considered going into psychology, but it just didn’t suit me. What I really wanted to do was write, and that’s what I was good at. So I write about my lifelong interest.”

“I hear some writers need to experience the subject they’re writing about. Need that hands-on approach before they can put it down in words.”

Amusement bloomed on his face. “So, you’re asking if I’ve gone out and carved up a couple of street LCs in the name of research?” His laughter rolled out, then stopped, like a wave hitting a wall asEve only continued to watch him.

He blinked, several times, then swallowed audibly. “Holy shit, you really are. I’m a suspect?” The healthy color in his face had drained away to leave it pale and shiny. “For real?”

“I’d like to know where you were on September second, betweenmidnight and three A. M.”

“I was home, probably. I don’t…” He lifted both hands, rubbed the sides of his head. “Man, my brain’s gone fuzzy. I figured you wanted me to consult. Was pretty juiced about it. Ah… I was here. Jule-Julietta, my wife-had a late meeting, and didn’t get home until about ten. She was whipped and went straight up to bed. I put in some writing time. WithJed, the only time the house is really quiet is the middle of the night. I worked until one, maybe a little after. I can check my disc log.”

He opened drawers in his workstation, began to root around. “I, ah,Jesus, did the man-of-the-house routine. I go through it every night before I turn in. Check the security, make sure everything’s locked up. Look in onJed. That’s it.”

“How about Sunday morning?”

“This Sunday?” He glanced up, over. “My wife got up withJed.”

He paused, andEve could see the change taking place. The shock was ebbing and the interest, the enjoyment, even the pride in being considered a murder subject was rolling in.

“Most Sundays I sleep in and she takes over. She doesn’t get as much one-on-one time with him as I do. She took him to the park. They go out early and have a picnic breakfast if the weather’s good.Jed loves that. I didn’t surface till close tonoon. What’s Sunday? I’m not following…”

Then he did. She could see it click. “The woman who was found strangled in her apartment on Sunday. Middle-aged woman, living alone. Sexual assault and strangulation.”

His eyes were narrowed now, his color back. “The media reports were sketchy, but strangulation and sexual assault, that’s not Ripper style. An older woman, at home in her apartment, that’s not Ripper style either. What’s the co

At Eve’s steady stare, he scooted forward in the chair. “Listen, if I’m moonlighting as a killer, I already know so you won’t be telling me anything. If I’m just an expert on serial killers, giving me some details might let me help. Either way, how can you lose?”

She’d already decided what she would and wouldn’t tell him, but held his gaze another moment. “The sash of the victim’s lounge robe was used as the murder weapon, and tied in a bow under the chin.”

“BostonStrangler. That was his signature.” He snapped his fingers, and began to push through the piles of discs and files on his desk. “I’ve got considerable notes on him. Wow. You’ve got two killers imitating the famous? Teamwork, like Leopold andLoeb? Or…” He paused, took a long breath. “Not two, just one. One killer working his way down a list of his heroes. That’s why you’re looking at me. You’re wondering if the people I write about are heroes to me, and if I’m mixing up my work and my life. If I want to be one of them.”

He pushed to his feet, pacing with what looked toEve to be energy rather than nerves. “This is fucking amazing. He’s probably read my books. That’s sort of creepy, but icy in a strange way, too. DeSalvo, DeSalvo. Different type fromJack,” Breen mumbled. “Blue collar, family man, a sad sap.Jack was probably educated, likely a member of the upper class.”

“If the information I just gave you finds its way to the media, I’ll know where it came from.”Eve paused until Breen stopped pacing and looked at her. “I’ll make your life hell.”

“Why would I give it to the media, and let somebody write about it first?” He sat again. “This has bestseller written all over it. I know that sounds cold, but in my line of work I have to be as detached as you do in yours. I’ll help however I can. I’ve got mountains of research and data accumulated on every major serial killer since the Ripper started it all, and a few interesting minor ones. I’ll make it all available to you, pitch in as a civilian consultant, and waive the fee. And when it’s over, I’ll write it.”

“I’ll think about it.”Eve got to her feet. And saw, under the mess he’d made of his desk, a box of cream-colored stationery.

“Fancy writing paper,” she commented, stepping over to pick up the box.

“Hmm? Oh yeah. I use it when I want to impress somebody.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes flashed to his like lasers. “Who did you want to impress lately?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I think I used it a couple weeks ago when I sent what my dad always called a bread-and-butter note to my publisher. A thanks for a di

“Where’d you get it? The paper?”

“Jule must’ve bought it. No, wait.” He rose himself, looking baffled as he took the box fromEve. “That’s not right. It was a gift. Sure, I remember now. Came through my publisher with a fan letter. Readers send stuff all the time.”

“A token from a reader, to the tune of about five hundred dollars?”

“You’re kidding! Five hundred. Wow.” He was watchingEve more carefully now as he set the box back on his desk. “I should be more careful with it.”

“I’ll want a sample of that paper,Mr.Breen. It matches the type left at both homicides I’m investigating.”

“This is just too fucking weird.” He sat, heavily. “Take it.” Several emotions seemed to run across his face as he scooped a hand through his luxurious hair. “He knows about me. He’s read my stuff. What the hell did the note say? I can’t remember, just something about how he appreciated my work, my attention to detail or something like that, and my-what-enthusiasm for the subject.”

“Do you have the note?”

“No, I wouldn’t keep it. I answer some of the mail personally, have a droid do the bulk. If it’s snail mail, we recycle the paper after it’s answered. He’s using my work as research, don’t you think? That’s horrible, and really flattering at the same time.”

Evepassed one of the sheets and envelopes toPeabody to seal into evidence. “Give him a receipt for it,” she ordered. “I wouldn’t be flattered if I were you, Mr. Breen. This isn’t research, or words in a discbook.”

“I’m part of it now. Not just an observer this time, but part of something I’ll write about.”

She could see he was more pleased than appalled.

“I plan to stop him, and soon,Mr.Breen. Things go my way, you’re not going to have much of a book.”

“I don’t know what to think about him,”Peabody said when they were outside. She turned back, studied the house and imagined the good-looking Breen swinging his handsome son onto his shoulders and taking him to the park to play. And dreaming of fame and fortune written in blood. “The stationery was right out of the blue. He didn’t try to hide it.”