Frenzy

He could feel the familiar stirring in the very core of his being when he thought about Weaver. Questioning her would be such a pleasure! He simply had to learn a little more about her, so he’d know when she was most vulnerable. Then he’d do what he was best at, and she’d respond as they all did. She’d know who he was, what he was, and resistance would run out of her. They all came to a certain point—and early in the process—when they understood that they were already dead. This time he’d be the victor. Fate couldn’t be resisted, so why try? Fate was the trickster and the sly ally of their inquisitor.

That was what Qui

The killer had signaled to Qui

There was little doubt that Helen Iman, the profiler working for Q&A, would be telling Qui

What did she know about fate?

As the killer mused about the events that had led him to where he sat in his parked car, observing his next victim, he marveled again at fate. Fate was responsible for everything that had happened since his return to New York. Fate was the architect of it all.

Maybe Helen the profiler would figure that out using the process of elimination.

If not fate, it had to have been Michelangelo.

Yes! Michelangelo!

Surely he was on the cops’ suspect list!

The killer laughed so hard he began pounding the steering wheel.

Then he stopped and glanced about. He didn’t want people to notice and wonder.

Not that they’d believe the truths that he’d been told.

65

If there was anyone on this earth Helen the profiler felt contempt for, it was the actively curious, self-serving, double-crossing, viciously ambitious, aggressively charming Mi

But here she was.

Not only that, but a certain part of her had actually warmed to the task.

They’d consulted with Helen on what she should say that would increase the pressure on the killer. And they listened closely to her opinions and suggestions. Both men, to their credit, deferred to her expertise.

Helen was sure the killer felt that he was near the precipice. If she could contribute pushing him over into the void, she’d be glad to do so. Even if it meant dealing again with Mi

So Helen found herself seated in one of the two comfortable chairs that were angled toward a small table and microphone. The chairs were much more worn and stained than they appeared on TV. Some of it was wear. Some of it was perspiration created when Mi

A camera moved smoothly closer to Helen, its bulging eye aimed at her face. Another camera glided in for a three-quarter shot of Mi

Mi

When the studio was silent, she said, “My guest today is a famous profiler. When I say that, I don’t mean she’s a painter or photographer. For those of you left on this planet who don’t know what a police profiler does, it’s very interesting and necessary work. She’s more interested in what goes on in a criminal’s mind than in what he looks like. She’s a psychological profiler for law enforcement agencies, and she, maybe more than anybody other than his mother—if she’s still alive—knows how the D.O.A. killer thinks. She’s trained to know what goes on in his sick mind, how to walk with him along the corridors of his madness. What he feels. Why he does what he does. What he might do in the future.” Mi

The applause was loud, and genuinely enthusiastic this time. Helen had to admit that it made her feel good. Though she’d thought she was immune to the disease of celebrity, so many hands clapping for her brought a smile to her face. She wondered now if she should have worn something more formal than her blue sweats and joggers.

Helen waited for Mi

But Mi

That was okay. Helen knew how to wait.

“So if Qui

“He wasn’t chosen by the commissioner. He was chosen by the killer.”

Uh-oh! This one is dangerous. Instead of being knocked off balance by the opening question, she had counterpunched.

Mi

Small talk. “Corny as it sounds,” Helen said, “I want to fight crime. The way I can best contribute is to bring my knowledge of psychology and irredeemable criminal behavior to bear.”

Mi

“Among other sorts of criminals, yes.”

Mi

Helen almost choked. “I think such a killer is evil, and ca

“Surely this isn’t true of all killers,” Mi

“Not much is true of all of anything.”

Mi

“Of course I do. He might well have another side that he shows people, but the killer in him is always just below the surface.”

“Satan?” Just a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

“If you like,” Helen said. Let the sick creep think he might be Beelzebub. She leaned closer to her microphone, not taking over the conversation, but nudging it the way she wanted it to go. “I also think there’s something about those killers who are genuinely evil. The pressure of what they’ve done builds and builds in them. Every one of them eventually breaks.”

“So you think this killer is feeling the pressure?”

“Yes. And he’s about to break.”

“Break?”

“Come unglued.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am. I’ve seen this kind of killer before. He’s in the powerful grip of a mental illness, and he’s wrestling with himself.”

“But hasn’t he been from the begi

“Because now he wants to break,” Helen said. “He needs to be stopped. He knows that, and in an odd kind of way, he’ll cooperate in his downfall.”