‘She was right there, legs facing the door, head propped up on two pillows,’ Eddie said, pointing at the stained carpet.

‘He posed her for maximum shock and humiliation.’

‘Her mother’s not recovered,’ said Eddie. ‘I interviewed her twice. She’s bad, Harps.’

‘I imagine,’ said Harper, moving through the apartment. ‘How did he get in?’

‘He had a key or she let him in. No sign of forced entry.’

‘You mean you don’t know yet?’

‘He gets in and out without being seen. The only witness we got on this one is dead. I don’t think anyone’s come up with anything more yet.’

Harper walked through the beautifully furnished rooms. The trail of blood ran from the hall into the living room. The windows looked out across Fifth Avenue. ‘What do you think happened?’

Eddie shrugged. ‘He took her in here. We think he raped her on the couch. They found seminal fluid on the cushions. He wasn’t careful with this one. Left us his DNA, but so far no hits on CODIS and if he’s not on any DNA database then he might not have killed before.’

‘What next?’

‘He strangled her, went to the kitchen to find a knife, came back and took his trophy. After that, we think he sat staring at her for some time before he moved the body. Medical Examiner thinks she was lying in that spot in the living room for a good half an hour.’

Harper wandered around the room. ‘Two things are different here. I saw the report. The knife he used was from the rack in the kitchen, right?’ Eddie nodded. ‘He didn’t have a knife with him. The second thing that’s different is that he left his DNA and fibres all over this one. Amy and Grace were cleaned. I think he took their clothes to be sure, but he left Mary-Jane’s on the floor.’ Harper looked closely at the carpet. ‘Any tripod marks?’

‘No. But Mr Samuelson’s camcorder was missing.’

‘She didn’t struggle at all, did she? There’s not a thing out of place. My guess is that he controls them with fear and promises. He promises that he’ll let her go so she does what he wants. He either has them out cold or he controls them. I guess he felt safe with Mary-Jane because she was younger.’

‘Yeah, that’s too true.’

‘What I don’t get is why he goes for such high risk targets. It’s strange for a killer to start so confidently. He seems fearless. He takes big risks to kill the most difficult victims. Why? What’s so important about their wealth and privilege?’

‘Jealousy?’ said Kasper.

Harper shook his head. ‘It’s more than that.’ He had read the department reports and autopsy protocols on the first two murders and was convinced that the killer was an organized type of sociopath. He not only had a personal vendetta, he had a thing against society in general. He most likely chose these girls because their deaths caused maximum fear and maximum national heartbreak. Killers usually chose their victims from within their own social strata, but Harper couldn’t see it in this case. There was punishment going on here. And then the strange confessional poses and blossom. The poses that suggested the killer didn’t feel like he had the right to do what he’d done. He seemed to show remorse.

Harper spent an hour walking through each room, piecing together the last few minutes of Mary-Jane’s life. ‘All three kills show confidence and hatred,’ he told Eddie as they left. ‘There’s an increasing degree of overkill. In all cases, the killer posed the corpses and took a trophy, and he sprinkled cherry blossom like confetti over the first two. Why is that?’

‘He’s a fucking mental case. That’s the only explanation you ever gonna get from me.’

‘Yeah, he’s crazy, but he took time to shift each body to expose them. He wants to degrade them - to hide their faces and expose them as if he was suggesting that that was all they were worth. I know they were all wealthy, but if you want my opinion, I think this is personal. He sees something in these girls that no one else sees.’

Chapter Twelve

One PP

November 17, 10.00 a.m.

A couple of hours after walking the crime scene, Tom Harper left Eddie Kasper to talk to the profilers at the FBI’s New York field office. Later he arrived right on time for his appointment at One PP. He knocked on the fake mahogany door of the suite on the fifth floor. The little brass sign read Dr Denise Levene, Ph.D.

On the wall hung a little certificate: Dr Denise Levene, a fellow of the American Psychological Association, was honored as Distinguished Psychologist of the Year in 2003-4 for her pioneering contributions in cognitive behavioral psychotherapy.

A warm voice from inside the office shouted, ‘Come in.’ Harper did as he was told. He had to these days. He pushed the heavy door across the thick carpet and stepped inside.

There she was, Dr Denise Levene, sitting in a high-backed black leather chair in a white blouse, writing in her desk diary.

Harper stood in the entrance and waited for her to look up. She didn’t. It gave him a second or two to run his eyes over her. Blond hair. He hadn’t expected that. Young, too. She had a petite frame. Then she looked up and a pair of bright blue eyes held his gaze directly. She was pretty, for a shrink.

‘Welcome. Take a seat,’ she said.

Harper remained standing.

‘Take a seat, please,’ she said and smiled, all nice and accommodating.

‘Look, if you’re going to get all hooked on me, why don’t you just say something now and we can end this.’

She didn’t blink. Good on her.

‘Take a seat, Harper.’ She was forceful now.

He stood his ground, unsure how to play this one. Levene leaned back in her leather chair and chewed the end of her pen. ‘I get it. I’m blonde. I’m a woman. I’ve got letters after my name. You don’t know what to do with me, do you, Mr Harper?’

‘It’s Detective Harper,’ said Tom, flexing the muscles in his shoulders.

‘Not according to your file, cowboy. Not unless I agree you’re fit for duty. Officially, you’re still on suspension.’

Harper sighed. She was a smart-ass. Just what he needed. A curt little city girl with an answer for everything. ‘All right, let’s get this over with,’ he said, moving into the room and sitting reluctantly on a wide brown couch. He was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. After he’d hit Jarvis the first time, they had made him sit through sessions with some tight-faced therapist who responded to every remark with ‘Well, that’s good. So gooood.’ He’d ended up blaming the therapist for destroying his career. Too much thought can kill you as surely as too little.

Levene tipped further back in her chair. She studied Tom for a moment, unafraid of his negativity or of the silence. She was trying to get some angle. Tom felt her eyes on him and he lifted his head and stared back. She was confident. Dealt with his type before, maybe. Knew the road.

‘Let’s get some shit out of the way first,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to be here. Fine. I can read you like a book. You need to display your cynicism and negativity because you feel threatened in here. I understand that. But you don’t need to feel threatened. I’m here to help.’

‘I don’t feel threatened. You’re way off the mark.’

‘Not physically threatened, Detective. I mean emotionally threatened.’

‘Well, what do you expect? They didn’t teach us the moves to deal with an emotional attack at the academy.’

‘I like your sense of humour, Detective, but it’s just another way of deflecting the blows.’

‘I’m not afraid, Doctor. I’m just pissed off that you’re wasting my time.’

‘You don’t think this will help? Fine with me. You just want your shield and minimum fuss. Fine also. I’m not that interested in you, to tell the truth. I’ve worked with enough guys like you to know that I’d be wasting my time too.’