“Definitely,” Erdham said and his eyes lit up behind his glasses like a little kid’s looking at birthday candles. “But he’s pretty damn smart, too. He didn’t go for big changes which would alarm his probation officer or a landlord. Except for the hair,” he said hurriedly, “and anyone would understand that. Instead, he went for subtle cosmetic changes. You could run this current photo through a computer, and unless you knew exactly what you were looking for, it might not match up with any of those prison photos.”
The RV tipped a bit as we made the turn onto 93 in Braintree, and Bolton and I palmed the roof for a moment.
“If he thought that far ahead,” I said, “then he knew we’d end up looking for him or at least for someone who looked like that.” I pointed at the computer screen.
“Absolutely,” Erdham said.
“So,” Bolton said, “he’s assuming he’ll be caught.”
“Seems to be the case,” Erdham said. “Why else would he duplicate some of Hardiman’s murders?”
“He knows he’ll be caught,” I said, “and he doesn’t care.”
“Might be even worse than that,” Erdham said. “Maybe he even wants to be caught, which means all these deaths are some sort of message, and he’s going to keep killing until we figure out what it is.”
“Sergeant Amronklin told me some interesting things while you were on the phone with Arujo’s probie.”
The RV turned off 93 at Haymarket and again Bolton and I had to push against the roof to maintain balance.
“Such as.”
“He caught up with Kara Rider’s roommate in New York. Ms. Rider met a fellow actor in a class three months ago. He said he was from Long Island, only made it into Manhattan once a week for this class.” He looked at me. “Guess.”
“The guy had a goatee.”
He nodded. “Went by the name Evan Hardiman. Like that? Ms. Rider’s roommate also said, and I’m quoting here, ‘He was the most sensual man who ever walked the earth.’”
“Sensual,” I said.
He grimaced. “She’s, you know, dramatic.”
“What else did she say?”
“She said Kara said he was the best fuck she’d ever had. ‘The be-all and end-all’ was how she described it.”
“She got the end all right.”
“I want a psych profile immediately,” Bolton said as we rode up in the elevator. “I want to know everything about Arujo from the moment they snipped his umbilical to now.”
“Got it,” Fields said.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I want the same list we ran on Hardiman, cross-reference everyone who ever came in contact with Arujo while he was in prison and have an agent at every one of their doorsteps by tomorrow morning.”
“Got it.” Fields scribbled furiously in his pad.
“Agents sitting on his parents’ house if they’re still alive,” Bolton said, taking off his coat and breathing heavily. “Shit, even if they’re not. Agents on the homes of every girlfriend or boyfriend he ever had, on any friends he’s had, any girls or boys who ever spurned his advances.”
“That’s a lot of manpower,” Erdham said.
Bolton shrugged. “Minuscule compared to what Waco cost this government and we might actually win here. I want recanvasses of all crime scenes, fresh interviews of every BPD slug who touched them before we came on the scene. I want all principals on Kenzie’s list”—he ticked off on his fingers—“Hurlihy, Rouse, Constantine, Pine, Timpson, Diandra Warren, Glynn, Gault—reinterviewed and extensive, no, exhaustive checks run on their backgrounds to see if they ever crossed paths with Arujo.” He reached into his breast pocket for his inhaler as the elevator came to a stop. “Got it? Get to it.”
The doors opened and he charged out, sucking audibly on the inhaler.
Behind me, Field asked Erdham, “‘Exhaustive’—is that spelled with one dick or two?”
“Two,” Erdham said. “But they’re both pretty small.”
Bolton loosened his tie until the knot hung at his sternum and dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk.
“Close the door behind you,” he said.
I did. His face was deep pink, his breathing ragged.
“You okay?”
“Never better. Tell me about your father.”
I took a seat. “Nothing to tell. I think Hardiman was reaching, trying to rattle me with bullshit.”
“I don’t,” he said and took a small hit off his inhaler. “You three had your back to him when he said it, but I was watching him on film. He looked like he blew a load when he said your father was a yellow jacket, like he’d been saving it for maximum impact.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You had a cowlick when you were younger, didn’t you?”
“A lot of kids did.”
“A lot of kids didn’t grow up to have their presence requested by a serial killer.”
I held up a hand, nodded. “I had a cowlick, Agent Bolton. Usually only noticeable if I’d been sweating a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because I was vain, I guess. I put shit in my hair to keep it down usually.”
He nodded. “He knew you.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Agent Bolton. I’ve never seen the guy before.”
Another nod. “Tell me about your father. You know I’ve already got people researching him.”
“I assumed as much.”
“What was he like?”
“He was an asshole who enjoyed inflicting pain, Bolton. And I don’t like talking about him.”
“And I’m sorry,” he said, “but your personal qualms mean nothing to me right now. I’m trying to bring Arujo down and stop the bloodshed—”
“And get a nifty promotion out of the deal.”
He raised an eyebrow and nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. Bank on it. I don’t know any of these victims, Mr. Kenzie, and in a general sense, I don’t want any human beings to die. Ever. But in a particular sense, I feel nothing for these individuals. And I’m not paid to. I’m paid to bring down guys like this Arujo, and that’s what I’m doing. And if by doing so, I advance my career, then isn’t it a perfect world?” His tiny eyes dilated. “Tell me about your father.”
“He was a lieutenant with the Boston Fire Department most of his life. Later, he switched to local politics, became a city councilor. Not long after that, he got lung cancer and died.”