Page 60 of Return of the Spider
I theorized that this seemed like an escalation, that the killer had probably enjoyed strangling Brenda Miles more than he had the close-range shootings. It likely excited him, sent his adrenaline surging.
“You described him earlier as brazen, Detective,” I went on. “But unless he’s an out-and-out homicidal maniac, he’s a thinker and a thorough planner, and that’s what allows him to act so brazenly.”
She crossed her arms. “Explain.”
“Think about it. Whether or not our guy personally knew Brenda Miles, he clearly knew how real estate open houses worked. The choice to come in at the last minute, dressed as a workman, carrying the toolbox? He had reason to believe that approach would allow him to get close to the victim.”
“At least get him in the door,” Sampson agreed. “But how’d he know she’d be solo?”
“No clue. But, and I’m speculating here, he could have just taken a chance that she’d be alone. Or he could have scouted the place, watched her earlier in the day.”
Angelis asked, “What does he get out of this?”
“Aside from the rush? He’s living out his fantasies, certainly. Maybe he became fixated on the Son of Sam murders and decided to copy them. And then he wanted a more intimate experience and picked up the rope.”
“Assuming it is the same van and the same driver,” Sampson said, “why did he leave the scene so quickly when there was still some daylight? Do you think hewantedto be seen?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he is completely unstable and does not care,” I said.
Angelis shook her head. “This guy cared. Sounds like he was intentionally hiding his face. Witnesses said he was carrying the toolbox up on his right shoulder and holding his left arm and hand across the other side, like he was shielding himself from the headlight glare. Totally blocked anyone’s view of his face.”
Sampson said, “So maybe he wanted to be partially seen leaving the house, crossing the street to the van, and driving away fast. What’s the motivation for that?”
Sampson was looking at me. I threw up my hands. “Even with my doctorate in the psychology of criminal minds, John, I have no good answer for that.”
CHAPTER
47
Within minutes of meetingCharles Pendleton Little, Gary Soneji pegged him as one of those scrubbed, preening, and entitled guys he used to see walking around Princeton when he was growing up, young men of practiced cheer and false camaraderie, the sort who threw around references to their pedigrees, education, and wealth as proof of their innate superiority.
“My ancestors were among the first Jamestown colonists,” the headmaster of the Washington Day School told Soneji, settling into a leather chair behind a neatly organized desk in his office. “Six generations of my family have attended William and Mary, my alma mater. I’m blessed to have that kind of tradition and history behind me, despite not following my father or brother into the family banking business. I believe, however, that my background has given me a uniqueperspective on the value of constancy, rigor, and growth, all of which are at the heart of the Washington Day School experience and tradition.”
Soneji had sailed through an initial interview with a vice principal, reveling in openly using his Gary Soneji pseudonym for the first time while honing a somewhat nerdy but affable persona, like Peter O’Toole’s beloved Mr. Chips from the old film.
Wearing the toupee with the bald spot, the facial prosthetics, the green contact lenses, and the English-schoolboy glasses—a look that aged him by at least ten years—Soneji brightened. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Little. And this school is remarkable. I would be thrilled to be a part of the faculty here,” he said. After purposely hesitating, he added, “Though it’s only fair for me to let you know that I’m also interviewing at other high-caliber schools in the area.”
Soneji saw the light of competition spark in Little’s eyes.Gotcha.He demurred politely when the headmaster pressed for more details, feigning embarrassment for even bringing up the specter of a counteroffer.
A trim man in his fifties with a full head of silver hair slicked back, Little reminded Soneji of one of those bronzed Ralph Lauren male models of a certain age, instantly at home on a golf course or on a tennis court or in Bimini, the kind of guy who breezes through life with nary a whisper of effort. He was unused to being denied once he decided to acquire something.
After some persuasive back-and-forth—in which Soneji manipulated the headmaster into increasing his pay and decreasing his hours—they came to an agreement, with Soneji agreeing to decline his other (fictitious) offers.
“Excellent,” Little said, pushing a piece of paper across the desk. “Now, I’m sure you are aware that among our student bodyare children whose parents are politically powerful, titans of finance, or celebrities.”
“I am,” Soneji said, feeling a little rush.
“That’s a nondisclosure agreement barring you from ever talking publicly about the students, with significant penalties if the contract is broken. Please date and sign, and I’ll take you on a little tour and introduce you to Mrs. Ravisky, whom you’ll be substituting for when she goes on maternity leave.”
Soneji scanned the document and signed it. He had no issue with keeping the students’ private lives private.
“Well, Mr. Soneji,” Little said, taking the paper and extending his hand, “welcome to the Washington Day family. You’ll be here Tuesdays and Thursdays starting this Thursday, with a full schedule of classes.”
With his best country-club grin, Soneji pumped the headmaster’s hand. “I’m delighted.”
Little led him on a tour of the facilities, which covered almost four acres in Georgetown, a campus of brick buildings, green lawns, and stately elms. As they walked, Headmaster Little praised Washington Day’s excellent academics, athletics, art, and theater.
A bell rang as they entered one of the larger buildings that Little said held classrooms for grades nine through twelve. With the sea of students suddenly surging around them, Soneji tried to pay attention to all that Little was saying, but he found himself glancing at various teens, wondering who their parents were and whether they were famous.
