Chief Champlin held a news conference, hoping to ease some of the intense media pressure. He explained that there wasn’t a lot of information he could give them, because of the ongoing investigations. But logic was a useless weapon; it didn’t satisfy the voracious appetite for facts, for stories, for airtime and column space. It didn’t sell newspapers or jack up the ratings numbers. The reporters wanted juicy, gory, frightening details, and were frustrated when none were forthcoming.
Carroll Janes watched the news programs and read the newspapers, and smiled with satisfaction. The police couldn’t give the media much information because they didn’t have much. The stupid saps were overmatched, just as all the others had been. He was too smart for them to catch—ever.
18
ALL IN ALL, CARROLL JANES WAS PLEASED WITH THE FRENZY. Just two punishments, and look how he had taken over as top story. Of course, he would have to take back his insulting thoughts about the Orlando PD; they weren’t as stupid as he had feared. Though the second punishment had been rather obvious, a lot of departments wouldn’t have made the connection between the two, for after all, he had left the fingers intact on the second one. It had irritated him when the Vinick bitch had scratched him and he had been obligated to go to the extra trouble of removing her fingers and disposing of them, but at least fingers were small and easy to get rid of. Dogs had no trouble with them at all, and the tiny bones, if any remained, were unidentifiable.
There was no way the cops could catch him, but at least they knew about him; it added an extra fillip to the process. It was nice to be appreciated, rather like the difference between an actor performing in an empty theater and one performing before an awestruck, standing-room-only crowd. He enjoyed the details so much more, knowing that the police would be amazed at his intelligence, his inventiveness, his absolute perfection, even while they cursed it. How gratifying it was to know one’s opponents were properly respectful of one’s talents.
He had been frustrated in his attempt to find another transgressor, for experimental purposes, but Janes considered himself a patient man. What would be, would be. It would be cheating to rush things; it would take away from the power of the moment. He had been more content since the news had broken, for of course, it was always exhilarating to read about oneself, to be the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips. Even Annette, at work, had talked of little else. She had told him about all the elaborate precautions she was taking, as if he would ever be challenged by her, the little sow. But it amused him to commiserate with her, to feed her fear and drive her to even more ridiculous safety measures. She refused to even walk to her car by herself, as if he had ever dragged anyone off the streets. How pedestrian that was—he chuckled at his own wit—when the real challenge was to take them in their own homes, where they felt safest.
Annette was at lunch on Wednesday when a tall, buxom brunette sailed up to the counter, her face tight with anger. “I want to speak to someone about the service in this store,” she snapped.
Janes gave her his best smile. “May I be of assistance, ma’am?”
The crux of the problem was that she was on her lunch hour and had stood for fifteen minutes in the clothing department trying to get someone to exchange a blouse for her. She still hadn’t been waited on, and now she wouldn’t have time to eat lunch. Janes controlled a thrill of anticipation as she ranted on, fury in every line of her body.
“I’ll call the clothing department and make certain you’re taken care of immediately,” he said. “Your name is …?”
“Farley,” she said. “Joyce Farley.”
He glanced at her hands. No wedding ring. “Do you have an account with us, Miss Farley?”
“That’s Ms. Farley,” she snapped. “What difference does that make? Does a customer have to have a charge account before this store is interested in her?”
“Not at all,” he said politely. It was simply easier to get vital information if she was in the computer bank. She was one of those prickly, man-hating feminists. The anticipation grew stronger; he would enjoy punishing her. He slid a form toward her. “If you don’t mind, would you fill out this complaint form? We like to follow through on all complaints, and make certain the customer is satisfied with our action.”
“I really don’t have time for this. I’m going to be late back to work already.”
“Then just your name and address will do. I’ll pencil in the details myself.”
Hastily she scribbled her name and address at the top of the form while he phoned the clothing department and spoke with the head clerk. He smiled again as he hung up. “Mrs. Washburn will be waiting personally to make the exchange.”
“This shouldn’t have been necessary.”
“I completely agree.” He slid the form off the top of the counter.
She turned to go, took a step, then abruptly stopped and turned back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a terrible headache and I’m angry, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It wasn’t your fault, and you’ve done everything you can to help me. I apologize for being so nasty to you.”
He was so taken aback that it was a moment before he could say, “Think nothing of it. I’m glad I could be of service.” Conventional reply, one that was mouthed thousands of times a day by thousands of bored salespeople, because it would mean their jobs if they said what they really wanted to say. Ms. Farley gave him a brief, hesitant smile and walked away.