“Because you're gay? You don't believe that and neither do I. Policemen are like anyone else: a few genuine idiots at the bottom, equally few high achievers, the mediocre majority.”

“You a high achiever?”

“That's not for me to say.”

“Any more ideas about this case?”

“My instincts tell me the defective angle should be looked into, as well as the racial angle because all three victims were non-Anglo. But maybe that's because my case had racial aspects. I need to make sure my limited experience doesn't narrow my perspective.”

“Maybe it's your destiny to deal with racist killers,” said Milo. “Your karma, or whatever equivalent you've got in your religion.”

“Mazal,” said Sharavi. “Have you heard the expression mazal tov?”

“This ain't Kansas, Superintendent.”

Sharavi smiled. “How about Daniel?”

“Okay. I know what mazal tov is, Daniel. Good luck.”

“Yes, but mazal's not really luck,” said Sharavi. “It's fate- like karma. Rooted in astrology. A zodiac sign is a mazal. Yemenite Jews have a strong astrological tradition. Not that I believe in any of that. To me it boils down to hard work and what God wants you to do.”

“God wants you on the case?”

Sharavi shrugged. “I'm here.”

“Must be nice to have faith,” said Milo.

Sharavi wheeled the chair away from the desk, raised his arm, and let the bad hand flop on the headrest. “One way or the other I have to work the Carmeli case, Milo. Will you let me do it with you rather than at cross-purposes?”

“Hey,” said Milo, “far be it from me to argue with God.”

26

Milo and I stayed at Sharavi's house until after three, wearily establishing a division of labor:

Milo would drive to Newton Division, photograph Raymond Ortiz's shoes, and record the evidence in the growing case file. Then, back on the phone, to search for additional DVLL crimes.

Sharavi would use his computers to scan every available data bank for the same.

“Something else,” he said. “I could contact experts on crime against the handicapped. All over the world.”

“Didn't know there were experts on that,” said Milo.

“There may not be, but there are specialists in neo-Nazism, racism, that kind of thing.”

“You think this is political?”

“Not per se,” said Sharavi, “but the notion of eliminating the weak comes from somewhere. Maybe DVLL will crop up in racist literature.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Striking at the handicapped could be the killer's own form of selective breeding- eugenics.”

“Since the Berlin Wall came down, racist ideology has been circulating freely in Europe,” said Sharavi. “For obvious reasons, we monitor it, so I have my sources. If similar crimes have been recorded, if suspects have been arrested, it could give us some understanding into our killer's motives- at least the motives he honors himself with.”

“Honors,” said Milo. “Yeah, because his main motive is sexual.” He took a sip of the coffee he'd finally accepted from Sharavi and the dark man nodded.

“The asshole prides himself on mopping up the gene pool… sure, go ahead, check out all that stuff.”

His tone was agreeable but bland. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe he was glad to keep the Israeli busy.

“The gene pool,” I said. “Have either of you read The Brain Drain?”

They both shook their heads.

“Popular psychology, came out a few years ago. The basic premise was IQ means everything and stupid people- mostly dark-skinned people- are overbreeding, depleting our chromosomal resources. The book's answer was government control of fertility. The smart should be paid to procreate, those with low intelligence should be offered incentives to get sterilized. It was a minor best-seller, generated quite a bit of controversy.”

“I remember it,” said Milo, “some professor. You ever read it?”

“No,” I said. “But someone else might have.”

“Our boy uses pop psych for justification?”

“Everybody needs justification. Even sex crimes have a social context.”

“That makes sense,” said Sharavi. “Sex killers often go for prostitutes because prostitutes are at the bottom of the ladder and easier to dehumanize, right? From what I've seen, every killer needs to dehumanize his victim in some way: assassins, soldiers, sadists.”

“The social context,” said Milo. “He deals with his twisted little brain by convincing himself he's cleansing the world of defectives.”

His chin was resting in one hand and he kept it there, looking down at the hardwood floor.

“Death by Darwin,” he mumbled.

“It would also fit with the notion of someone who thinks he's superior,” I said. “He's operating out of some eugenic fantasy, so he doesn't carry out a sexual assault. And takes care to arrange the body with what he considers respect.”

“Only Irit's body,” he said. “Raymond was reduced to bloody shoes. I can buy the fact that the killer was just starting out, honing his craft. But what about Latvinia? She came after Irit and he strung her up, treated her rougher.”

“I don't know,” I said. “Something's off- maybe he's just jumping around to avoid an obvious pattern.”

No one talked for a while. Sharavi took a swallow from his third cup of coffee.

“DVLL,” he said. “That's the pattern he feels safe sharing.”

“Let's get back to the uniform angle,” said Milo. “In addition to it helping him snag victims, he could also like it because he's a man on a mission. Maybe someone with a military background or a military wanna-be.”

“If he served, he may very well have a dishonorable discharge,” I said.

Sharavi smiled weakly. “Uniforms can be valuable.”

“Being Israeli,” Milo asked him, “would Irit relate in a special way to someone in uniform?”

“Hard to say,” said Sharavi. “In Israel, we have a citizens' army, almost everyone goes in for three years and returns for reserve duty. So the country's full of uniforms, Israeli children see that as normal. Irit has actually lived outside of Israel for most of her life, but being around embassies and consulates she was accustomed to guards… it's possible. I don't really know much about her psychological makeup.”

“The Carmelis didn't fill you in?”

“They told me the usual. She was a wonderful child. Beautiful and innocent and wonderful.”

Silence.

Milo said, “We could also be talking cop wanna-bes- like that asshole Bianchi.” To Sharavi: “The Hillside Strangler.”

“Yes, I know. Bianchi applied to many departments, got turned down and became a security guard.”

“Which is a whole other angle,” said Milo. “No one screens security guards. You get ex-cons, psychos, all sorts of fools walking around looking official, some with guns.”

“You're right about that,” I said. “I had a case a few years ago, child-custody dispute. The father was a guard for a big industrial company out in the Valley. Turned out to be flagrantly psychotic- paranoid, hearing voices. The company had issued him pepper spray, handcuffs, a baton, and a semiautomatic.”

“Let's hear it for personnel screening… Okay, so what do we have so far: Joe Paramilitary with high-IQ fantasies and weird ideas about survival of the fittest, a sex drive that goes out of whack every so often, maybe photographic equipment. By taking pictures for later usage and arranging the bodies in a way that throws us off, he has his cake and…”

He cut himself off, gave a sick look, rubbed his face. Hard. Rosy patches appeared on the pale, scarred skin. His eyelids were heavy and his shoulders sloped.

“Anything else?”

Sharavi shook his head.

“What I can do,” I said, “is see if any eugenic-related murders come up in the psychiatric literature. Who knows, maybe DVLL will crop up there.”

Sharavi's fax machine began spitting paper. He collected a single sheet and showed it to us.