“Sounds like a solid citizen, a prince among men.”
Despite his remark, Begley knew that one’s appearance and demeanor could camouflage a criminal, psychotic, or sociopathic mind. During his long career, he’d run across some very twisted folks.
There was the woman who was widowed six times before anyone thought to investigate the bizarre coincidence. Her excuse for killing her husbands, each in a distinctive and inventive way, was that she just adored arranging funerals. She was as plump as a partridge and as pretty as a peach. No one would have thought her capable of killing a housefly.
Then there was the guy who played Santa Claus at the neighborhood mall every Christmas. Jolly and kind, beloved by all who knew him, he would sit children on his knee and listen to what they wanted for Christmas, pass out candy canes, remind them not to be naughty, and then select one to violate sexually before dismembering the body and placing the various parts in Christmas stockings, which he hung from his mantel. Ho, ho, ho.
Nothing surprised Begley anymore, especially not a woman snatcher who was polite, tipped generously, and paid his bills on time.
“What about friends?” Begley asked. “Anyone ever join him in that cabin he rents?”
“No one. ‘He keeps to hisself,’ to quote Mr. Gus Elmer, the owner of the lodge.”
Begley stared at a picture of Laureen Elliott, the third woman to disappear. She had a bad perm and a sweet smile. Her car had been found at a barbecue restaurant between the clinic where she worked as a nurse and her home. She didn’t pick up her phone-in order of ribs.
“Where does Ben Tierney call home?”
“He gets his mail at a condo he owns in Virginia, just outside D.C.,” Hoot replied. “But he’s rarely there. Travels extensively.”
Begley came around. “Do we know why?”
Hoot shuffled the stack of printed materials he’d brought in with him and came up with a popular magazine for outdoor sports and activities. “Page thirty-seven.”
Begley reached for the magazine and thumbed to the page, finding there a story about rafting the Colorado River.
“He’s a freelance writer,” Hoot explained. “Goes on thrill-seeking adventures and vacations, writes about them, sells the articles to magazines that cater to particular interests. Mountain climbing, hiking, hang gliding, scuba diving, dogsledding. You name it, he’s done it.”
Accompanying the article was a color photograph of two men standing on the rocky shoal of a river, white water in the background. One of the men was bearded, stocky, and a lot shorter than six feet three. He was identified beneath the photo as the guide for the trip.
The other smiling rafter fit Tierney’s description. Wide, white smile in a lean, tanned face. Windblown hair. Calves as hard as baseballs. Sculpted arms. Washboard abs. Michelangelo’s David in a pair of cargo shorts.
Begley scowled down at Hoot. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s the kind of man women throw their panties at.”
“Ted Bundy was a reputed ladies’ man, sir.”
Begley snorted, conceding the point. “What about women?”
“Relationships?”
“Or whatever.”
“His neighbors in Virginia barely know him because he’s seldom there, but unanimously they said they’d never seen a woman at his place.”
“A good-looking bachelor like him?” Begley asked.
Hoot shrugged. “He could be gay, I guess, but there’s no indication he is.”
“He could have a ladylove stashed away somewhere else,” Begley ventured.
“If he does, we’ve found no evidence of one. No long-term relationship. Or short term for that matter. But, as I said, he travels a lot. Maybe he, you know, catches, uh, romance when and where he can.”
Begley ruminated on that. Serial rapists or women killers rarely cultivated or maintained healthy, lasting relationships. Indeed, they typically had an intense dislike for women. Depending on the psyche of the offender, the hostility could be latent and well concealed, or openly expressed. Either way, it was usually manifested in violent acts against the opposite sex.
“Okay, you’ve aroused my interest,” Begley said, “but I hope you have better than this.”
Hoot shuffled through more paper. Finding the sheet he was looking for, he said, “This is a quote from Millicent Gunn’s diary. ‘Saw B.T. again today. Second time in past three days. He’s so freaking cool. Always very nice to me.’ The very is underlined, sir.
“ ‘I think he likes me. Takes time to talk to me even though I’m fat.’ That entry was dated three days before her disappearance. Her parents claim none of her friends are named B.T. They don’t know anyone who goes by that name or has those initials.”