The Mephisto Club

responsibility for anything he does from then on. He can kill a woman, chop her up into pieces, and you’ll still defend him in court.”
    “Is that what happened to this victim?” O’Donnell’s face had taken on a disturbing alertness, her eyes bright and feral. “Was she dismembered?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I’d just like to know.”
    “Professional curiosity?”
    O’Donnell sat back in her chair. “Detective Rizzoli, I’ve interviewed a lot of killers. Over the years, I’ve compiled extensive statistics on motives, methods, patterns. So yes, it is professional curiosity.” She paused. “Dismemberment is not that unusual. Especially if it’s to aid in disposal of the victim.”
    “That wasn’t the reason for it in this case.”
    “You know that?”
    “It’s pretty clear.”
    “Did he purposefully display the body parts? Was it staged?”
    “Why? You happen to have any sicko pals who’re into that kind of thing? Any names you want to share with us? They write to you, don’t they? Your name’s out there. The doctor who loves to hear all the details.”
    “If they write me, it’s usually anonymous. They don’t tell me their names.”
    “But you do get letters,” said Frost.
    “I hear from people.”
    “Killers.”
    “Or fabricators. Whether they tell the truth or not is impossible for me to determine.”
    “You think some of them are just sharing their fantasies?”
    “And they’ll probably never act on them. They just need a way to express unacceptable urges. We all have them. The mildest-mannered man occasionally daydreams about things he’d like to do to women. Things so twisted he doesn’t dare tell anyone. I bet that even you entertain a few inappropriate thoughts, Detective Frost.” She kept her gaze on him, a look that was meant to make him uncomfortable. Frost, to his credit, did not even flush.
    “Has anyone written you about fantasies of dismemberment?” he asked.
    “Not lately.”
    “But someone has?”
    “As I said, dismemberment is not unusual.”
    “As a fantasy or a real act?”
    “Both.”
    Jane said, “Who’s been writing you about their fantasies, Dr. O’Donnell?”
    The woman met Jane’s gaze. “That correspondence is confidential. That’s why they feel safe telling me their secrets, their desires, their daydreams.”
    “Do these people ever call you?”
    “Rarely.”
    “And you talk to them?”
    “I don’t avoid them.”
    “Do you keep a list of these callers?”
    “Hardly a list. I can’t remember the last time it happened.”
    “It happened last night.”
    “Well, I wasn’t here to answer it.”
    “You weren’t here at two A.M., either,” said Frost. “We called then, and got your machine.”
    “Where were you last night?” Jane asked.
    O’Donnell shrugged. “Out.”
    “At two A.M., on Christmas Eve?”
    “I was with friends.”
    “What time did you get home?”
    “Probably around two-thirty.”
    “They must be very good friends. You mind telling us their names?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Why?”
    “Why don’t I want my privacy violated? Do I actually have to answer that question?”
    “This is a homicide investigation. A woman was slaughtered last night. It was one of the most brutal crime scenes I’ve ever walked into.”
    “And you want my alibi.”
    “I’m just curious why you won’t tell us.”
    “Am I a suspect? Or are you just trying to show me who’s in charge?”
    “You’re not a suspect. At the moment.”
    “Then I’m under no obligation to even talk to you.” Abruptly, O’Donnell rose to her feet and started toward the door. “I’ll walk you out, now.”
    Frost, too, started to get up, then saw that Jane wasn’t budging, and he sank back down again.
    Jane said, “If you gave one damn about the victim, if you saw what he did to Lori-Ann Tucker—”
    O’Donnell turned to face her. “Why don’t you tell me? What, exactly,
was
done to her?”
    “You want the details, do you?”
    “It’s my field of study. I need to know the details.” She moved toward Jane. “It helps me understand.”
    Or it turns you on. That’s why you suddenly look interested. Even eager.
    “You said she was dismembered,” said O’Donnell. “Was the head removed?”
    “Rizzoli,” said Frost, a cautionary note in his voice.
    But Jane did not need to reveal a thing; O’Donnell had already drawn her own conclusions. “The head is such a powerful symbol. So personal. So individual.” O’Donnell stepped