Psychopath by Keith Ablow Read Free Book Online Page B

Warner said.
    Warner didn’t sound friendly — especially for someone asking for help.  "I’d rather not wait," Clevenger said.
    A pause.  "The Highway Killer."
    Clevenger pulled his feet off the desk, pulled his eyes away from the harbor.  He’d been following news coverage of the Highway Killer for years.  "Twelve bodies, twelve states," he said.
    "Thirteen bodies," Warner said.
    "As of?"
    "This morning."
    "Where?"
    "A young couple driving Route 90 East in New York, headed to their ski house, stopped in a rest area.  Their dog ran off.  They chased him into the woods, and the girl twisted her ankle on something.  It turned out to be a frozen arm."
    "Male or female?"
    "Female," Warner said.  "Anna Beckwith.  Forty-four years old.  Single.  From Pennsylvania."  He paused.
    "So that’s eight men, five women," Clevenger said.
    "Thirteen victims.  Thirteen states."
    "That you know of," Clevenger said.  He reached for the package of Marlboros on his desk, lighted one, took a long drag.
    There was an uncomfortable silence.  "That we know of," Warner allowed.
    "Why me?" Clevenger said, smoke drifting out with his words.  "You’ve got experts in house."
    "There seems to be agreement here that we could use a forensic psychiatrist with a fresh perspective.  Someone outside the agency."
    There seemed to be agreement.  Clevenger smiled wryly.  How many more bodies would it take for definite agreement?   "You could use someone outside — or someone a little ’out there?’ "
    "You have a reputation for working on the edge," Warner said.  "You’re...  unorthodox.  We understand that.  It may be time for us to think outside the box."
    It may be time.  Clevenger turned and looked out his window as a red Porsche Carrera pulled to a stop alongside the docks.  North Anderson, a tough, black, forty-three-year-old former cop, got out.  "I have a partner," Clevenger said.
    "Who you work with is your business," Warner said.  "But for our first meeting, we’d like to speak with you privately — until we know whether you’re signing on.  We’re playing this as close to the vest as possible.  I’m sure you understand."
    "What time did you want to meet tomorrow?"
    "Is there a chance for later today?"
    "Booked.  Parent-teacher conference."
    "How’s Billy doing?" Warner asked.
    "Fine," Clevenger lied, taken aback.  He sometimes forgot his adopted son was as well-known as he.
    "Good," Warner said.  "It must have been tough rebounding from a bum rap like he got."
    "Yes, it was," Clevenger said.  Still is .
    "I’ll leave it to you, then.  Anytime tomorrow," Warner said.
    "I’ll be on the six A.M. US Air shuttle to National," Clevenger said.
    "I’ll have a car waiting for you," Warner said. "I look forward to meeting."
    "Same here."
    Warner hung up.
    "Skipping town?" North Anderson said from Clevenger’s door.
    Clevenger clicked the phone off and looked at Anderson.  They were close in age, each of them with a nearly shaved head, each of them standing nearly six feet tall, each of them having worked his body until it was lean and muscular.  They shared an intensity of gaze, a kind of insistent sincerity that could elicit confessions from con men and romantic concessions from women.  If Anderson hadn’t been black, the two of them would have looked very much like brothers, instead of just feeling that way.  "The Highway Killer," Clevenger said.
    "FBI?" Anderson asked.
    Clevenger nodded.  "They found another victim this morning.  A woman in upstate New York.  Shallow grave, like the others."
    "We’ve got plenty on our plates right now, if you ask me," Anderson said.
    "I don’t think they have a single lead," Clevenger said.  He dropped his cigarette into a coffee cup, listened to it sizzle.
    "Doesn’t sound like the kind of team we need to be signing on with," Anderson said.
    "He’s killed at least thirteen people," Clevenger said.
    "Maybe thirteen’s his unlucky number."
    "The Bureau