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"I meant that it's surprising that killers don't get identified and put away long before they kill. Not all killers, but the wackos like the ones we get. Like Langeveldt. That guy kidnapped people in public, paralyzed them and left them at his house until they dehydrated or had a heart attack. Or that one guy who killed soldiers and arms dealers and drew symbols in their blood. I'm just saying that's advanced mental illness. I just don't know how people who are that screwed up get away with it for so long."
“They don’t, though,” Faith said. “They lead normal lives until they snap. They might come across as weird or awkward,but do you look at every awkward person you see and wonder if they have a fetish for dropping women into wells?”
“Honestly, after sixteen years in the FBI, yes.”
“But do youreally?Do you follow those people or interrogate them or try to get search warrants for their houses?”
He nodded slowly. “I think I see your point.”
She nodded. “The worst part is that most of those peopleareharmless. Weird people aren’t usually murderers. They’re just… well, weird. I read about a guy once who collected shrunken heads.”
“Shrunken heads?”
“Yeah, like what headhunters from those tribes in South America make.”
“Christ.”
“Exactly. You look at a guy like that, and you think he has to be psycho. But this guy lived for eighty-nine years and never so much as ran a red light. He had a wife, kids and grandkids. He volunteered at a soup kitchen and voted in every single election. He just happened to like shrunken heads, so when he got wealthy enough, he spent a lot of money to collect them and display them in a room in his house.”
“I’m willing to say that he’s not a murderer,” Michael said, “but one hundred percent that guy wasn’t all kosher. He might have been smart enough or had enough self-control to know he wouldn’t get away with murder, but I’ll bet he fantasized about it.”
Faith shrugged. “Maybe. But my point still stands. There really aren’t many truly harmful people in the world. So those thataretruly harmful fly under the radar. Until they murder women, strip them naked and sprinkle colored powder on them so they can live forever.”
Michael nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, it boggles the mind how they can reserve enough brainpower to function in normal society.”
He parked the cruiser in front of the precinct, and the three agents walked inside and met Detective Hilary. He looked five years older than he had when they saw him last.
“Everything all right, Detective?” Faith asked. “Do you need to be with your mother?”
“No,” Hilary said. “I just finished talking to the boyfriend. It’s just hard to see the loved ones sometimes. Losing someone that close to you is a pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”
“I understand that,” Faith said.
Hilary sighed and gestured to a hallway lined with interview rooms. “Anyway, he’s ready for you. He’s in room two. That’s the first one on the right.”
Michael clapped Hilary on the shoulder briefly, and then the three agents headed to the interview room to talk to Giacomo Medici.
As soon as Faith stepped into the room, she understood why Hilary was so affected. Giacomo’s shoulders were slumped, and though he wasn’t weeping now, his eyes were puffy and red with the tears he had shed. He lifted those eyes to the agents, and the depth of his pain seemed to emanate from his gaze.
Faith recalled the time when Franklin West had beaten David nearly to death. The thought of spending her life without him was inconceivably frightening. That thought had become reality for Giacomo.
“Giacomo Medici?” Michael asked.
The well-built young man—Faith guessed he was twenty-five or so, younger than Samantha—nodded. “Yes, sir.” His voice carried a slight trace of an Italian accent.
“I’m very sorry to have to talk to you about this today,” Faith said.
Giacomo took a shaky breath and nodded. Turk trotted over to him and placed his head on Giacomo’s lap, staring up at him with his big brown eyes full of sympathy. He could have a wonderful third act as a therapy dog. Something to consider.
“How long were the two of you together?” Michael asked.
“Four years,” Giacomo said.
“Long time,” Faith observed.
“Yes. We met at her yoga studio. I was in Chicago to train with Robert Palhares.” He pronounced Robert in the French manner: Ro-bear. “I was just entering the professional world, and my instructor believed that Robert would help fill in some gaps in my game.”
“You’re talking about jiu-jitsu?” Faith asked.
