"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора Her face was set in an expression of grim determination.
"No way, buster. I'm not handing this over to you feds on a silver platter. The department can clean its own skirts." "It's already been handed over," he said with finality. "I'm sorry, Fran, but you're out. Accept it." Bolan sympathized with the lady, sure, and he let her know it. "You've been of help," he offered. "Believe it. You can be of more." "Name it." "Teach me about rape," he said simply. She looked at him, making no reply. "What makes this headcase tick?" he continued. "I need to be inside his head, to see where he lives." "Careful," she said, her voice softening, "it's dark in there." "Why does he rape and kill?" Bolan prodded. "Why not start fires, say, or rob gas stations? Why the sex angle?" Fran leaned toward him, raising a slim index finger. "Rape is a crime of violence, not sexuality," she said, secure, on familiar ground now. "Think of it as a personal assault, no different really from a shooting, or a beating." Bolan nodded his awareness. "But what comes before the fact?" he asked. "Maybe rapists are inferiority complex types," she replied, "driven by the need to assert themselves and exercise control over a captive audience. "That's one theory, anyway. That they perform not sexually, but emotionally. Each attack reaffirms their identity, makes them somebody to be "Do many rapists kill?" "No. Maybe one in a thousand will deliberately kill his victim. We're dealing with a special breed of cat." "A woman hater?" "Possibly, but not necessarily. He probably hates everybody, and most of all himself. He ambushes women at night because he doesn't have the brains to build bombs or the nerve to climb a tower and shoot it out with the police." "You read a lot from one sketch," Bolan said. Fran smiled. "Don't forget the M.O.," she said. "These crimes are not only identical, they carry the killer's personality. With practice, you can read a crime like a signature." Bolan nodded. He understood that, sure, from the hard-won experience of his wars overseas and against the domestic Mafia cannibals. They left their marks, all right, like some sort of fingerprint. "Go on," he urged. "Okay." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "This freak rapes his victims, and then he kills them with a knife. He mutilates them, but never sexually." "Explain, Fran." Another pause, and then she continued. "Ninety-odd years ago, Jack the Ripper tried to shut down London's red light district single-handed. He never raped his victims, but he indulged in |
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