by Torre, A. R.
He was smooth, I’d give him that. How many women had he delivered similar lines to? Dozens? Hundreds?
I turned back to him. “You always do what ‘beautiful’ women tell you to?”
“Depends on the woman.” The words were light, but I could see the fatigue in his features. He stood and came around the desk. “Take a seat. Those heels have to be killing you.” He settled into one of the big leather club chairs, and I followed suit. “How’s your profile going so far?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I did a quick sweep of the kills and am now going through each in detail, chronologically. I’m about halfway through. I’m on the third victim now.”
“Noah.”
“Yes.” I watched his features, reading the rigid tension in them. He didn’t need a psychological profile. He needed a grief counselor. That and a vacation a million miles away from blood and gore and photos of dead teenage boys. “Have you been through all the files?”
“Yes.”
“You know, you can’t desensitize yourself to it. Looking at photos of the other boys doesn’t make Gabe’s death any easier.”
“It helps me.” He sighed. “I wasn’t the only parent who failed.”
“None of you failed. You know that.”
“Yeah, well. So many small decisions might have changed it. If he had never seen Gabe, he wouldn’t have taken him.”
I shook my head. “You can’t go down that rabbit hole. For every action and decision that you beat yourself up over, look at your intentions. You did and continue to—even now—do the best you can to protect him.”
He forced a smile. “I don’t need a counselor, Gwen. I need to know what you’ve learned.”
He didn’t know what he needed, but it wasn’t my place to force treatment on him. I switched to business mode. “Well, I’ve reviewed the files enough to give a rough sketch of the killer, but it’s likely to change as I finish reviewing things.”
He relaxed slightly at the change in topic. “Go ahead.”
“Are you familiar with grounded theory methodology?”
“No.”
“It’s the discovery of emerging patterns in data and the generation of theories from that data. With each victim, I create a list of factors. Factors about the victim, the circumstances, the kill, and the treatment of the victim from the moment of capture to the moment of death. Also, the disposal of the body.” I watched him carefully, wondering if I needed to be more sensitive with my language.
He nodded, his brows pinching together in interest, and I continued on.
“Once I have exhaustive lists on each crime, I can find the commonalities among them and establish patterns. Both in the killer’s consistencies, but also his inconsistencies. Is he changing his MO of victims? Growing older or younger in age, more innocent or less in experience . . .” I shrugged. “So far, these victims are eerily similar. That’s the pattern, and it points strongly to the killer personifying either himself at a younger age or someone in his past.”
“Which is more likely?”
“Someone in his past,” I said immediately. “Most likely someone who hurt him in a very traumatic way. Given the length of the victims’ captivity, the abuse was probably extended. It could have lasted for years.”
“Okay. What else?” he asked.
“The crime scenes are staged and extremely clean. No fingerprints, DNA, tire tracks, or evidence. They’re clearly planned and executed in careful fashion. Between that, and the preparation of the body, we’re dealing with a very detailed and organized individual. Someone who is patient and who enjoys mental mind games. The killers who display their victims are seeking attention from the onset and probably planned the series of murders from the beginning. They are very proud of their kills, proud of their intellect, and confident in their ability to evade the police.”
I paused. “Even without finishing the research, I’m confident in those aspects of the killer.”
He gave a dismissive nod, unimpressed. “Okay, so? A cocky, organized individual who likes mental mind games. You just described half of this floor, including me. Tell me there’s more.”
The next part required me to go into the murder details. It would be a light dip, but I was very aware of the fact that I was dealing with a grieving father. “I’m considering the possibility that the killer is bisexual or gay but is living life as a straight man, and he feels deep shame and self-loathing over his orientation.”
“You’re basing that on the sexual activity with the victims?” Robert didn’t flinch at the question, but he also couched it as sexual activity versus rape, which was an emotional tell in itself.
“Yes.” I hesitated. “What was Gabe’s sexual orientation?”
His brow furrowed. “Straight.”
“Are you sure?”
He shifted in his chair, his annoyance flaring, and I could see the moment he intentionally calmed himself. It was impressive, a complete shuttering of emotion. If I could package the action and teach it to my clients, I’d be hailed as a genius. Then again, such emotional control wasn’t particularly healthy. A quick burst of steam kept a kettle from boiling over. He folded one hand over the other. “Why are you asking?”
“If all the victims were gay or had homosexual potential, it would tell us a lot about BH and why he selected those boys in particular.” I paused. “And, also, I’m trying to figure out why Gabe’s death was different from the others.”
He rubbed his index fingers over his mouth, then straightened in his seat. “You’re talking about the dry drowning.”
“Yes.” I wanted to apologize, hated the path of the conversation, but he started this journey. If he was going to represent Thompson, there were going to be a lot more of these discussions in his future. “It’s a significant ramp-up in aggression. Much more violent and painful. More emotion fueled. It indicates a loss of control. The question is, why? Why Gabe?”
“Well, it wasn’t because Gabe was gay,” Robert said wryly. “I couldn’t keep him away from girls. We had a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend just two weeks before he was taken. Now . . .” He sighed. “I keep thinking about if she had been pregnant. We’d have a baby right now. One with his eyes, his smile—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.
I quickly moved on. “Did Gabe drink? Use drugs?”
“He drank. Not a lot. High school parties, that sort of thing. Drugs . . .” He grimaced. “I’m sure he smoked weed at some point in his life. Anything harder than that—I kept a close eye on him. He didn’t have a habit.”
“Okay, that helps.” I thought of the piles of handwritten notes in my office, many with giant question marks beside them, and considered how much more to share. “There’s . . . something off. I’m not sure what it is yet.”
His attention piqued, and I shouldn’t have said anything until I knew more. “What’s off?”
“Like I said, I don’t know yet. It’s just a feeling. I don’t know if it’s a manipulation of evidence or if it’s a missing piece, but there’s something, and I can’t put my finger on it.” I shrugged. “It could be nothing. I could be wrong.”
“Or you could be right.”
Yes. I could be right. Hell, I was right. Something was wrong. Every time I tried to draw a line between two ideas, it was slightly off. I was missing something, and it had better emerge soon, or I wasn’t going to have any hair left on my head.
A half hour later, I sucked Diet Coke through a paper straw and glanced across the conference room table at Robert. “How do you want me to use Scott Harden’s case in my profile?”
“Disregard it completely,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, an Italian sub from the lobby deli in hand. “He’s lying.”
“Lying about what?” I countered. “You don’t think he was kidnapped?”
“No, I think he was kidnapped. But he’s lying about Randall Thompson.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” he countered. “California’s
most vicious serial killer in recent history is out there. Who knows what he’s threatened this kid with? And everyone’s assuming the kid escaped. But what if he didn’t? What if the killer let him go?”
“Let him go?” I made a face. “Why would he let him go?”
“You’re the shrink.” He set down his sandwich and picked up his soda. “Let’s say you knew he let him go. Why would he? What would be your psychological reasoning behind that motivation?”
I sighed, taking a bite of my sandwich and thinking over the idea. I chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long sip of soda. “He wouldn’t. He grew more violent with the sixth death, and then he releases the seventh? It doesn’t—” I paused as a possibility, though remote, came to mind. “Wait. If he released him . . . ,” I allowed, “and that’s a big if, then it was planned. There was a purpose for it and—if I had to guess—it was part of an exit strategy. He needed Scott Harden to be free so that . . .” I closed my eyes and tried to figure out why the BH Killer would intentionally create a loose thread. Part of the game with authorities?
“So that Scott could point to someone else.” The resolution in Robert’s voice made me open my eyes. The attorney was nodding, warming to the idea. “A scapegoat.”
“Whoa.” I held up my palm. “That’s a stretch. Let’s not forget about the trophies in Randall Thompson’s house.”
“Could have been planted there. Plus, they haven’t found the fingers yet.”
I frowned. “The pinkies from the victims?”
“Yeah. Went through Randall’s house with a fine-toothed comb, and there isn’t a fleck of DNA evidence from any victim, and no pinkies. Now, you said the BH Killer is organized. Planned every part of his crimes. So he planned this—to release Scott Harden and have him ID someone else.” He pulled open a bag of chips and raised his brows at me, challenging me to contest the thought.
As much as I hated to admit it, it wasn’t a horrible theory. I hesitated. “Eyewitnesses are convincing,” I allowed.
“Convincing?” He shook his head. “Screw that. They’re gold. Trust me. I’m in front of juries every day. If Scott Harden points his finger across that courtroom and says Randall Thompson stripped off his clothes and tied him down to a bed, that trumps hair fibers at a dump site. At that point in time, the cops stop looking, and lack of evidence ceases to matter.”
“So that’s going to be your defense?” I gathered my trash and stuffed it into the bag, then reached across the corner of the table to get his. Our knees brushed. “Scott Harden is lying?”
“You ever open a pair of handcuffs with a fork?”
“No,” I replied. “Have you?”
“No one has. It’s impossible.” He held up his hand. “Okay, not impossible. But you aren’t doing it one-handed, and look at the autopsy photos. Rope burns, not handcuffs. These boys were spread out on the bed, not chained to radiators with their hands in close proximity.”
“It’s a stretch,” I argued. “You’re making a lot of stretches.”
“Gwen.” His use of my name caught my attention and held it. “What if I’m right?”
If he was right, then this killer was still out there. Laughing at us. Free, while Scott Harden ate up the press and Randall Thompson was locked away in solitary confinement. It was a sobering and terrifying thought, because he was correct about one thing—the cops weren’t out looking right now. They were sitting back and congratulating themselves on a case well solved.
“If you’re wrong, and you get Randall Thompson off—then what?”
“I’m not wrong.” He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw his pain. Raw and unfiltered, the weight of his grief was right there, etched in the hunch of his shoulders and the tight knots in his neck.
Maybe he was wrong, but he was a father and he was hurting, and I couldn’t argue with that.
CHAPTER 23
Three days later, I perched on the counter of the break room and watched Scott Harden speak into a fuzzy mic with a Channel 27 logo on it.
“It’s a second chance at life,” the seventeen-year-old said. “It makes me want to be a better person, to deserve the life I’ve been given.” He flashed a smile to the camera, and there was no disputing that the kid was cute. He had all the attributes that would make a teenage girl swoon, which was evidenced by his blooming celebrity. Last night, I checked his social media followers and was shocked to see the number approaching a million fans.
Jacob let out a boo, then drained his can of Mello Yello. “He’s such a camera hog. I bet he practices these lines each night in front of the mirror.”
I didn’t disagree, but it seemed wrong to talk crap about the one teenager who had avoided the gruesome end the other six had received. “Whether it’s cheesy or not, he’s right,” I pointed out as I dug into a bag of microwave popcorn. “He did escape death. That causes people to approach life in a different way.”
From her spot at the table, Meredith looked up from her phone. “Have you noticed he never really says anything in these interviews?”
I had. In the last day, I’d watched every television and radio piece I could find of him. And Meredith was right. He skimmed over his time in captivity and said little to nothing about the man who had supposedly held him prisoner.
The interviewer continued. “How much interaction did you have with Randall Thompson prior to him kidnapping you?”
“Mr. Harden won’t be speaking on that.” Juan Melendez, Scott Harden’s attorney, stepped forward, and Jacob let out another boo. I grinned, appreciating the lighthearted moment after a day spent in the death files.
I’d made it through the fourth victim, then had to take a break. It was all so incredibly sad. Six smart and talented lives taken. Six families—parents, siblings, grandparents—whose lives were irrevocably destroyed. And all for what? One sick individual’s twisted pleasure. Was that one person Randall Thompson? I was dying to research him, to see if he fit my profile so far, but I’d behaved. I couldn’t have his reality alter my analysis, so I was mentally compartmentalizing what I already knew about the man and locking it away for later.
“I don’t get the media tour,” Meredith mused. “He’s on TV every time I turn it on. Shouldn’t he be at home with his parents?”
“He’s a teenage kid who has a chance to be famous.” I chewed a handful of popcorn. “Plus, he’s probably avoiding the emotion dump. It’ll hit him at some point, and he’ll break down. But right now, he’s distracting himself with all this.”
We watched as the camera cut to a montage of shots of the victims. I watched the faces of the teenagers I now knew by heart. Gabe Kavin’s photo appeared, and my heart sank at how much he resembled Robert. Same dark hair. Same knowing eyes. He would have grown up to be a heartbreaker, just like his dad.
I pushed off the counter before the show turned its coverage to Randall Thompson. “I’m going to get back to work. Jacob, I’ve got Luke Attens coming in at one.”
He made a face and squeezed the empty soda can, crinkling it. “Right, if he shows up. That guy’s a dick.”
I had no comeback for that. Luke was a dick, and the most volatile of my clients. He’d been a no-show on his last two appointments, which was common for him. He’d be regular for a while, then go out of town or miss appointments for a month, then pop back up as if everything were fine.
I didn’t mind. His appointments were exhausting, and he paid the no-show invoices without complaint. I’d made just as much in penalties as I’d made in billable time.
“Well, he called me this morning, so I’m expecting him to come in.” His early-morning call had been textbook Luke. Terse and demanding. Thirty seconds in which he’d barked at me to tell him his appointment time, then abruptly hung up.
“You’re meeting him in the conference room, right?”
“Yeah.” I stuffed the bag of popcorn into the trash and downed the remaining swallow of soda. Meredith grunted out a goodbye, her attention still on the television.
Luke At
tens sat in front of me in bright-red pants and a paisley-print silk shirt. He was a walking contradiction, and if I ever had to create a psychological profile on him, it would involve a lot of question marks and blank lines.
Luke suffered from insecurity and abandonment, with a triple helping of uncontrollable rage. When his sister had gotten engaged two years earlier, it had spurred Luke to set fire to her car with both of them inside. Luke did not handle stress or heightened emotions well, which was why he was mid-hyperventilation right now.
“Breathe,” I instructed firmly. “Cup your hands in front of your mouth and breathe into your belly, not your chest.”
He gasped.
“Now, hold your breath for ten seconds.”
He shook his head, his hands still cupped over his mouth, and I raised my eyebrows at him. “Trust me, Luke. Hold your breath for ten seconds. It’ll reset you. Come on. I’ll do it with you.” I made a big show of inhaling and holding my breath. He hesitated, then followed.
I held up one finger, then two, holding my breath along with him as I counted to ten. Then I slowly exhaled and reminded myself that Jacob was right on the other side of the door, and if Luke tackled me across the table, it would take at least a minute for him to strangle me to death.
His panic attack had started after I’d refused to meet him in our standard location: my office. He accused me of bugging the conference room, and I’d offered to postpone our meeting until next week, when my office would be back in order, but he refused, stating that he had to talk to me now because SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED. When I asked what had happened . . . well, here we were.
His gasps were starting to come back under control. I stayed in place and watched as he dropped his head back on the swivel chair and gulped for air. He always had a flair for the dramatic. During my first appointment with him, he had pounded his fist on my desk so hard that my pen cup fell over. I think his fury had been over my rates, which was amusing, given his level of wealth. Luke Attens was the eldest son of the Attens family, creator of the mega-slice pizza, forty-two thousand delivery and take-out locations worldwide. I didn’t know that stat initially, but Luke liked to scream it at random moments if he felt his manhood or authority were being questioned, which was often.