by Torre, A. R.
Look up, Nita wanted to shout. Look into their eyes so they believe you.
“Well, you were blindfolded in the room. But then you escaped, right? So we need to know what you saw when you got your hands loose. You took off the blindfold then, right?”
“It was dark,” Scott said. “I felt my way to the door and then down the hall. I was running. I didn’t really see anything until I got outside.”
“And you didn’t have to go down or up any stairs to get outside?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Was he in the house? Did he live there?”
“I—I don’t know.”
But they did know, didn’t they? The police had searched Randall Thompson’s house top to bottom and decided he hadn’t kept Scott there, but at some other location. And the morning that Scott had escaped, he’d been at school, teaching. Nita had learned that not from the detectives but from the news. The detectives had kept them in the dark on everything.
The pair grilled him on the neighborhood he’d run through on his way out. What he described—quiet streets with run-down homes—could have matched a hundred Los Angeles neighborhoods. What she hadn’t understood, what she still didn’t understand, was why he hadn’t stopped at one of those houses for help. Why hadn’t he flagged down a car? Why had he run for miles, all the way home?
“Let’s go back to the room where you were kept. We understand that you didn’t see anything, but let’s talk about what you could hear, what you could smell. Could you hear any activity in the house?” This was the other officer, the chubby male, who stood in the corner, one foot crossed over the other.
Scott paused. “I don’t think so.”
“When he came into the room, would he open a door? Did you hear him coming down the hall? Think about how you knew he was there.”
Scott rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t know. I guess I heard a door open. I don’t remember any stairs.”
“Take your time,” Detective Harvey urged. “In the room, was it carpet or solid floor? Could you hear his footsteps?”
“Solid floor.” He swallowed. This was ridiculous. They knew who the killer was. Why did these details matter? It wasn’t fair to make Scott relive all this.
“Okay, so you couldn’t hear any noise from other rooms? What about a TV, maybe playing nearby?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Road noise? Trucks? Horns?”
“No.”
“What about the temperature in the room?” The male detective crossed in front of the glass. “Was it hot?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was the space air-conditioned? Did you hear the air-conditioning coming on and off?”
“I don’t know.”
Nita could sense their frustration, could hear it in the way their questions were beginning to clip at the ends. Maybe they’d stop. Throw up their hands and let Scott leave.
“Okay, so no sound. What about smell?” Detective Petts leaned back in her chair. “Maybe must or mildew?”
Scott inhaled, like he was smelling it all over again. “Maybe a little like mothballs.”
“So, you picked the lock open on your handcuffs, is that right?”
The abrupt shift in questioning caught her son off guard. His gaze darted to their attorney, then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Not an easy thing to do with a fork.” Detective Petts looked at Harvey, who nodded in agreement. Nita straightened, her hackles rising at the woman’s tone.
“Well, I didn’t really pick it,” Scott hedged. “It wasn’t locked in place right. Normally it was tight, but this time it wasn’t, so I could pull my hand out.”
This was new. Nita frowned, her gaze catching with her husband’s. They’d both heard the story a dozen times. Scott loved to talk about how he had popped open the cuffs.
“Ah, now, see—that makes more sense. Because we were beginning to wonder,” Harvey said.
There was that tone again. Like they were playing with him.
“You said you were blindfolded in the room, and you don’t know how you got in the room, right?”
“Yeah.” Scott looked miserable, and she needed to get him out of here.
“So, how do you know it was Mr. Thompson? If you couldn’t see, it could have been anyone.”
“I saw him when I was taken. He was next to my truck. He was the one who stabbed me with something.”
A sedative of some sort. That’s what they’d said. The police had long suspected the BH Killer had drugged the boys with something, but Scott had given them the confirmation—it had been a shot, not anything put in his food or drink.
“And you recognized his voice? In the room? Because he might have taken you but then passed you off to someone else.”
Scott wavered. “No,” he said finally. “It was him. He would talk to me.” He nodded, his gaze glued to the table. “Yeah. Him. He was a pervert. He told me about things he’d done. Girl students he raped.”
There was a moment of silence as the room absorbed the new information. George put his arm around Nita and squeezed her to his side.
“Any girls you know? Names you could give us?”
He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, and she knew a stubborn streak when it was coming. He was about to clam up. To get defiant.
“Did he tell you why he was doing this?”
Scott didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the question. Hot under George’s arm, Nita pushed free and mentally begged her son to respond.
“He just said he needed to put me in my place.” He tucked his chin against his chest, and the next words were soft, almost so soft that she couldn’t hear it.
“What was that, Scott?”
“He said it was fun. That he liked to hurt me. And he liked to watch.”
“Watch what?”
She held her breath, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Her son shrugged. “All of it.” He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair, pulling it forward over his face, and stood. “I need a break.” He looked at his attorney. “Can I take a break?”
“Sure,” Detective Harvey said. “Take your time.”
Nita thought he’d come to her, but he didn’t. He walked out of the police station and to their SUV, where he sat for almost twenty minutes, just staring out the windshield. Motionless. Still. The boy who couldn’t go a few minutes without looking at his phone sat there, like a zombie, before finally opening the vehicle door and stepping out, his gait slow and laborious as he walked back to her and George and Juan.
When he sat back down with the detectives, it was a different version of her son. One with a straighter back and a slower, more confident voice. And this time, he told a new story.
CHAPTER 29
I couldn’t get the dead boys out of my mind. Pushing the grocery cart, I moved past a display of strawberries and tried not to compare the bright-red hue of the fruit with the crime scene photos of the bloodied flesh.
I had seen plenty of evil in my life, had studied countless individuals who killed without reason or intent, but these deaths were sticking to me with a clawlike intensity. These deaths weren’t random. The careful and consistent structure of kills . . . the ramp-up. Even Scott Harden’s escape . . . it all meant something.
I paused at the meat counter and picked up a package of chicken thighs and a rack of lamb. Pushing forward, I almost bumped my cart into the woman in front of me. She turned, and I gave an apologetic smile, then started in recognition.
“Lela! Hello.”
Her eyes lit up. “Dr. Moore,” she purred. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” I pushed my cart out of the main aisle. “I’m sorry about rescheduling our appointment next week. I’ve got a court case I have to prep for.”
She waved off the apology. “Does it have anything to do with the BH Killer? I saw that handsome attorney at your office last week. The one on the news, whose son died.”
“No, it’s about somethin
g unrelated.” Just what I needed—Lela Grant blabbing all over town about Robert.
“You know, my daughter is at Beverly High. She knows Scott Harden, almost went on a date with him once!” She beamed, like it would be wonderful if her daughter could have been connected with a boy who was kidnapped, tortured, and almost died.
I picked up a glass bottle of almonds that I didn’t need and looked for a way to exit the conversation. “How are things at home?”
“Oh, they’re okay.” A younger version of her came around the corner and tossed a family-size box of marshmallow cereal in the end of her cart. “Maggie, can you say hi to Dr. Moore?”
The teenager examined my red ballet slippers with a sneer. “Can I say hi? Of course I can.”
I ignored her entirely.
“Maggie,” Lela pleaded, and I wondered if her inability to control her child was one of the reasons she manifested violent fantasies about her sister-in-law, a woman who seemed to have flawless control over her life.
The teenager pushed her hair out of her eyes, and I saw the scars on the insides of her arms. Old and new. Crisscrosses of pain and depression. My eyes met Lela’s.
“Maggie, will you grab us some ice cream?” she suggested brightly. “Whatever flavor you want.”
The girl turned without responding and slunk down the aisle.
I waited until she was out of sight, then spoke. “How long has she been cutting herself?”
She sighed. “About two months. I try and keep up with Neosporin, but as soon as the wounds heal, she opens them up again.”
Something about the statement snagged in my brain. What was it? I nodded politely as I tried to chase it down. “Have you taken her to see anyone?”
“It’s just teenage heartbreak. You know, boys.” She dismissed the cuttings with a shrug. “But, yeah—we’re taking her to Dr. Febber at the Banyon Clinic. They specialize in teenagers. In fact, you’ll never guess who we once saw there.” She leaned in closer, and her wheels squeaked.
“Please don’t tell me.” I forced a polite smile. “Patient confidentiality is one of our pet peeves as doctors. Especially in mental health areas.”
Her face fell in disappointment. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
“Anyway, I’ll see you week after next? Back on our normal schedule?”
“Uh-huh,” she said listlessly. “Sure.”
Lela turned her cart around and lifted her hand in parting. I echoed the action. Poor Maggie. I’d had six sessions with Lela, and she’d never mentioned her daughter’s struggles.
I turned down the dairy aisle and picked up a gallon of milk, then a box of salted butter. What was it about our conversation that had jabbed at me? I moved back through it in my head.
Her daughter . . . Beverly High . . . Scott . . .
I stopped at the chilled wines and picked up a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I wedged it into an open space beside the milk and pushed the cart forward. Ahead of me, the line at the pharmacy thinned, and I quickened my pace, hoping to get in while there wasn’t a wait. I was coming down with something and needed to get a nasal spray before it got too bad.
I parked my cart, grabbed my purse, and stood in line. Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed the conversation with Lela, especially since I wasn’t meeting with her this week. The line inched up, and I made a mental note to continue our conversation about her daughter in future sessions.
Bored, I studied an end display of bandages, antibiotic creams, and other first-aid supplies.
I try and keep up with Neosporin, but as soon as the wounds heal, she opens them up again.
Was that what had stuck in my mind? If so, why? I closed my eyes, focusing on the image of Lela putting Neosporin on Maggie’s cuts. While it was an interesting visual, my mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Behind me, someone cleared their throat. I opened my eyes and stepped forward.
Neosporin . . . Neosporin . . . Wounds heal.
The images from the BH files snapped into view. Close-ups of wounds. Cigarette burns. Cuts. Some healed, others fresh. I undid the top clasp of my purse and pulled out my phone. Checking the time on it, I called the office and hoped Jacob was still there.
His calm greeting brought a smile to my face.
“Jacob, it’s Gwen. Can you go in my office? I need you to take a picture of something.”
I waited as he found his keys and unlocked my office. Giving him directions, I led him to the area of the wall where I had pinned photos of all the wounds.
He made a noise of discomfort.
“I know, they’re gory. Can you take pictures of the entire section? Close enough so I can zoom in on the photos, please.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, you can get three or four in each photo.”
“Okay. I’ll text them to you.”
“Thank you. Please be sure to lock the door when you’re done.”
I ended the call and moved up, now only second in line. I was swiping my credit card and accepting the nasal spray when my phone began to buzz with incoming texts. Returning to my cart, I opened the group of images and began to scroll through them.
It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten. The photos were a horror show of pain, the worst being the penectomy close-ups. I swiped quickly through those and zoomed in when I found the image that had jogged my memory.
It was a neat line of cigarette burns down the center of a back. Unremarkable, except for the sheen that covered them. Almost like a snail had traveled across the wounds. It was ointment or aloe vera, and applied on an area that the victim could never have reached himself.
The BH Killer was doctoring them. Hurting them, then patching them back up. Why? Remorse? Guilt? Or was it something else, something deeper?
I looked up from my phone and thought through the implications of this. This was wrong—in complete conflict with the psychological profile I had created. An organized control-oriented killer didn’t provide first aid, not unless it was to keep his victim alive for a specific purpose. These wounds weren’t life threatening, so they didn’t require first aid. This was almost . . . I thought of Meredith, her question of aftercare. Yes. This was potentially aftercare, which, again, didn’t match my profile. While there were no absolutes in human psychology, there were patterns, and this would be breaking every pattern of human behavior.
I stuffed my phone in my bag and gripped the handles of the cart, spinning it to the left and heading toward the checkout, skipping the rest of my shopping list as I beelined for the shortest queue.
I had known that something was off. Maybe this was the key to figuring out what that was.
CHAPTER 30
I dropped the groceries off at the house and drove to the office. It was dark, Jacob’s computer powered off, the only illumination coming from an EMERGENCY EXIT sign above the stairwell. I flipped on the lights in my office and powered up my iMac. As it hummed to life, I cleared off my desk and withdrew the stack of case files.
I undid the thick rubber bands around each file and spaced them out around the large surface of my desk, putting Gabe Kavin’s in the middle.
My computer chimed, and I logged in, then pulled up the twenty-two-page psychological profile I had sent to Robert. I printed out two copies of the document and grabbed a red pen. Flipping on the desk lamp, I curved the neck so it shone down on the folders.
My first order of business was to determine if there was actually aftercare involved, or if the photo Jacob had sent me was an exception to the rule.
I opened the first file.
Trey Winkle was seventeen, a lacrosse player from Serra Retreat. He was found in a ditch along the entrance road to the Griffith Observatory. I flipped to the autopsy section and scanned the findings.
Some adhesive residue along a deep cut in his thigh. The wound was clean and looked cared for. A Band-Aid would be the likely explanation for the residue.
My killer wouldn’t use a Band-Aid.
I flipped to the next victim. Travis Patterson. Well fed. His hair
was clean. Partially healed wounds.
I pulled out a pad of paper and took notes, moving through all five files before getting to Gabe Kavin’s.
I took a deep breath. A pattern was already established, but Gabe had been an anomaly from the start. His death was more brutal—maybe his care had been skipped.
But it hadn’t. Like the others, he was healthy at the time of his death. Also well fed and cared for, if you ignored the torture and rape every couple of days.
I set down the pen and rubbed my temple. If guilt and regret were responsible for the kindnesses, but the individual was still engaging in habitual violence, then we were talking about a disorder. This wasn’t bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. That would be characterized by manic swings or episodes, and there was no way that a manic individual would be able to execute this level of evidence-free and precise pattern kills.
I leaned back in my chair with a groan and looked up at the tray ceiling.
If the aftercare was an established pattern, which it was . . .
If the abductions, captivity, and kills had been well planned and executed with careful timing, which they were . . .
If signs pointed to a killer’s history of personal trauma, which they did . . .
Paranoid schizophrenia—PS—or dissociative identity disorder—DID—were the most likely culprits.
Paranoid schizophrenia was the most common mental disorder diagnosed among any criminal, but especially serial killers. David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, Richard Chase, Jared Lee Loughner . . . Randall Thompson could easily be joining their ranks. The disorder was characterized by delusions, and typically, in a case like this, voices or visions that dictated a person’s actions. An imaginary individual might be orchestrating and ordering the violent actions, and the killer’s true personality is the one caring for and comforting the patient in the aftermath. Or—and more likely—vice versa.
Dissociative identity disorder was commonly known as multiple personality disorder. If accurate, it would mean that the BH Killer was acting in separate personas. Maybe two, maybe more.
I’d had a client with DID before. It was one of psychology’s more complicated diagnoses, and every case was different. Often it was triggered by a severe emotional or physical trauma. Sometimes it could be “cured” by therapy; often it could not. In the more publicized cases, the secondary personalities could be quite violent.