by Torre, A. R.
I cleared my throat. “I created a psychological profile and need to compare you to that profile and see if it’s a match. That’s why I’m here, and why I was hired by Robert. Who, by the way, seems convinced of your innocence.” I stared at him until he lifted his eyes and met mine. “How’d he end up as your attorney?”
“He showed up shortly after I was arrested and offered to represent me.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not exactly in a position to be choosy.”
No, he wasn’t. After sending my profile to Robert, I had caught up on the television reports and the news articles on Randall. The media had done an excellent job of dissecting and documenting his unimpressive life. He lived in a run-down home that had belonged to his parents, earned a menial wage from teaching, and was a strip-mall Santa each holiday season. He kept the beard and belly year-round and had the pallor of someone who rarely saw sunlight.
I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right for the BH Killer. I switched tactics. “We know someone in common.” I clipped my pen into the top of my binder. “Luke Attens.” I watched him closely, waiting for a reaction to the mention.
He stared at me blankly, and unless this guy grew a personality when he drank coffee, I didn’t know how he’d ever earned a nomination for Teacher of the Year.
“Luke Attens,” I repeated. “He was a student of yours.”
“Oh.” He nodded, but there was nothing there. “Okay. How long ago?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Probably ten years ago.”
He lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. “Lots of kids come through my classroom. Two hundred a year. It’s hard to keep track of them all.”
I thought of Luke, of the raw rage trembling through his features, and how he would react if he knew that Randall Thompson didn’t remember him.
I took a risk and lied, filling in the blanks that Luke Attens had given me and hoping it would goad Randall Thompson into revealing something. “He says that you acted inappropriately toward him. Sexually.”
His features immediately shuttered, a door closing in my face. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Maybe you don’t remember it,” I suggested.
He looked me right in the eye, and it was the most energy he’d given me so far. “I’m not a fag,” he said emphatically, and the corner of his lip lifted in a sneer.
Hmm. One key that fit into place. Strong disdain toward homosexuality. And there was something in those eyes, in the flare of emotion, that read predator. I’d been around too many dangerous individuals to not recognize one in the flesh. This one was slow and old—would probably wheeze over and die while chasing you through the woods—but there was still something rotten behind that wary stare.
My impressions of him clicked through my mind. What matched my profile, what didn’t. My instincts on his character versus my clinical opinion and the profile. He wasn’t an innocent man, despite what Robert protested. Had mild signs of paranoid schizophrenia, but poor hygiene and slow movements weren’t unique identifiers.
The big question was, was he the BH Killer?
Robert waited until we were out of the jail and halfway across the parking lot before asking my thoughts.
“I don’t know yet. Let me go through my notes.” I noticed a news van at the far end of the lot, a camera pointed our way, and increased my speed.
“Gwen . . .” It was more of a warning than a plea. He unlocked his car, and the lights on the Mercedes flashed.
I met his eyes over the roof of the car and fished in my purse for my own keys. “These aren’t building blocks, Robert. I can’t just tell you if a round peg fits in a hole. I need to absorb everything he said.”
“Fine. Let’s talk later tonight. Drinks at my house.”
I glanced toward the cameras, aware that one was headed our way. “What about tomorrow? I’ll call your office and schedule an appointment.”
His grin was almost wolfish when it unfurled across that mouth. “Oh, come on. If I spend any more time in my office, I’ll go batty. We can relax at the house. Sit by the outdoor fire. Trust me, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
And he always had been. The issue was on my end. I had never been to his house, but I was assuming it was like the rest of him. Smooth. Tempting. A siren’s call to slip off your heels, unbutton your blouse, and guzzle wine like a cheap whore. “Tomorrow,” I tried again. “I’m free in the afternoon.”
He opened his car door and prepared to step inside, his final words tossed over the roof of the car as he disappeared inside. “Come by the house at eight. I’ll text you the address.”
No, I thought. No. His engine purred to life, and I took a step back, then glanced around for my car. Spotting it three rows over, I headed toward it. As Robert’s Mercedes swung past me, I didn’t turn my head and didn’t acknowledge it.
No, I thought. I will not be at your house at eight. I needed a desk between us. Papers and folders and staples and desk lamps. A receptionist in the background. Order applied to the chaos.
The stance sounded good, but I was already picking out lingerie and shaving my legs, my body humming in anticipation of what the night might bring.
I stepped into the warmth of my car and unlocked the roof, needing as much fresh air as I could get. I had a bigger problem than my libido, and that was that both men inside that jail—Robert and Randall—had been lying to me. I would face one of them again in a courtroom, and the other in just a few hours in his home.
Both were lying, but were both of them dangerous?
CHAPTER 33
Nita flipped through a catalog of patio furniture at the kitchen counter. Beside her, Beth, their chef, started the mixer on a large batch of brownies.
“Would you like me to turn off the television, Mrs. Harden?”
Nita glanced at the screen that hung above the stainless double ovens. The news had moved off their discussion of restaurant regulations and was now showing an aerial view of the jail where Randall Thompson was being kept. “No, it’s okay.” She set down the catalog and watched as the camera showed a close-up of the jail’s sign. Was this the moment that they would share the update on Scott? Ever since he’d changed his story and admitted he’d lied . . . she’d been tense, waiting for the media to sniff out the news and explode into action.
It hadn’t happened yet, but it would. Any minute, any day, the story would break, and they would become instant villains. Accused of obstructing justice. Lying. Scott’s hero status would immediately be stripped, his reputation forever tarnished.
The newscaster spoke. “Randall Thompson’s legal defense team has grown to include Dr. Gwen Moore, a psychiatrist who specializes in criminal behavior.”
The camera zoomed in on the entry doors, where Randall’s attorney ushered out a tall brunette in a black suit. Nita’s stomach instinctively rolled at the sight of Robert Kavin. When Scott had first gone missing, Kavin had been one of the first to reach out. It had been nice, speaking to someone who had gone through the same thing she and her husband had, someone who could truly understand the horrible roller coaster of emotions involved in losing a son and being helpless to find him.
But he’d been a snake, one with a handsome smile and a sharp knife hidden behind his back. As soon as Scott had identified the killer, he had reemerged, offering free legal services to Randall Thompson and building a case to discredit Scott.
George’s theory was that Robert Kavin was bitter that Scott had lived and his son had died. He thought Kavin was punishing them because he’d lost Gabe, so he wanted to make Scott’s life hell.
Nita refused to believe that a parent would be that selfish. Even in her darkest moments, she had never wished ill on a child. Even the BH Killer’s own, if he had one. Randall Thompson did not.
“Dr. Gwen Moore is known for her work with the Los Angeles Police Department on the Red River shooter.” The camera flipped to show a close-up of Gwen, who was striding through the parking lot. She was a beautiful woman. Dark hair, pale porcelain skin. She had a sl
ightly upturned nose, which gave her a sense of youthfulness. Her eyes caught the camera, and she stared at it coolly, then continued walking.
She looked like a woman who had all the answers, which must be nice. At the moment, Nita was swimming in questions, all of which concerned her son. She glanced toward the ceiling, in the direction of Scott’s room. It had been a week since he’d confessed the truth to the police, and she had barely seen him during that time. He stayed in his room, the door locked, and ignored any offers for food or attempts to get him out of the house. Their interior security cameras had caught him sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to eat, then quickly retreating back to his room.
Maybe she should get him to a doctor. This was probably PTSD. There were programs they could get him into, mental exercises that would help his emotional fortitude. And protection dogs—huge, intimidating creatures that could crawl in car windows and keep his fears of attack at bay. She had already found one in Germany, which could be here within two weeks.
Attack dogs and counseling sessions—was that what her parenting options had come to? Earlier this morning, she had researched obstruction-of-justice laws and criminal attorneys, in case the LAPD pressed charges against Scott. And last night, she had logged in to their cell phone billing system and looked at his call and text activity.
She didn’t recognize herself. Spying on her son. Tracking his movements, monitoring his calls, watching him on their home security cams. Six months ago, her concerns would have been centered on drugs and girls. Now she was afraid of losing him mentally, physically, and emotionally. When faced with those possibilities, she had to break boundaries and invade his privacy. She wouldn’t apologize for that, even if he hated her for it one day.
She climbed off the stool. “I’m going to head upstairs, see if I can get Scott to eat something.”
Beth set down a spoon and moved to the oven. “Wait, I’ll prepare a plate for him.” Opening the door, she pulled out the tray of cheeseburgers she’d kept warm in hopes he would come downstairs.
Nita waited as she assembled one with bacon strips and a bun, half wrapped it in foil, and placed it on a tray with a handful of crispy fries and a bottle of ketchup.
“He want mustard or pickles?” Beth asked.
“No, this is fine. Thank you.”
Nita skipped the stairs and took the elevator, juggling the tray with one hand as she closed the gate and pressed the button for the second floor. Scott’s phone records had been alarming, so much so that she had woken up George to get his take on them. There had been almost constant activity until the day he was taken—then, as expected, complete silence for seven weeks. Then, upon his return, almost nothing.
Almost.
With the exception of his single call to the Realtor, all his calls and texts had been to a single number. Just one. No calls to Kyle or Lamar or Andy. No back-and-forth messages with the dozens of girls who had always hung around, hoping for his attention. This had been just one number, and dozens of calls and texts to it. The calls had been short, less than a minute in length. And all the texts outgoing, with none incoming.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, he stopped, and his cell phone usage ceased to nothing. As if he were gone again.
George had told her to call the number, which she had. It had gone straight to an automated voice mail, one that repeated back the number but gave no hint to its owner.
The elevator chimed, and she stepped off. At Scott’s door, she knocked, then jiggled the heavy chrome handle. “Scott, it’s Mom.”
Music played from inside the room, and this was how suicides happened. Emotional withdrawal was always the first sign, according to the articles she was reading online. And Scott had been sulking ever since they’d returned from the police station and he and George had had that fight.
God, she would almost rather take the screaming over the silence. Though, later, George had agreed—yelling at Scott hadn’t been the right move. Yes, he had lied to police. Yes, he could be facing an obstruction-of-justice charge—but he was alive. Home. Safe. The other details didn’t matter.
“Scott, Beth just made bacon cheeseburgers,” she tried again. “I’ve got one hot and ready for you, with those crispy fries you like. Please open up.” She put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing. Could he even hear her?
At the end of the hall, the door to their study opened, and George emerged. He was in pale-green golf shorts and a white polo and looked as successful and put together as he had the very first time she’d seen him, twenty-two years ago.
“The door still locked?” George asked.
“Yes.” She used the flat end of her fist to pound on the door. It created a soft thud, and if she’d hit her childhood bedroom door that hard, it would have cracked the cheap plywood.
George spoke from behind her. “Just let me kick the door in. He’s not going to open it.”
A week ago, she would have argued with him, but her concern for Scott was beginning to border on panic. “You shouldn’t have been so hard on him,” she said quietly, though she had been right there beside him, both of their voices raised in frustration during the drive home from the station.
“Scott,” George called out, “open the door or I’m going to break it down.”
The music turned down, and Nita held her breath. A few moments later, Scott opened the door.
At the sight of her son, she put a hand on her husband’s arm and gently pushed him away. Navigating into the room with the tray of food, she gave George a warning look and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Come on, Mom,” Scott groaned, his shoulders slumping. “I just want to be alone.”
She set the tray on his desk and made her way to his minifridge. Opening the door, she tsked over the almost empty contents. All sugary soda. Her son, who had once been so health conscious, was now just like every other American teen. Half-opened bag of Cheetos on the top of the fridge, an overflowing trash can with candy bars and empty soda cans. She pulled an orange soda from the fridge and brought it to him. He already had his butt in the desk chair, the burger to his mouth. Fast, ravenous bites.
He was shirtless, and her gaze traced over the heart outline that Randall Thompson had cut into his chest. He cleared his throat, and she realized he was watching her.
She averted her gaze. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He stuffed a fry in his mouth.
“I can put some ointment on that,” she offered. “I have a scar-repair cream I used after my knee surgery that really worked . . .” Her offer dropped off as he shifted away, almost shielding the wound from her.
“I don’t want to put anything on it.”
She frowned. “It’ll leave a scar, Scott. Surely you don’t want to—”
“No!”
The ferocity in his tone shut her up. She swallowed and sat on the edge of his bed. “I was just trying to help.”
His face softened. “I know, Mom. I just—I don’t want to lose the scar. This happened to me. I’m not going to forget it.”
Of course he wasn’t. And she wasn’t trying to make him forget anything. She just wanted to heal him. Inside and out. “We miss you, Scott. You don’t have to lock yourself away up here.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I know, but Scott—” She swallowed the urge to ask him a dozen questions and settled for one. “Why’d you tell us that you escaped? Why didn’t you just tell us that he let you go?”
He took a bite of the burger and chewed, his eyes on the wall before him, his shoulders stiff with tension. By the time he wiped his mouth—he never wiped his mouth—she was ready to reach out and shake him. “I don’t know. No one else was let go.”
In Scott’s newest statement to the police, he said Randall had unlocked his handcuffs and put him in the trunk of his car, then drove him out to a gas station a couple of miles from their house, where he pulled him out and told him that he’d let him go, but only if he ran straight home.
/> “I was different,” he’d said, his voice thick with emotion. “Special. It’s why I was set free.”
Special? Something about the way Scott said it had unnerved Nita. There was gratitude in his voice, a spark of pride in his eyes. Even now, he placed his hand on his chest, almost as if to protect the wound.
“So, you thought we wouldn’t believe you? That’s why you lied?”
He swallowed the bite he was chewing and reached for the soda. “Yeah.”
Her motherly intuition flared, as it had been doing since the moment he got home. He was lying. Had the first time, and still was. The conflicting evidence, previously dismissed by her, was starting to stack up. Just this morning, the attorney reminded them that they hadn’t found any of his DNA in Mr. Thompson’s trunk. Her patience snapped. “Scott, look at me.”
He turned his head, and his eyes found hers, but there wasn’t a connection there.
“Right now, I need you to tell me the truth. Without your father listening, without the cops around. Just talk to me.”
He blinked.
“Scott?” she pressed. “What else are you keeping from me?”
He turned back to his cheeseburger and picked it up. Studying it, he slowly dipped his head and took another bite.
Her frustration rose. Yes, he had been through a traumatic ordeal. Yes, she was grateful that he was home. But a man was in jail based off his testimony. Police and county resources had been used to prepare a court case based off what he had said—what he had lied about. His new story was causing countless hours of work in shifting evidence, reports, and defense strategies. And yet he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d been more than happy to tell his fake story of escape to anyone who wanted to listen, but now—with the truth out—he was clamming up.
She reached out and slammed a hand on his desk, then immediately regretted the action when her son flinched in response. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “But talk to me, for shit’s sake.”