As Olivia cowered, her day unwound like a spool of thread, back to the beginning when she’d been up before daybreak to return Shauna to her car at the Hickory Pit with a stern warning. Then, to the prison with Emily, who’d made the entire ride in silence. The long, tense walk up the runway to the MHU, where she’d learned Hank had conveniently called in sick. A couple of grin-and-bear-it meetings she couldn’t reschedule. And finally, to Drake. He’d shown up again unexpected and dropped a bomb. All of it led here. To this. Her punishment doled out by the universe. Because she’d planned to tell Deck he’d gotten it all wrong. She’d walked down here just for that reason, savoring her rightness. Now, she watched Deck push his way to her, skirting the melee even as it grew, spreading down the runway like a wildfire racing through dry grass.
“Pepper spray!” someone yelled.
Olivia felt the instant burn in her eyes. Her throat closed, and she covered her nose and mouth with her sweater, gasping. Morrie had already done the same, tugging his blanket over his face. Her knees weakened, and she leaned into the wall next to him, fearing she’d go down hard. End up flat on her belly like an inmate. But a hand latched itself to her forearm, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she collapsed against it.
Through the blur of fiery tears, she saw Deck’s face. His jaw the color of eggplant.
“I got you,” he said.
Olivia stuck her face under the cold water again, keeping it there as long as she could hold her breath. A swollen-eyed, red-faced crazy lady blinked back at her in the mirror. She dabbed at her cheeks with a paper towel, straightened her ponytail, and reevaluated. At least she’d moved one rung down the crazy ladder.
“You okay in there?” Deck asked through the door.
“Wonderful. Never been better.” Her voice scratched her raw throat.
“I figured as much. Sure you don’t need any help?”
She sighed and opened it. “I don’t think there’s any help for this.”
“It’s really not that bad.” Deck gestured down the hallway, where at least twenty inmates had been cuffed and seated on the ground. Twice as many officers tended to them, getting their names and statements. “You should see those guys.”
“Is Morrie okay?”
“Who?”
“The man in the wheelchair.” Olivia scanned the crowd for him. Found him at the periphery being examined by a nurse. She didn’t question her relief. Just let it flood in, not wanting to admit to herself how much Morrie reminded her of her father.
Olivia spotted Warden Blevins parting the sea of officers to get to her. He took her aside, his features arranging themselves into a practiced look of concern. “Are you alright, Doctor? I heard you were caught up in the middle of this nonsense.”
“I’m okay. Just a little shaken up. What happened?”
“Drake Devere nearly started a riot. That’s what happened.”
“Drake?”
“Some of the inmates reported hearing him arguing with Officer Murdock. Next thing you know, he went for her baton, and that kicked off the whole mess.” He glanced over his shoulder, leaned in close, and lowered his voice. “This is exactly why I asked you to keep an eye on him.”
Olivia stepped back. Glaring at him through her swollen eyes. “I’m not sure what you had in mind, Warden. I’m a psychologist, not a correctional officer. And I’m certainly not a part of the IGI.”
As she spoke, Olivia spotted them, the Institutional Gang Investigators, talking with Tommy Rigsby, who had a swollen nose and a cut above one eye to go with his pepper-sprayed face. He kept his bloodied lips shut tight as a clam.
“Why don’t you schedule an extra session with Drake? Get him gabbing.”
“That seems…” Olivia tried to find another word but came up empty, and she didn’t dare mention Drake’s early morning visit. “Unethical. Don’t you think?”
“Doctor Rockwell, the safety and security of the institution is at stake. I’m not asking you to break any rules. Just give him what he’s always wanted. Attention.”
Olivia watched him go, her mouth hung slightly open, dumbfounded. She clenched her fists, studied her hands. The spot of blood long gone now, swirled down the drain. But something gnawed at her. When she realized, she hurried toward Deck.
“Do you have my folder?” she asked, panicked. She couldn’t remember when it had fallen from her hand. She imagined an inmate rifling through it, passing her profile of the Fog Harbor killer around the chow hall like a tawdry magazine. She imagined it landing, somehow, on the warden’s desk. “My folder?” she asked again, more urgent this time.
Olivia vaguely recognized the older man who held it out to her, grinning. She grabbed at it, clung to it like a life raft. The little spot of blood spatter permanent now. “You mean this thing? He read it.”
“You what?”
Deck took a quick jump back from her. Like she might bite.
“I told him not to. But City Boy don’t listen.”
“I didn’t read it, I swear. Not even a peek. This lying codger is my partner, by the way. Jimmy Benson. Some people call him JB. I won’t repeat what I call him.”
“Pleasure is all mine.” JB took her hand, and she realized why she’d recognized him. His photo adorned the Hickory Pit Hall of Fame Wall, as one of three Fog Harbor residents to complete the seventy-two-ounce steak challenge. “Will tells me you’re a big deal around here. That you’ve done some criminal profiling. For the FBI, no less.”
“I didn’t say you were a big deal. I mean, not that you’re not a big deal. But—”
“Can we maybe sit down somewhere?” Olivia asked, suddenly feeling woozy. Before she knew it, Will had his hands on her again, steadying her. He guided her across the hall and into the warden’s office, where they filed into a small room off the main corridor. Her skin felt white-hot beneath his and impossibly cold when he released her, helping her settle into a folding chair.
“Your first time?” JB asked. “Gettin’ pepper-sprayed, I mean.”
Olivia nodded, watching Deck lean against the desk opposite her. He rolled his eyes.
“I remember my first time,” JB said fondly. “Back in LA in the nineties when the department first got wise to it. We had to take a spray right to the face and fend off an attack by our trainer. Like we needed to know how it feels. Ain’t never made sense to me. Are they gonna shoot us too? Anyway, there were guys rollin’ on the floor, howlin’ like dogs. But I made the worst mistake. Took a shower right after. That spray went straight down to my crotch. And let me tell you—”
“I don’t think Olivia wants to hear this story.”
“’Course she does. See, it’s makin’ her feel better. Look at that smile on her face. Watch and learn, City Boy. Watch and learn.”
Olivia laughed, mostly to get under Deck’s skin. The huff of his exasperated breath told her it had done the trick. Anyway, JB had a point. Smiling eased the sting, loosened the knots in her neck. “I’ll bet they called you ‘balls of fire,’” she said.
“Please don’t encourage him.”
“Actually, no.” JB slapped his knee, guffawing. “But my third ex-wife did.”
Olivia held the folder with the profile she’d made close to her chest like a shield. She knew about adrenaline. How it rushed in, swirling and roiling in her blood. How it rushed out and swept everything clean, leaving her exhausted. As she looked at Deck, at his expectant eyes, she wondered if the whole week had finally caught up to her.
“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Deck asked. “We can do it another time.”
“I’m fine. Completely fine.” Maybe if she said it often enough, loud enough, she’d believe it.
“Later today, even. I can meet you somewhere.”
“It’s alright. Really.”
“Take a hint, City Boy.” His voice ratcheted up an octave. “She’s just not that into you.”
“Well, you would know,” Deck shot back. “With four ex-wives you’re bound to be an expert.” But h
is cheeks gave him away, turning a rosy pink.
Embarrassed for him, Olivia cleared her throat, bringing their attention back to her. She laid the folder on the desk and opened it. “I reviewed all of the information you gave me.”
“And?”
As Deck peered down at her notes, she quickly hid them beneath a crime scene photo. The picture of Bonnie dead in the drainpipe. Ugly as it was, she preferred it to the two words—the name—she’d scrawled at the top of her notes. She shouldn’t have written it down.
“I think you’re way off base about Drake. He doesn’t fit the profile. Or rather, the profile doesn’t fit him.”
“Please enlighten us then, Doctor.”
Olivia rolled her eyes at Deck but let it slide. The poor guy had to deal with JB’s constant ragging. Besides, she liked the way he said it. The way he looked at her, daring her to prove him wrong.
“The most obvious thing is the abnormally short or absent refractory period.”
JB contorted his face. “The whoosy-whatzit?”
“The length of time between kills,” Deck said, not even cracking a smile.
“Exactly. When Drake was operating in the community, he followed the pattern of a typical serial killer, with years lapsing between kills and an apparent return to normalcy in between episodes of extreme violence. This killer seems to be a different breed. More like a spree killer, where there is no cooling off. At the very least, this behavior is entirely inconsistent with Drake’s.”
“What about the UCLA study?”
Olivia blinked back her astonishment at the question. Deck had gone and surprised her again.
“It only proves my point. The researchers used mathematical analysis to test the hypothesis that serial killing arises from the simultaneous firing of neurons in the brain. When enough neurons fire, the serial killer reaches a threshold beyond which he can no longer control his urge to kill. Once those neurons fire, they need a break before they can fire again. History tells us Drake’s neurons don’t fire this fast.”
JB’s head whipped between them, and he threw up his hands. “Neurons? Mathematical analysis? Where the hell am I? Because I’m pretty sure I just time-traveled back to ninth grade science class. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to recite the periodic table and use a Bunsen burner.”
Deck barely glanced at his partner, keeping his eyes locked on her. She didn’t dare look away. That would mean surrender. “But wasn’t the whole study inspired by The Butcher of Rostov?” he asked. “He had a similar MO. Successive kills in short bursts. Like a spree. Maybe Drake’s just getting it out of his system, being locked up all this time. Patterns can change, right?”
“Two murders does not a pattern make. But that’s not all. Your killer is hands-off, relying on a garrote to strangle both victims. Drake always used his hands. That was essential for him. The feeling of closeness, of possession. Ted Bundy talked about it, about wanting to feel the last breath leave the body. Same for Drake. It was a turn-on for him.”
JB shook his head in disgust. “Now there’s a guy you can bring home to meet the parents.”
“I’d say the garrote implies a physically weaker suspect, especially since there was no obvious bruising on the victims’ backs. A stronger perpetrator would use a knee to the back for leverage. A weaker perp would turn his or her back to the victim and rely on their entire body. Not to mention, Drake is a rapist. It was the only real evidence he ever left behind. Chet’s report indicates no clear evidence of sexual assault. I’d guess the victims were posed—clothing torn, leggings pulled down—to make you suspect sex was the motive. And with the materials used to make the garrote, maybe even to make you suspect Drake.”
Deck twisted his mouth like he tasted something bitter. “I’m not saying I agree. But, if you’re right, then what is the motive?”
Olivia squirmed, flashed a nervous smile. “That’s an excellent question, Detective.”
“Sounds like you don’t have an answer.”
“I have an answer. A guess, anyway. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
Deck smiled back, smug. Not nervous at all. “Try me.”
“It seems the killer or killers—I’m not sure you can assume it’s the work of a single perpetrator—want to make a statement. That’s why they held onto Bonnie’s body. And left it near the church where it wouldn’t be missed. I would guess the killer was watching that day. Maybe even attending the vigil, wanting to witness the impact. Or to be sure the impact would be felt by as many people as possible.”
“But that doesn’t fit with the Ricci murder. Laura was found hours after she’d been killed and in a remote location. No big statement there.”
“The killer already has our attention. The location was remote, but obvious. Near her home and easily discovered. With footprints this time. Correct-Tex brand footprints. Everybody who works at the prison knows that brand. They sponsor our staff Thanksgiving dinner.”
Deck hoisted himself from his perch on the desk and paced to the other side of the room. When he turned to face her, eyes burning, she felt the sting. “Are you saying this guy wants to be caught?”
“I’m saying whoever is doing this wants someone to be caught. You have to consider the possibility that Drake is right. He’s being set up.”
Deck’s bitter laugh broke the silence.
“You can’t actually believe that.”
“You asked me what I thought, and I told you. What you do with it is up to you.”
“Oh, I can think of a few things I’d like to do with it.” He snatched the folder from the desk and waved it precariously above the trash can, as JB grimaced, wide-eyed.
Olivia watched her notes drop like blades of shattered glass to the waiting mouth of the trash can and onto the floor beside it. She heard Drake’s hypnotic voice in her head, what he’d told her just this morning. He could lie with ease, but this time, Olivia knew without a doubt, he’d been telling the truth. Because she’d seen it with her own eyes.
I can’t name names but I figured out who might be settin’ me up, and it’s big, Doc. It’s big. About two weeks ago, I’d wandered into the chapel to do some writing. I was on a roll. Words pourin’ out like a river. Some real flow, self-actualized type shit. But then my pen ran out. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I snuck into the chaplain’s office, snagged a couple of those fancy ink pens he’s got. That’s when I heard voices. I saw things I wasn’t supposed to see.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” JB muttered, as Deck’s mouth hung slightly open. They both stared at the page that had landed on JB’s loafered foot. At the heading—SUSPECTS—she’d underlined twice, punctuated with a question mark. At the single name she’d written there.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Still sore from the tussle last night, Will’s body protested as he hurried to grab the page before Olivia could snatch it back and tell him he was out of his mind, that he hadn’t read the warden’s name clear as day on her suspect list. With a groan, he grabbed the nearest corner of the sheet, tugging it across JB’s shoe toward him. It didn’t budge an inch in his direction, and he knew why. But he didn’t dare look up at her. Those eyes would do him in and he’d let go. Then she’d win, and he’d look even more foolish than he did already, tossing her notes into the trash like a petulant teenager.
“Let go,” she hissed.
“You let go.” He tugged harder and harder until he heard an ominous rip.
JB guffawed, as Will cursed, stumbled back, nearly lost his balance. In his hand, a tiny scrap of paper. He stood, steadied himself, and tossed it, watching as it fluttered into the trash can, landing between a coffee cup and a used napkin, somewhere in the general vicinity of his self-respect. A laugh clunked from his throat, dead on arrival.
“I told you to let go.” Olivia mocked him from across the room, holding out the nearly intact page in her hand like a trophy.
“She did tell you to let go,” JB echoed.
Will sighe
d. “I assume you’re also going to tell me I didn’t see what I think I did.”
“You saw something?” Just as he feared, she halved the sheet and halved it again, tucking it into her pants pocket with a smirk. “What did you see?”
Will hustled out the door and into the hallway, leaving Dr. Smarty Pants and her fiery green eyes behind him. He waited there, trying to make sense of it all. Of Drake and the melee that morning. Of Olivia’s profile and the name she’d written. Of the tension between them, a dynamite fuse about to blow the rust right off his world-weary heart. But most of all, he tried to make sense of the desperate urge he felt to push her up against the wall and kiss her mouth raw.
Will stayed two steps ahead of JB as they traversed the sidewalk outside the prison gates and headed back to the car. He wished he’d come alone. No witnesses. Because he knew exactly what awaited him. He’d never live this one down. He needed no further proof than JB’s uncharacteristic silence.
As soon as he shut the door, Will cranked the engine and turned to him. “Don’t say a word.”
“Wasn’t gonna.”
“Good.”
JB fiddled with the radio, cranking up “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” To Will’s horror, he began to sing along.
“You sound like the stray cat living in my garage.”
JB belted out the chorus, complete with Broadway-inspired hand gestures.
“Please make it stop.”
He finished with a small bow, as the announcer’s baritone voice filled the car. “Next up, a children’s classic we all love. Good ole ‘Frosty The Snow—’”
Will cut the radio.
“Alright, no Frosty. Guess that means you want to talk then. You didn’t tell me you had yourself a crush, City Boy. You keep surprising me.”
“Well, that makes two of us. Since I didn’t realize you had connections in Hollywood.”
“You liked that, huh? I told ya. Detective of the Year right here. You don’t earn that without gettin’ a gold star in interrogation. I’m a man of the people. They open up to me. Like that pretty lady doctor did after you stormed out. She thinks you’re a real asshole. The kind of asshole she’d like to see naked.”
Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1) Page 14