Blood Memory

by Greg Iles

  “That’s not strictly true. Almost five percent of serials are female.”

  Sean looks expectantly at me. He’s an instinctive investigator, and while he is very good, most of his knowledge is based on his own experience or that of other detectives around the country—usually men with whom he has a personal relationship. I’ve made it a point to educate myself in the professional literature of serial homicide, and my knowledge is far broader. This often irritates Sean, but he’s pragmatic enough to make use of what I know.

  “Female serials operate for an average of eight years before being caught,” I tell him. “That’s twice as long as male offenders. And one of their hallmarks is a very clean crime scene.”

  “Okay,” he allows, “but don’t most of them have a male accomplice?”

  “Eighty-six percent use an accomplice, but it’s not always male. What works against a female here is the type of crime. Most female serials are so-called ‘black widows,’ who kill their husbands, or angels of death, who kill hospital patients. Often the victims are family members. The only female serial classified as committing sexual homicide against strangers and acting alone is Wuornos.”

  Sean looks almost smug.

  “But I think she was wrongly classified,” I go on. “Aileen Wuornos killed to punish men for sexually abusing her. One of Malik’s patients could be doing the same thing.”

  “I’m not saying it’s impossible,” says Sean. “But the crime signature weighs against it. The marksmanship, the nudity, the torture—”

  “Revenge,” I argue. “You have very little cooling-off period in revenge killings, and that fits this case. And the bite marks are almost certainly made after the incapacitating gunshot. A woman would have to disable her victims before getting close enough to bite like that.”

  “Do you really see a woman ripping these guys up with her teeth?”

  I’ve had some pretty violent urges myself. “A sexually abused woman probably carries around a lot of repressed rage, Sean.”

  “Yeah, but women turn rage inward. That’s why they commit suicide, not homicide.”

  He’s right about that. “What about Colonel Moreland’s daughter? Stacey Lorio? Army brat, tough-looking woman. You said she had alibis for all the murders?”

  “Yep, all corroborated. Couple of times with friends, couple of times with her ex-husband. Her ex doesn’t even like her, but he confirmed. Talked to him myself. He said, ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the bitch, but I still like to screw her now and again.’”

  “Sounds like a great guy.” Frustration is making me crave alcohol. “Okay then, a male patient of Malik’s. Abused as a boy. A large percentage of convicted serial killers were abused as young boys.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Sean says, his tone warming. “The second we get that patient list, I’ll start working that angle.” He bends over and stretches his back, the vertebrae popping like Chinese firecrackers. “You want to take a break?”

  My body tenses. Normally, when given an opportunity to be alone for an extended period like this, we would spend much of it in bed. But today the bedroom door is closed, and it’s going to stay that way.

  My eyes must have betrayed my thoughts, because Sean quickly says, “I was thinking of running over to R and O’s, getting a couple of oyster po-boys.”

  I relax—a little. “That sounds good.”

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Look, you don’t have to stay here all day. I want to read Malik’s book.”

  Sean looks at me with calm sincerity. “I want to stay. If that’s all right with you?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Okay. Why don’t you get the food, then?”

  He gets his keys and heads out to the garage. No kiss good-bye, just a light touch on my forearm.

  I go into the bedroom and strip the vodka-soaked sheets, then carry them to the washing machine. The alcohol evaporating from the cotton is enough to ignite a craving that itches in every cell of my body. My mind goes to the Valium in my purse, but it’s time to start weaning myself off that. A birth defect isn’t the first gift I want to give the baby growing inside me.

  To take my mind off my craving—as if anything could—I go back to the kitchen table and pick up Nathan Malik’s book, which Sean borrowed from the Tulane Medical School library. Titled The River Lethe: Repressed Memory and Soul Murder, it’s a thin volume, only 130 pages long. Its dark jacket shows an eerie, moonlit scene: an old, robed man standing in a boat in a river, and a frail young woman waiting to board. The image seems unlikely to inspire feelings of well-being in someone who’s been sexually abused. But maybe it presses a button in such victims that prompts them to want to discover what’s between the covers.

  The book jacket has the opposite effect on me. Despite my desire to learn more about the inner workings of Nathan Malik’s mind, the prospect of wading through 130 pages on child abuse is too much to handle right now. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. Besides, Sean will be back soon. Better to start the book later, when I can read it in a single sitting.

  While I wait for Sean to return, I scan a list of Malik’s professional publications. His earliest articles focused on bipolar disorder, summarizing extensive work he did with manic-depressives. Then came a study analyzing post-traumatic stress disorder in Vietnam veterans. Judging by the abstracts of the articles, Malik’s work on PTSD in veterans is what led him to study the same phenomenon in survivors of sexual abuse. This, in turn, led to groundbreaking research on multiple personality disorder.

  “Oysters in the house!” Sean calls from the garage door.

  He walks in carrying a brown bag spotted with grease. He’s opening it on the kitchen table when his cell phone rings. Glancing at the screen, he says, “It’s Joey.” Detective Joey Guercio is his partner. “Joey? What you got?”

  The smile vanishes from Sean’s face. “No shit? Was Kaiser around when they found this?…Okay. I’ll talk to him later. This could be big, though…. I appreciate it…. Yeah. They checking all the other vics for the same thing?…Okay. Call me with anything else they find.” He hangs up and looks at me. “There’s another connection between two of the victims. The first one and today’s. Colonel Moreland and Calhoun.”

  “Through Malik?” I ask hopefully.

  “No.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “Vietnam.”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if Sean had said “Harvard.” “What about Vietnam?”

  “They both served there. Moreland and Calhoun.”

  “At the same time?”

  “Their dates of service intersect. Colonel Moreland was career army. He served in-country from 1966 to 1969. James Calhoun was there in sixty-eight and sixty-nine.”

  “What branch of service?”

  “None. Calhoun was a civilian engineer on contract to the Department of Defense.”

  I find it difficult to believe that this connection is relevant to our case. “Vietnam’s a big country. There were five hundred thousand troops there. Is there any evidence that the two men knew each other?”

  “Not yet. The task force just found this out. But it seems odd, don’t you think?”

  “Not really. Most of the victims are the right age for Vietnam.”

  “Yes, but most people that age didn’t serve over there. A couple of my older brother’s friends went, but that’s all I knew. Now, out of five murder victims, we get two guys who did?”

  I don’t answer. I’m thinking about my father and his Vietnam service. How many of my schoolmates’ fathers or uncles served there? None that I can recall. But I went to a prep school. Probably quite a few kids from the public school had fathers in that war.

  “We’re forgetting something else,” Sean says. “Nathan Malik did a tour in Nam. Same time frame as Calhoun, which means he was there at the same time as Moreland, too. What do you think about that?”

  “It is sounding less like a coincidence.”

  “We co
uld be way off on motive, Cat. This directly links the victims themselves, not women who happen to be related to them.”

  “But you’re using Malik as part of that linkage, and we got to Malik through those female relatives.”

  Sean nods. “You’re right. And if these murders have to do with Vietnam, why are we seeing sexual homicides?”

  “Maybe we’re not. Maybe that’s just staging. Think about it. There’s been no sexual penetration of any of the victims. No semen recovered anywhere at the scenes, which means there’s not even masturbation going on. Not unless it’s into a condom, and I’m just not getting that feel from these scenes. To me, these killings look like punishment. Our UNSUB is punishing the victims for something in the past. The antemortem biting…. that could either be torture as punishment, or for humiliation. Like the nudity…humiliation.”

  “You’re going too fast,” Sean says.

  “What about the gunshots? Why aren’t neighbors hearing the gunshots?”

  “We’re assuming a silencer.”

  “For a Saturday night special?”

  “Hell, you can get one for anything these days. Guys have machine silencers in their garage workshops now.”

  “Sounds like something a Vietnam vet might know how to do. Calhoun’s body was found by his maid?”

  “Right. Been working there seven years.”

  As I search in vain for some new angle on the facts, Sean’s cell phone rings again. He looks at the screen, then up at me. “It’s John Kaiser. Kaiser served in Nam himself. I wonder what he thinks about this.” Sean answers, then listens for several moments. When he hangs up, his mouth is hanging slack.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  He shakes his head as though in shock. The color has left his face. “Twenty minutes ago, Nathan Malik called the task force and said he wants to talk to you.”

  My blood pressure drops twenty points. “That’s crazy.”

  Sean looks me hard in the eyes, and I know something bad is coming. “You haven’t heard anything yet. Kaiser’s outside right now.”

  “Outside where? Here? My house?”

  “He knew I was here, Cat.”

  “Oh my God. Are they following you?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe Joey told them I was here.”

  A hard knocking reverberates through the house. We both whirl toward the garage door as though expecting it to burst open, but nothing happens.

  Sean looks at me in a dazed panic.

  I shrug in resignation. “I guess you’d better let the man in.”

  Chapter

  15

  Special Agent John Kaiser is taller than Sean, and he fills the space in my kitchen in a different way. He seems denser somehow. And though clearly more reserved than Sean, he seems capable of sudden action if that becomes necessary. The friendly face from the LeGendre crime scene is gone, replaced by a piercing gaze that misses nothing.

  “Dr. Ferry,” he says, nodding curtly.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I ask. “Something you guys cooked up to scare Sean and me?”

  “No joke. Nathan Malik has requested a personal interview with you.” Kaiser’s eyes tell me he’s not lying. “Do you have any idea why he might do that?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Did you tell me everything you remember about the period that you knew him when you were in med school in Jackson?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Kaiser glances at Sean, then back at me. “Would you remember everything from that time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me that you drank quite a bit in those days.”

  The FBI man’s attempt at tact does not lessen my sense of violation. I look at Sean, but he’s staring blindly forward, his jaw set tight. “What the hell are you saying? What’s going on here?”

  Kaiser’s eyes don’t waver. “You know what I’m saying.”

  I take a step back, trying to tap my reserves of self-restraint. “Do I remember everything that happened at those dinner parties? Every word and gesture? Of course not. But everything big, I remember.”

  “You never blacked out in Nathan Malik’s presence?”

  “Hell no. Did he say I did?”

  “Dr. Malik hasn’t said anything, Dr. Ferry. I’m just trying to learn as much as I can.”

  “I never blacked out in his presence.”

  “Do you always remember when you black out?”

  “How do you know I black out at all?” I ask, glaring at Sean. “Look, I met Malik under another name over ten years ago. He hit on me a couple of times. I rejected him. That’s it.”

  Kaiser looks honestly perplexed. “Then why does he want to talk to you now? It seems a strange time for him to choose to renew a casual acquaintance, don’t you think?”

  “Ask him that!”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to us. He wants to talk to you.”

  Suddenly I know why Kaiser has come. “You want me to talk to him, don’t you? To Malik.”

  The FBI man’s face betrays nothing. “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “Why not?”

  I shake my head angrily. “Don’t play games with me, Agent Kaiser. There’s no right answer here. If I say I want to talk to Malik, you suspect I was involved with him. If I say I don’t, you ask ‘Why not?’ like I’m hiding something. Do you want me to talk to the guy or not?”

  Kaiser holds up his hands in apology. “I’m coming off like a jerk here. I’m sorry. Why don’t we sit down for a minute?” He gestures at the kitchen table.

  When I remain standing, he takes a chair and waits. I look at Sean, who shrugs and sits to Kaiser’s right. After a moment, I sit opposite the FBI man.

  “I know this situation is difficult,” Kaiser says. “But it’s nothing compared to what’s about to come down on you outside that door. We’ve had two murders in three days. The media’s in a frenzy. If they find out Malik asked to talk to you, that’s bad enough. If they find out about”—Kaiser indicates Sean and me with a nod of his head—“you can pretty much kiss your careers good-bye.”

  “Why is that?” Sean asks, sounding defensive. “So we’re having an affair. That doesn’t have anything to do with our work.”

  Kaiser looks down at my table, which is covered with crime-scene photos and copies of police reports.

  “Shit,” mutters Sean. I can tell from his face that he can’t quite believe this is happening. He’s thinking of his wife and kids. His retirement. I feel more alone and isolated than I did last night.

  “I’m more sympathetic to you guys’ situation than you might think,” Kaiser says. “I met the woman I’m with now during a high-profile murder case. I wasn’t married at the time, but I have some insight into that problem, too. Okay? But right now, the thing for us to do is focus on this case. If we solve this case, a lot of shit gets resolved with it.”

  “How did you know about us?” Sean asks. “How did you know I was here?”

  Kaiser throws him a look that says, Give me some credit, then turns to me. “You’re right, Dr. Ferry. If you’re amenable, I’d like you to talk to Malik. The judge is almost certainly going to order Malik’s arrest today for contempt of court. He’s flat-out refused to give up the names of any of his patients or their records. I’d prefer not to arrest him yet, but there’s tremendous political pressure to force some kind of break in this case. We’re already in an adversarial relationship with Malik. Before we jail him and make a bad situation worse, I’d like to learn everything we can from him. Because he’s asked to speak to you, we have a unique opportunity to do that.”

  “But…?”

  “A meeting like that is risky, and in more than one way. Before we go ahead with it, I need to speak very frankly to you. No room for hurt feelings.”

  John Kaiser is only three or four years older than Sean, but he appears to possess a depth and honesty that make Sean seem a boy beside him. A weariness that
has nothing to do with the simple passing of years. Yet Sean is no boy. He’s a veteran homicide detective who’s witnessed much human misery. What did this FBI man experience that aged him this way?

  “I understand,” I say, oddly excited by the prospect of speaking to Nathan Malik in person. “Ask away.”

  “Your father served in Vietnam, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “One tour? During 1969 and 1970?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was later murdered in 1981?”

  I resist the urge to shift in discomfort. “That’s right. I was eight.”

  “I tried to get a copy of your father’s autopsy record, but the State of Mississippi appears to have lost the original. Was there any aspect of your father’s murder that could possibly relate to the murders happening here over the past month?”

  “You mean bite marks? Like that?”

  “Any similarity at all.”

  “Nothing. Are you suggesting that my father knew Nathan Malik in Vietnam?”

  “It’s possible. Maybe even before Vietnam. Nathan Malik and your father were both born in 1951, both in Mississippi. Different towns, it’s true—separated by two hundred miles—but their paths might have crossed before Vietnam or after they were in-country.”

  Sean looks impatient. “What do their army records say? Was it possible?”

  “If only it were that simple,” says Kaiser. “I’ve seen Malik’s file, but Luke Ferry’s military record is sealed by the Department of Defense until 2015.”

  I feel a sudden dislocation from the world around me. “I can’t believe that.”

  “What the hell are we dealing with here, John?” Sean asks.

  “No way to know yet.” Kaiser looks unhappy. “But it’s safe to say this case is a lot more complicated than I first imagined it was.” He turns to me. “I know it’s upsetting to have your personal life pried open, Doctor. But if you can—”

  “Ask what you need to,” I tell him. “I know there’s worse coming.”