“Hey, I do you a big favor, and then you can’t even be bothered to call me back,” she protested as she answered.
“Trust me, it’s been a hell of a day so far. Talk to me.”
“Are you driving?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Jesus, you’re going to miss half of this. I took some notes. I’ll email them to you when we’re done.”
“Thank you.”
“All right, so here we go.” Friendly began her crisp analysis. “First of all, there’s no doubt in my mind. This is one killer.”
“Okay.”
“Second, this guy is one of the most organized I’ve come across. The coordination required to obtain the people, script the pornographic dramas, stage this including period-specific clothing, play them out and video them, pit people against each other, and clean and deliver the victims is almost impossible to pull off.”
“I agree. Go on.”
“Third, this guy has done this a bunch of times. He’s no rookie. He has the detail down too well. Not only are you dealing with a serial killer here, Nick, you’re dealing with someone who has already had a reasonably prolific career.”
“Fourth, there have to be a bunch of these videos out there.”
“Jesus, I hope not. Hold on a sec. I’m just pulling in.” Nick pulled into his driveway, and the kids piled out and went inside, leaving Nick alone in the running car. Phyllis was not home and had not returned any of Nick’s calls. “Okay, I’m back.”
“The quality of this video is too fine for this guy not to have done this before. I believe a key to your solving this crime is following the videos, which is tantamount to following the money. This guy is funding his operation through these videos.
“Fifth. What I just said notwithstanding, this guy already has plenty of money.” She did not elaborate further.
“And now, the profile. This is a man. He’s a professional, most likely an engineer, but in any event something to do with math, high-level math. IQ in the one-fifty range. He’s extremely smart, likely genius-level. He’s mid-fifties, older than your average serial killer. Part of that is because he’s been doing this for a while. He’s Caucasian, probably from the middle part of the country—those Midwestern values, most likely Protestant but could be Catholic. He’s unremarkable. Average size, not fat or skinny, tall or short. If you saw him somewhere and were shown a picture of him the next day, you would swear you had never seen him before. He’s single, probably never been married. His sexuality is most certainly ambiguous. He was raised by a dominant father who severely physically abused him. He may have been sexually molested as a child, but that’s not the primary driver of his pathology. It’s the extreme physical abuse. Here’s a bonus tidbit for you. His bloodlust is accelerating. There will be more victims, and likely very quickly now. All the signs are there. He has been preparing. He has practiced some. But now he is ready. You need to catch him ASAP. You already know this, but I still had to say it. He’s pure evil, one of the worst we have ever seen, a sociopath extraordinaire.”
“Jesus,” Nick said, sitting in the car. “You must have had a great lunch.”
“Gotta go, darlin’,” she said. “I’ll email you the notes. Let me know when you’re ready for the full review.”
“Thanks, Friendly. I owe you.”
“You got that right,” and she hung up.
The Colorado Bureau of Investigation, a division of the Colorado Department of Public Safety, performs various support functions, including forensics, laboratory services, and full-scale investigations at the request of local and state law enforcement agencies, including district attorneys. David Zimmer, long-time chief of police in Fort Collins, had been named Director of CBI eighteen months earlier. In a statement at the time, the Executive Director of the Department of Public Safety, Allison Snyder, said, “I have known David for over twenty years. He is the consummate professional, and highly qualified for this position. But the thing that’s most important to me is how well David understands the power of relationships. A hallmark of success for this position is high emotional IQ. Knowing David as I do, of all his many talents and abilities, I believe this one will serve him and Colorado best in this position.”
Nick’s phone chirped. Seeing it was Chief Herde, he answered on the first ring. “Lynch.”
“Nick, I have Phil here with me. I wanted you to hear this first-hand, too. I know you had to step out for a bit. I’ve about got this Greene deal worked out with CBI. David Zimmer and I go back a long ways. He and I had a very productive conversation about this. He’s up to speed on our serial killer investigation. When I explained the situation over in Montrose, he understood quickly. He knows the chief and DA over there. He’s already talked to them and called me back.
“The one thing he asked me was to allow the CBI to handle this rather than Denver PD. By his way of thinking, if his folks handle this, there will be less resistance and fewer hurt feelings. From my perspective, it takes work off our plate, which helps us out given our strained resources.
“They will perform a full review and make a recommendation. The three of us know that recommendation will be to inform the victim’s family of this new information, deal transparently with the media, vacate Mr. Greene’s sentence, and move this investigation over here. But we’ll wait until he tells us that; I guess we could always be surprised.”
The three discussed details, but all were preoccupied with the pressing amount of work required to find The Doctor.
“Gentlemen, I appreciate it, but if there is nothing further, I have to get back to it,” Herde said. Nick disconnected the call as Bosworth expressed their appreciation for the boss handling the delicate work.
“C’mon, guys, I’ll take you out to dinner,” Nick announced after 7:00 came and went. He still had not heard from Phyllis. He had left her two more voicemails but calling any further seemed fruitless. He had gone beyond pissed; now he was worried. As difficult as life had become between the two of them over the last several years, particularly the last several months, Phyllis had always been very responsible concerning Nicky and Michelle. She was not particularly maternal, but she was responsible.
The partner in him said he should wait until Phyllis got home before dealing with Nicky. The policeman in him said he should deal with the situation immediately, the sooner the better. The spouse won over the cop, and they headed to Anthony’s, Denver’s version of New York style pizza.
The garage door finally opened at 2:17 am. Nick the policeman took note of this specific fact. Phyllis was digging in her purse as she walked in, her face registering surprise as she looked up and saw Nick.
“What are you doing up?” she asked.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Since when did we start keeping track of each other?” she countered, defensive. She instinctively took a step back—fight or flight.
Nick made full circle. Clearly, she was okay. He was pissed again.
“Phyllis, have you checked your cell phone voicemail?”
“No Nick, I haven’t,” she replied bitingly. “Why, do you have another one of your emergency trips? Have I messed up your life again?”
He exercised his hands, clinching and releasing his fists. Now was not the right time to deal with this.
“You know, Phyllis, to this point, you have been a decent mother. Today, you failed miserably. Why don’t you check your voicemail, and I’ll talk to you in the morning.” Nick turned and started toward the bedroom.
“How dare you,” she shouted, “you’re the one—”
Nick turned and raised one finger to silence her. “Before you go somewhere you’ll wish later you hadn’t, check your voicemail. I’m going to bed.”
Nick stared at the ceiling until the first traces of morning pierced the bedroom. He got up, showered, and headed to the office. The note he left on Phyllis’ vanity said:
Phyllis-
Headed into the office early to deal with some things I shou
ld have handled yesterday. When you get up and are ready, call me. I’ll come home, and we’ll have that chat with Nicky. Hope Michelle’s feeling better.
Nick
Sunday ⌁ day 14
The Doctor dropped Gary Knight off in Sacramento prior to traveling to Portland. Always erring on the side of caution, however, he had provided Knight enough drugs to sleep for twelve to twenty-four more hours. As with all acquisitions of this nature, he also made sure the motel room was paid for many days beyond when it would be required.
Knight roused slowly. “Surely this must be a horrible dream,” he prayed. As consciousness came, he realized he was back in the motel room in Sacramento. He stripped his clothes off and checked his wounds.
Gary was lost in many ways. He went slowly about his business. He showered and cleaned himself thoroughly. He then took the room key, sitting on top of the television, left the motel, bought a newspaper, and found a diner. He sat reading, trying to grasp all that had happened to him. He had been abducted only days earlier. By all appearances the world had continued without him.
He finished his breakfast, called a private air service, booked a charter to Denver, and was in the air an hour after walking out of the third-rate diner.
Phyllis Lynch looked at the number on her cell phone as it chirped. Area code 503. Where’s that, she wondered. She answered to find out, mainly out of curiosity.
“Phyllis Lynch.”
“Dr. Lynch? This is Dr. Christine Crawford in Portland.” There was the answer to the area code question.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Crawford?” Phyllis asked crisply.
“I heard you speak in Milwaukee, actually met you briefly the day you spoke.” Phyllis had no idea who this woman was. She had forgotten that interaction.
Crawford continued, “I am on staff at the Portland Mental Health Institute. I have been practicing for almost ten years, so I’m not particularly a newbie here. But Dr. Lynch, I have come across a most disturbing case, and I feel I need an expert consult. Having read pretty much everything you’ve ever written and then having heard you speak, I believe you would be an excellent choice for this consultation. I was wondering if I could schedule an hour with you sometime later today or tomorrow? I know it’s short notice, but I’m sure you know how pressing some of these difficult cases can be.
Phyllis tussled a bit with Crawford to make her squirm and assert her authority but agreed to do the consult later that afternoon.
Nick nursed the Wild Turkey and Coke. That was the good news. The bad news was this was his second and it was only 3:15. He had already been moping at the bar for over an hour.
Arriving at work early, on a Sunday no less, Nick was prepared to tackle another important day in the Mayflower investigation. No sooner had he arrived than Phyllis texted and asked him to return home so they could talk to Nicky. He let Burleson know he would be back shortly and retraced his morning commute.
The conversation had gone well enough, but it sent Nick back into his funk. The saying “two steps forward, one step back” lurked in his head. Everything led him back to the tragedy of losing Alisha. His work once he returned to the office that morning was lackluster. He headed out to a late lunch, alone, and found himself at The Shamrock rather than McDonalds.
“Hey, baby,” Jenny said, kissing Nick chastely on the cheek. She pulled up a bar stool and scooted close to him.
He smiled. “I thought you were immersed with one A. William Purdy.”
“Dude,” Jenny started. “I’ve been working my ass off, and I’m going to continue for the foreseeable future. I can have a break every now and then. It is Sunday, you know.” He knew Bill had called her – and fair enough, day drinking is never a good sign.
“Okay,” he said, attempting to lift his spirits, if not hers, “tell me all about it. How’s it going?”
”She replied, putting her hand on his forearm. “You know I can’t talk about it. We’re doing good, though.”
Nick remained silent, contemplative.
“All right, you have to tell me why you’re here so early,” she came back.
“I was talking to the Wild Turkey distributor, and he told me they’re having a strike, so there may be a shortage at local bars. I wanted to make sure I got here before Bill ran out.”
She looked at him disapprovingly.
“This week has been really tough,” he tried a second time.
She nodded. “But I thought you were making good progress on your Mayflower investigation?”
“We are. It’s not that. It’s home.”
“Phyllis?” she asked.
Nick lowered his head. Once more he would rely on his friend Jenny. How many times would she come back to help him with his wounds? When would she give up on him?
He told her all about his trip to Denver West, the accusations against Nicky, Michelle’s stomach distress, and Phyllis’ late-night adventures.
“Have you and Phyllis talked to him?” she asked.
“It was finally convenient for Phyllis this morning. Of course, she waited until I had driven to work to call me back home, but whatever.” He recognized he sounded like his son.
“And?”
“It’s interesting. His version of the story varies quite a bit from the principal’s. According to Nicky, he was in the bathroom smoking pot with this kid Josh Wicker. They were both in a stall. He got the pot from Wicker, and the kid had given him two joints, too, so those found in his pockets were his. That’s about as far as the stories go together.
“According to Nicky, he came out of the stall ahead of Josh, and as he was coming out, Josh hit him or shoved him in the back. When the cops searched him, they found the cocaine and stolen items in his backpack. He swears he doesn’t know anything about any of them. He left his backpack behind coming out of the stall, and his guess is Josh shoved him to create the disruption and plant the stuff.”
Bill delivered Nick his third double.
“Thanks, Bill,” he said, and continued, “He swears he doesn’t know anything about the stolen stuff or the cocaine. It was all in a sock and stuffed on top of everything else, at least according to Nicky.”
“What do you think?” Jenny asked.
Nick’s eyes were distant. “I’ve done what I do for a long time. The cynical, experienced part of me knows Nicky’s lying. I don’t think I’ve ever met a criminal who actually committed the crime. You know the drill. On the other hand, the father in me believes him. I don’t know.” His voice trailed off.
Jenny said, “Nick, couldn’t the police process fingerprints and verify whether or not Nicky had handled the cocaine and the stolen bag?”
Nick laughed and squeezed her shoulder, “I wish, but that’s probably not going to happen. The sock isn’t going to have any prints, and that kid’s prints or DNA showing up on some of Nicky’s stuff wouldn’t mean a lot, anyway, since they do hang out all the time. And a street cop busting a couple of kids for smoking dope and finding a little extra contraband, well, they’re just not going to gather much forensic evidence.”
He smiled and Jenny looked directly into his eyes. She asked, “What are you going to do, Nick?”
“It’s easy,” he replied, “I’m going to drink.”
Later that day, Bosworth and Nick received an email from Herde letting them know that Denver PD would take over the Montrose investigation as part of the larger look into the serial killer working in Colorado, effective noon the following day. This would allow adequate time to inform the victim’s relatives, put out a press release, and inform Mr. Greene of the transpiring events.
Phyllis Lynch waited until the fourth ring to answer her phone.
“Phyllis Lynch.”
“Dr. Lynch, hi, it’s Christine Crawford calling for our consultation.”
“Yes, Dr. Crawford, I’m ready for you.”
“Good, and again, thank you for taking my call on a Sunday.”
Crawford proceeded to lay out Sally Winfield’s case. Phyllis asked
clarifying questions as Crawford laid out the history.
“When she was admitted to the hospital, were her wounds consistent with her story?” Phyllis queried.
“She had a couple of unexplained bruises that could be a result of the hammer or more likely a fist. Otherwise, according to my patient, the other woman suffered most of the physical damage.”
This was an amazing story. In her many years of practice, Phyllis had never heard of anything approaching this horror story.
“Tell me, Dr. Crawford, have you done an IQ screen?”
“We’ve done two preliminary screens,” Crawford replied. Phyllis could hear her flipping notes. “The first one came back ninety-eight and the second one-hundred-and-one. Frankly that’s about what I would have guessed. She is not highly intelligent, but neither is she slow.”
“And Dr. Crawford,” Phyllis pressed, “in talking to the patient, is she otherwise lucid and coherent? Thus far, you have shared more of her history, the facts if you will. I’m interested in your impressions of this young lady.”
“She’s shy and reserved and at times distant, as I would expect from someone who has suffered trauma the way she has. But she’s completely lucid and coherent, making appropriate intelligent connections during our conversations. She’s not overly distracted, nor does she appear to live in any kind of fantasy world.
“Dr. Crawford,” Phyllis said, “it is my conclusion, based on this limited amount of time and information, and without either seeing the patient or even reviewing the files, that your patient is delusional. While this story is incredible and would traumatize any human alive, there is simply no way this could be true. She has created this delusion allegorically to fit her view of the world. This is her escape, and I would say she has done it quite elaborately.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lynch. That was my conclusion, too, although not stated nearly as elegantly. I want to thank you for your time and consideration. And the State of Oregon will send you its thanks as well the next time they run checks. Truly, it has been an honor having this brief opportunity to work with you, Dr. Lynch. Thank you again. I wish you the best.”
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