by Sarah Lovett
From her vantage point behind Rosie, Sylvia thought the Counselor looked like a law student she had dated years ago at U.C.L.A. Maybe it was the hook nose or the L.A. Law hair. It wasn't the D.O.C. duds.
Rosie smiled. "We need to talk." She stepped past Cole Lynch and entered the library followed by Sylvia.
The Counselor's eyes gleamed with intelligence and dead-on animal instinct; they slid over Sylvia while he spoke to the penitentiary investigator. He said, "I have reshelving to finish before my next clients arrive." He motioned to the books stacked on and around his desk.
Rosie pulled back, and Sylvia took over. "We'll stay out of your way." She knew the Counselor had already recognized her—inmates knew everyone whose work took them inside the joint—but she introduced herself formally, and then she motioned for him to proceed with his task. He picked up two heavy volumes. He was well over six feet tall and he reached the top shelves, balancing books, with ease.
Sylvia leaned her butt gingerly against a table that already bowed under the weight of Black's Legal Dictionary and Landmark Supreme Court Decisions.
"Have you heard from Dupont White?"
The Counselor slipped one of the tomes into place. "Killer? The last I heard, he died in that warehouse explosion eight weeks ago—'Blowout at Las Cruces,' as CNN said."
"Killer?"
The Counselor nodded. "He liked people to call him that." Constitution and Society slid into the row.
Sylvia watched Cole as he worked. His thin fingers caressed each binding like it was skin. Here was a man who valued books for the power they could bestow. She knew he would tell her exactly what he wanted to tell her—and nothing more.
She spoke casually. "How long did you know Dupont?"
Cole's lawyer persona was neatly in place. "Since we were kids in California. From the time we all spent at the ranch." He looked at her, gauging what she already knew. "My father was caretaker at Devil's Den. That's what they called it out there. All fifteen hundred acres." He selected another text and glanced at the clock on the wall. His patience was wearing thin.
Sylvia said, "It's possible that Dupont White is still alive."
The Counselor spoke softly. "Don't play games with me, Dr. Strange. I'm one of the smart ones—don't let the inmate greens fool you."
Sylvia heard Rosie exhale.
He reached around and picked up four volumes from beside the desk. They were heavy—at least eighty pounds of paper and leather—and the muscles on his arms bulged. As he moved back to the shelves, he said, "The feds were here six weeks ago. They were closing the case on Dupont White." A leather text landed roughly on the shelf.
Cole hefted another into the air. "DNA from hair and skin fragments will provide proof that he went up with the warehouse." The book slammed next to its relation.
Cole continued, "Dental records are also admissible in court as evidence of death." The next book hit so hard that the entire shelf shook.
Sylvia said, "You were his partner—but you seem happy to believe he's dead."
Cole faced Sylvia. "The last deal we did together, I ended up here, and Dupont walked." He gave her a cold smile.
There was a knock on the glass. An inmate stood just outside the door.
The Counselor nodded to the man. His mouth barely moved when he spoke to Sylvia. He said, "I can name four cons who will refuse treatment from you because the last man you evaluated was burned alive." He raised one eyebrow. "What is it with you prison shrinks? I think you overload on the dark side. Maybe you need some perspective?"
The waiting inmate tapped on the glass again.
Cole addressed both women, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm busy."
Sylvia said, "Thank you very much for your time, Counselor." She picked up her briefcase.
Rosie was standing by the door, key in lock. As Sylvia turned to follow her friend, she glanced up at the bookshelves. Model Penal Code and Commentaries was upside down.
She found it appropriate that the Counselor had laid out his legal argument like a lawyer. Clearly, he needed to prove to "the court" that Dupont White was dead. But she believed that he didn't buy his own argument. And that upset the Counselor.
IN THE HOSPITAL of the penitentiary's Main Facility, firefighter and inmate Benji Muñoz y Concha lay supine on his mattress. He had not moved a muscle since the nurse and the C.O. had arranged his body under clean sheets. But he did have one of his waking dreams.
He saw himself racing up a hillside chased by flames. He knew exactly where he was—in the soft cleft between tuba rim and dirty canyon—just an easy jog from Dark Canyon. As he raced, he struggled to breathe. His throat was scorched, his lungs felt blackened and withered by the kind of heat that devours every last molecule of moisture. The muscles in his legs filled with blood and contracted until he thought they would rip apart and leave him crippled and powerless to escape the hungry flames. He heard the fire's roar like the great storm waves of the Florida ocean he had seen when he was seven years old. The water had terrified him more than fire.
He knew he would make it to the hilltop; he was a fourth-generation flame warrior.
When he was twenty yards from the crest, he heard the rhythmic ffoof of wings above the noise of the burn. It was night, but the flames cast a light as great as the sun. A pulsing shadow on the rugged earth kept pace with him. He felt a presence, and finally, he looked up. A great owl was flying directly above his head. Its eyes were hot orange. The tips of its wings were aflame. Smoke trailed from its beak.
Benji stumbled, fell, and that's when he saw the woman who was Rosie Sanchez's friend, the doctor. At first he didn't recognize her in Levi's and T-shirt with her hair tied back from her face. She was ahead of him surrounded by flames. He tried to call out a warning, but when she turned his way, he saw that her eyes were the hot glowing eyes of the owl.
Benji sat up rigid in his bed, felt the cinder-block walls and the dead air of this hospital, and knew that the owl had sent him a message.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"YOU'RE BACK!" ON Monday morning Sylvia crossed the office reception area and hugged her colleague, Dr. Albert Kove. "You're so tanned and beautiful," she said, "I'm jealous. How was Tobago?"
Albert Kove was in his mid-forties, but with his cropped, salty-blond hair, collegiate wire-rim glasses, and rolled-up shirtsleeves he could pass for thirty-five. His movements were habitually slow and deliberate, in direct contrast to Sylvia's impulsive edginess. His careful speech and measured physicality always made his female associate want to jam at warp speed. Silently she ordered herself to slow to his pace.
He considered his response. "The island is lush, the snorkeling is incredible. It's not too touristy, and the locals don't seem to mind the intrusion. I give it another three years before it's overrun—"
She interrupted. "Did Carlos have a good time?" Carlos Giron was Kove's longtime domestic partner.
Kove grinned. "Too good. Too many rum punches, too many coconuts. He has to do penance for the next month. A low-fat diet."
"We missed you."
Kove had created the Forensic Evaluation Unit in 1984. Its purpose: provide top-notch forensic psychological services to state divisions and the criminal justice system. He'd courted the first contract from the state of New Mexico, and he'd negotiated renewals ever since. The F.E.U. was his baby. He also happened to be an excellent forensic psychologist.
Roberto Casias and Sylvia Strange were the two other members of the unit. Sylvia had joined the team five months earlier. In addition to the contractual triad, both Sylvia and Roberto were in limited private practice. The offices of the Forensic Evaluation Unit were within shouting distance of the Santa Fe judicial complex—just down the street from Sylvia's former office.
Albert Kove said, "If you schedule with the airlines now, you could be in Tobago within the week." He allowed a long therapeutic pause while he perched on the edge of the receptionist's desk. When he leaned back, Monday's unsorted mail slid everywhere.
Wi
thout success Sylvia tried to stop the landslide of letters, magazines, and journals. She gave up and balanced on the other side of the desk. Her fingersdrummed wood.
Kove continued. "I heard all about Randall—Erin Tulley's testimony, the motion to suppress." He paused, then said, "That must have upset Matt. Didn't he work with Tulley?" He saw the distress on Sylvia's face and touched her arm gently. "You're not responsible for anything that happened with Randall."
"Somebody thinks I am." Quickly she filled Kove in on the details of the last few days—including Dan Chaney's suspicions of a federal cover-up, and his insistence that Dupont White was alive and killing. She said, "At first, I was absolutely convinced Chaney's paranoid."
"I imagine he is." Kove took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.
"I watched the videotape of one of Dupont White's kills—the m.o. is almost identical to Randall's murder. I talked to Dupont's ex-partner who's doing time at the pen; he wasn't happy when I suggested Dupont is alive." She swung one leg nervously. "I'm beginning to think Dan Chaney might not be completely crazy. What if the killer is Dupont? Is that possible, Albert?"
"There are other explanations. What about a copycat killer? The kind of experience you had, the assault in Matt's trailer, will influence your perceptions—"
"Albert, I'm not a hysterical female—there needs to be an investigation into Chaney's allegations, I know that. But I can't just call up the F.B.I. and say, Are you covering this up?'"
Kove readjusted his glasses and studied Sylvia's face. He thought he saw her brown irises darken. The ferocity of her gaze made him uneasy. He said, "What does Matt think?"
"He suggested that I stop evaluating perverts."
Kove snorted. "He's got something there." He stretched, one hand collided with metal, and Sylvia just managed to catch the high-intensity light as it fell.
Stooped beside the desk, she tugged at a large brown package. "What's this?"
Kove peered down. "My coconuts from Tobago." While Albert opened the package, Sylvia picked up a letter opener and began work on the envelopes. One by one they landed in appropriate piles—correspondence, bills, announcements.
He said, "It's going to take me a day to recover from jet lag." He cleaved plastic, reached inside the box, and produced a large brown fruit. "How about lunch tomorrow? We can review pending cases."
"Sure." She sliced the blade through creased paper. A neat white square fell from the envelope and landed on green plush carpet. "Oh, Jesus." She dropped the envelope.
Albert leaned instinctively toward the Polaroid, and Sylvia said, "Don't touch it."
He knelt next to the desk. "Damn. . ."
Sylvia hunched beside him.
In stark black-and-white, the Polaroid pictured an adult male, nude and trussed. His bound wrists were caught overhead on a large steel hook. His body was suspended, knees buckled, lower legs sagging against the floor. The upper half of his face was concealed by a dark hood.
Sylvia took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and touched Albert's knee gently. "Hand me something—a postcard, anything—so I can get it up off the carpet."
She took the large postcard he offered and slipped it carefully under the Polaroid. She set postcard and photograph on the desk. Then, with two fingers she tweezed the lip of the envelope and set it out of the way. She watched while Kove used the tip of the letter opener to lift a corner of the photo.
He said, "There's a message on the back."
It had been printed in tiny, precise, and upright script:
When you slide the knife between the ribs of the betrayers, when you cut out the tongues of liars, when you burn the seed of the destroyers, you are following your own star.
Two for the Killer's Doctor
Forty minutes later, Matt slid the envelope into an evidence bag.
Kove nodded toward the Polaroid on the desk. "That should be a woman."
"Say what?" Matt frowned.
Sylvia had moved midpoint between the two men.
Kove said, "We're used to seeing women victimized by sadists; it's routine." He tucked a pencil behind his left ear. "We don't expect a male unless it's a terrorist act."
Matt shook his head. "If the victim were a boy, I'd say we were dealing with a pedophile."
"Or a gay lust crime," Sylvia murmured. "That's what your average cop would say."
Kove nodded. "This jogs the imagination: male bondage and ritual behavior—body paint, birds of prey, a sophisticated message—and it all lands on Sylvia's doorstep."
"He's using a dissociative voice," Sylvia said. "You slide the knife, you cut out the tongues, you burn the seed. . ."
"So what's your theory?" Matt asked.
Kove straightened his shoulders and adjusted his spectacles. "The killer is a thirty-one-year-old Libra who loved to fingerpaint in kindergarten; his teacher punished him when he touched his genitals. Sylvia reminds him of his mother. He's a latent homosexual, insecure as hell about his sexuality. He's a law enforcement shadow because he believes guns can restore his masculinity. And he's a show-off."
Matt kept a straight face and said, "I hate show-offs."
Sylvia said, "Albert's kidding, Matt."
"Yeah, but it sounds pretty damn good."
"He is a show-off." With a crooked smile, Kove opened the receptionist's desk drawer and rummaged around until he produced a rectangular magnifying glass. "And he may be a law enforcement shadow—a wanna-be."
Matt said, "He's very kindly interjected himself into the investigation. He's officially notifying us of kill Number Two."
Sylvia asked, "What about his sexuality?"
Kove scratched his cheek slowly. "A gender bender. I think we could be talking about latent homosexuality."
"Vigilantes," Matt said. "Last week, in Texas, a man hanged his daughter's rapist."
Kove coughed. "That's a fairly fancy message for vigilantes. From what Sylvia's told me, the kidnap and torture of men is Dupont White's style." He held the magnifying glass inches above the Polaroid and studied the photographic image.
Frustrated, Matt moved around the desk and stretched across it to get a look at the photo. "You're telling me the motive here isn't revenge?"
Albert Kove said, "It might be if the killer—or killers—had stopped at one murder. But now we're into a whole different ball game. It's become much more complex, and more interesting."
Sylvia hunkered closer to Kove and the Polaroid—effectively excluding Matt. "If it's Dupont White, we're talking about displaced rage. The source object is not available, so he transfers his hostilities to available victims. He's reliving his fantasy murder over and over."
Kove nodded. "We're dealing with someone who's driven to kill, and he does it in a specific, ritualistic manner. The ritual gives him as much reward as the kill. Whoever it is has acquired a taste for a particular type of kill," Kove said flatly.
Sylvia studied the Polaroid. "He's acquired a motive."
"Quite a nasty one." With his eye to the magnifying glass, Kove leaned over the photograph, unintentionally blocking Matt's view. After a moment he said, "This victim is probably Anglo or Hispanic—he's olive-skinned, but I can see tan lines."
Sylvia nudged Kove gently and peered through the glass. Her hair fell around her face and she pushed it back behind one ear. "His ankles are bound with duct tape. Ditto his wrists. But there's no unnecessary bondage, no noticeable symmetry, so it's probably not the work of a sexual sadist." She swallowed and closed her eyes. "Thank God he's not a child."
Kove said, "I don't see any mutilation marks, no wounds. Take a look at his head—"
"Give me the damn glass," Matt snapped. "You've got to start at the margins and work in toward the victim." He groaned when Sylvia took the magnifier from Kove's fingers.
"In a minute." Sylvia's words were muffled. "I've seen morgue photos where I never would've known the subject was dead. Even when the eyes are open, some trick of the lights . . . with a hood it's impossible to judge." She sighed.
Matt wagged an index finger at the Polaroid. "The background is black. Garbage bags or plastic from a roll? It's a small space. A torture chamber?"
Sylvia leaned in closer. "There's a toolbox . . . and a bucket. . . some rope."
Matt shrugged a shoulder to loosen a muscle. "He's got a torture kit."
Sylvia said, "Our guy is definitely obsessive-compulsive."
"A neat freak," Kove said dryly.
Matt said, "It might be the back of a van or a truck. The ceiling is low." Once again he moved around to the other side of the desk. "So that's how the kidnappers got Randall from the bar to the Jemez. In a portable torture chamber."
Sylvia said, "The victim's genitals are intact and clearly visible."
Kove asked, "Is there any indication of sexual excitement? Can you see if the penis is erect?"
Sylvia stepped back and handed Kove the glass. She said, "It's flaccid."
Matt raised a brow. "The Polaroid's overexposed; can you really make out that much detail?"
Sylvia said, "I know an erect penis when I see one."
Kove adjusted the focal length of the magnifying glass until the tip of his nose was six inches from the Polaroid. "This is interesting. . . ." He moved back and gestured with one finger. Matt stepped close to the other man and took the glass.
Kove asked, "What's this look like to you?"
Sylvia was hot and thirsty, and her mind was filled with unpleasant images: the mask . . . the victim's bound wrists and ankles . . . and then she pictured Anthony Randall's corpse.
It took Matt fifteen seconds to find what could've been a slight stain on the victim's penis. "A birthmark?''
Kove shook his head. "I'll bet you a dime it's a tattoo."
THE NEW MEXICO Department of Public Safety crime lab was part of the south Santa Fe complex that included the law enforcement academy and state police head-quarters. If Matt pitched a brick out his office window it would land in the reception area of the crime lab. He preferred to walk.
Just before five on Tuesday, as he passed through the long carpeted halls, he thought about the computer printouts that he'd left on his desk. They were case reports of vigilante assaults and homicides that had occurred in Texas, California, New Jersey, Colorado, and Idaho. The list was long—courtesy of his fellow investigator, Terry Osuna. She was still convinced that local vigilantes had a vendetta against sex offenders. Matt wasn't rock-sure anymore.