by Brenda Novak
“Where is … where is what you found?” she asked as they arrived at the outskirts of town.
That she couldn’t bring herself to be specific made him glance over again. “In the back of Shorty’s SUV. He agreed to deliver it to the State Medical Examiner in Anchorage for me. But I radioed him. He’s coming back to meet us.”
She tapped her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. “So we’ll meet him somewhere?”
“At my trooper post.”
Silence.
“We’ll just take a quick peek out in front.” He didn’t want her to think they’d be carrying the body bag into the office. Peering into Shorty’s SUV would be gruesome enough.
Again, she made no comment.
He lowered his visor to keep the sun from reflecting off the snow. The storm had moved on almost as quickly as it had hit, but the weather could worsen at any time, obliterating any evidence the killer might’ve left behind and making it impossible to find the rest of the victim—if they had any chance of doing that in the first place.
When they passed The Dinky Diner, Amarok’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten. But he couldn’t take the time to stop. “How well do you know the woman who runs the kitchen at Hanover House?”
“I let her stay with me for a couple of weeks in October when she and her husband were splitting up. She was”—her voice broke, but she gained control—“sort of like a second mother to me.”
“She’s not the one you were thinking of staying with last night.…”
“Yes.” The word, when she uttered it, was barely audible.
“And Danielle?”
“I don’t know her as well. She moved to Alaska a few months ago to pursue a relationship that began online, but … it didn’t work out. I don’t think she’s planning on staying long-term. If only for the money, she’d leave right away.”
“You hired her knowing she was a short-timer?” He hoped a bit of small talk might put Evelyn at ease, but it seemed to have no effect.
“Her job didn’t require much training. Lorraine talked the warden into it. She was like that, always took in strays.”
Edging to the far right of the road, he slowed to allow a car coming from the opposite direction to squeeze past. “Danielle’s been missing since yesterday?”
“I don’t know that she’s missing. She didn’t come to work. Lorraine was going to check on her. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What does Danielle look like?”
“Long dark hair. Dark eyes. Young. Pretty.”
A girl fitting that description had been drinking at the Moosehead last weekend. He remembered because she’d hit on him several times. “And Lorraine?”
“Short hair, dyed a reddish brown.”
He bit back a curse. “Was she middle-aged?”
When Evelyn winced but nodded, he turned down the radio. “Listen.…”
The hollow misery in her eyes gave him a front row seat to her suffering. “What?”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Damn it, this … shit, this violent shit, was what he’d hoped to avoid when he’d tried to rally the citizens of Hilltop to fight the construction of a maximum-security prison so close to their homes and families. If not for the silver-tongued mayor, Amarok wouldn’t have backed down. Then this never would’ve happened. He felt certain of it. Not here.
Evelyn wouldn’t have come to town, either. But that was good, like he’d said last night. Then he wouldn’t have started fantasizing about a woman who would only leave him, even if he managed to develop a relationship with her.
“It’s not Danielle,” he said as gently as he could.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but he supposed she was still holding out hope, because she didn’t succumb to her grief until they reached his post.
When Shorty opened the hatch of his SUV and unzipped the plastic covering what rested inside, she whispered, “Lorraine.” She would’ve sunk to the ground if he hadn’t caught her. But she didn’t dissolve into a puddle of tears or get sick. She came up kicking and swinging—at the vehicle, the telephone pole beside it, the mounds of icy snow piled at the curb, anything within range.
When he grabbed hold of her to stop her before she could injure herself, she even tried to hit him.
* * *
“Where could the rest of her be?” Her knuckles were bleeding and her toes were aching, but Evelyn finally felt calm. She stared out at the snow-draped trading post–style buildings that lined Main Street, working to put what she’d seen behind her, while the sergeant drove her to her car. Thanks to the murder, he had a lot yet to do, so Jack Call, who owned a small repair shop one street over, was meeting them at Quigley’s to be sure she could get her Beamer started.
Briefly, Amarok studied her before returning his gaze to the road. She guessed he was trying to reconcile the woman who’d wanted to make love to him last night with the crazy person who’d just lost control and wouldn’t stop fighting until he hugged her so tightly she couldn’t get her arms up or gain enough distance to land an effective kick. “I have no idea,” he said. “But I’m hoping that will change. Soon.”
So was she.
Seeking consolation in the mundane, Evelyn forced herself to take particular note of the progress the locals had made in getting back to normal life. Hilltop handled the many storms that rolled through so well, so quickly. According to dialogue that’d come through on the sergeant’s radio, even the phone lines were back up.
But one thing wasn’t the same and never would be.…
Evelyn flinched as the image of Lorraine’s head, with all its contusions and bruising—and one missing eye—conjured in her mind. That sight would haunt her for the rest of her life, just like the equally gruesome memory of finding Marissa Donovan, and two more friends, covered in blood, stripped naked and erotically posed. After twenty years that vision hadn’t faded one bit, and probably never would.
“Shock value,” she muttered.
Amarok unzipped his coat. “What’d you say?”
It hurt just to draw breath. She wasn’t sure why. “That was what the killer was going for: shock value,” she said, louder, more certain. “What’s worse than finding a dead body?”
He didn’t answer, but she could tell he was listening.
“Finding a body part,” she filled in. “And what’s worse than stumbling across an arm or a leg?”
“A head,” he replied. “I get it. And I’m sure it adds insult to injury to remove one or both eyes.”
“Exactly.”
“But there was no ‘stumbling across’ this. The killer put her head on a broom handle and stuck it in the snow at the back door of the only bar in town.”
“Because he didn’t think he could get away with doing it at the front.”
“And if you’re right, if he was going for effect, it’s a bit more sinister to do it in an alley.”
“Very Jack the Ripper–ish,” she agreed. “Which arouses a great deal of fear.”
When he rubbed his jaw, she guessed he was as tired as she was and felt guilty for keeping him up as long as she had last night. Hilltop, and Lorraine, needed him so badly today.
“You’re very familiar with the type of person who would do this,” he said.
“I should be.” She’d been studying and interviewing killers, serial and otherwise, for over a decade. And that was in addition to her personal experience. Not only had she been victimized by a murderer, she’d also been in love with one, which gave her a much closer look at the behavior and the reality.
“You could be valuable to the investigation—if you stay.”
“If I stay?”
“Last night, you mentioned buying a ticket home.”
“I wasn’t completely serious. I’ve still got a lot of work to do here.” Even if she were ready to give up, she wouldn’t leave Hilltop without doing everything possible to make sure that whoever killed Lorraine was put behind bars. Maybe Jasper had gotten away with what he’d done to h
er and her friends. He’d gotten away with what he’d attempted last summer, too. But the individual who’d caused Lorraine’s death would not go unpunished.
Amarok’s tire chains clanked on patches of heavily salted pavement as he turned into the parking lot where her car sat beneath a foot or two of snow.
Jack was waiting for them in a tow truck with his “Call Me!” logo on the side. A plume of exhaust streamed out of his tailpipe as he let the engine idle. He looked busy with paperwork or maybe a call on the radio.
Evelyn wanted to let the sergeant get on with his work, but she had one more question. “What about Danielle?” she asked. “I can tell you realize what this could mean for her.”
When Jack looked up, Amarok waved to let him know they’d seen him. “I’m heading to her place right now to have a look around, make sure she’s safe.”
“You won’t find her.”
“How do you know?” he asked with a scowl.
She opened the door and got out. “I can feel it in my gut.”
7
Even psychopaths have emotions if you dig deep enough but then again, maybe they don’t.
—RICHARD RAMIREZ, THE NIGHT STALKER
Jack got her car started by tightening a few cables and hoses, then giving her battery a jump while she watched from inside the convenience store. After that, Evelyn headed to HH. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on yesterday and it was late afternoon, but she couldn’t go home. She had to talk to Hugo, see if he had any knowledge of the murder or if what he’d said had simply been some bizarre coincidence. While she was there, she also needed to break the news of Lorraine’s murder to everyone who knew her at the prison. Evelyn felt she should be the one, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Everyone loved Lorraine, especially Glenn Whitcomb, the CO who tried so hard to look out for her. He’d never really had a mother—had been raised by his older sister since their father died when he was twelve—which was probably why he and Lorraine had become so close. Evelyn couldn’t imagine how hard he was going to take her death.…
She hoped someone at Hanover House had heard from Danielle. Maybe Danielle was safe. She could’ve come by the money she needed and left for the Lower 48 without giving notice.
But, in her heart, Evelyn believed otherwise.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot, it was already dark. Earlier the temperature had warmed a few degrees, but the wind had kicked up again since, adding a chill factor that made it colder by the second—so cold that the air itself felt like a thousand needles pricking her eyes, her nostrils, her lips.
At least it wasn’t snowing. Evelyn didn’t think she could take another storm on the heels of the last one—not while knowing how much it would hinder Amarok’s ability to figure out what’d happened to Lorraine and catch her killer.
“You bastards.” She glared through her windshield at the giant stone edifice that housed so many remorseless killers. “I will figure out why you do what you do and how to stop you if it kills me.” And she knew that someday it might. She’d had a few close calls over the years. Nothing on the scale of what’d happened with Jasper the first time, but there’d been his second abduction as well as other incidents. Like that one at San Quentin with Hugo. She’d also had a felon she’d given a psych evaluation to show up at her house in the middle of the night once. Her neighbors heard the commotion and called the police before anything could happen, but she still didn’t know how he’d found her. When asked, he told the police and media that she’d slipped him her address.
She switched off her headlights and, with a sigh, carried her coffee inside. She’d call a meeting with the mental health team before alerting the rest of the staff. Given the fear this would cause in the community, they should develop a unified approach to answering the questions that would arise, maybe put out a press release stating their profound sadness, their support of local law enforcement and their belief in the security of the institution. Also, while she had so many behavioral experts in the same room she planned to discuss the type of killer who could have done this, in case they could come up with some detail or tip that would help Amarok, if not a full psychological profile.
But she couldn’t get even a few of her fellow doctors together. Of the six who’d started with her at HH in November, only five remained—four registered forensic psychologists and Dr. Tim Fitzpatrick, who was a psychiatrist like her. Stacy Wilheim, the only other woman on the team, was out sick and probably would be for some time, given how long it took to get over the shingles. Preston Schmidt had called to say he wasn’t coming in because of the storm. And Dr. Fitzpatrick, Greg Peters and Russell Jones were conducting an experiment together that tried to determine whether male psychopaths were aroused to a greater or lesser degree by the same stimuli as other men.
Finding the offices deserted reminded Evelyn that she’d broken her own appointments. Storm or no storm, some of her patients would be upset. For the most part, therapy sessions were their only break from the tedium of prison life. But working in corrections meant they simply stayed in their cells instead of meeting with her. No harm done. She’d get back into her routine tomorrow—not that it would ever be the same without Lorraine coming in with lunch or some other snack.
Since there was no possibility of gathering the mental health team for an advance meeting and it was Glenn’s day off, Evelyn decided she’d call Glenn, then go ahead and make a general announcement of Lorraine’s death.
Should she send a mass e-mail? Or use the PA? She couldn’t put it off. If she did, word would spread before she could say anything.
She decided to use the PA, then follow up with an e-mail for those who weren’t at the prison. She grabbed the phone to call Glenn but never got the chance to dial. Dr. Fitzpatrick barged into her office, followed closely by Penny, who’d been trying to intercept him.
Evelyn hung up the handset and stood. “It’s okay, Penny,” she said. “You can shut the door.”
Obviously put out that Fitzpatrick hadn’t bothered to let her announce him, Penny shot him a sullen glance but did as she was told.
Assuming he’d come to talk about the murder, Evelyn squared her shoulders. She hoped she could tell him what she’d seen and what it might mean without tears. But it wasn’t the sergeant’s visit he had on his mind.
“I can’t believe you!” he railed. “What were you thinking when you arranged to have Anthony Garza transferred here?”
She wasn’t prepared to defend herself on this. Not right now. She’d been second-guessing that decision ever since Garza had hurt one of the COs. But she couldn’t let the dominating Fitzpatrick know she had doubts. She’d lose the power she worked so hard to protect, which would seriously limit her ability to be effective in this environment. “I was thinking he’d be beneficial to our research. What else?”
“Oh, come on,” he said with a sneer. “If that were true, you would’ve put him forward in our last meeting. Why did we discuss Pop Humphries and Saul Weber and all the others but not Anthony Garza?”
Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples, then dropped her hands and looked at him again. “Because I didn’t want to be shot down.”
“Exactly! You knew what we’d say! You knew we’d reject him—”
“He scored a perfect forty on the Hare, Tim.”
This was significant, and she knew he’d have to view it as such. Most people with no criminal background scored a 5 or a 6. Inmates who weren’t psychopaths usually scored in the early twenties. Anyone who scored over 30 was officially diagnosed a psychopath. But a perfect 40? That was rare.
Unfortunately, her announcement only set Fitzpatrick back for a moment. “I don’t give a shit if he got a perfect score! You had him transferred here without disclosing everything about him. That isn’t our policy, Dr. Talbot.”
“You would have done the same if there was a certain subject you were looking to study,” she said. They each had some discretion—or, at least, that was what she had intended when she
initially formed the team. The Bureau of Prisons hadn’t created any restrictions.
“No.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have broken the rules.”
Because he was the one making them! He’d been busy creating as many policies and procedures as possible. He claimed he wanted the power at HH to be vested in the entire mental health team, but he had so much influence over the other doctors, he was essentially taking control.
“We can learn a lot from him,” she insisted.
“Have you heard what he’s been doing all day?” he countered.
Did it really matter? At this moment? She had to call Glenn, break the news to him, then tell everyone else that Lorraine was dead. With the intensity of the emotions that were flying around, she preferred to fight one battle at a time. “How could I have heard?” she said. “I’ve been gone.”
He was more than happy to inform her. “He’s been carving your name in his arm with a sharpened toothbrush. Said he wouldn’t quit until you agreed to see him. But you weren’t here to take care of the problem you invited into our facility.”
“So what did you do?”
“We warned him, several times, but he kept at it until we had to send him to the infirmary. Once he was bandaged up, we put him in a straightjacket to keep him from hurting himself any worse and didn’t take it off until just a few minutes before you showed up.”
You’re my next victim.… Remembering Anthony’s unnerving, wild-eyed look and the way he’d focused on her, Evelyn felt behind her for her chair. He was a problem. As difficult as it was to face, he was probably a mistake. From the beginning, she’d had a strange feeling about him, a sense of having found what she’d been searching for. But she wouldn’t be the first to be blinded by impatience and drive.
Either way, she didn’t appreciate Fitzpatrick trying to make her out to be such a renegade when it was only his rules she’d flouted. Who’d put him in charge, anyway? No one. Yet he got more demanding and less easy to mollify the longer they were in Alaska.
And today she wasn’t in a position to do battle with him. She was more worried about Glenn and how he was going to take the news of Lorraine’s death, and Hugo and what he’d tried to tell her yesterday.