The Inquisitor

by Gayle Wilson

  “What makes it easy these days for someone to do what this guy has done is transportation,” the detective said. “Last time I looked, we got plenty of planes flying out of the airport here. And you obviously got money to get on any of ’em you want to and fly wherever you want to go. So…I’m gonna ask you one more time, Dr. Carlisle. Is there anybody who can verify that you were here all night?”

  Bingham’s repetition of the question was controlled, but he’d made it clear he’d not been amused by the psychiatrist’s sarcasm. Carlisle was intelligent enough to pick up on that. And smart enough to also know how unpleasant this could become.

  “I live alone. I was alone tonight. Look, if I were planning to abduct Jenna, as ludicrous as the idea is, I certainly wouldn’t have given away to you that I knew where she was hiding. I should be the last person you suspect of this.”

  “Unless you’re just clever enough to figure out that by telling us her location, we’d consider you to be the last possible suspect.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Provide us with the list of people you talked to about Dr. Kincaid,” Sean demanded, carefully straightening away from the table. “All we want are those names.”

  Having recognized that he obviously had no choice, Carlisle complied. “Beth Goldberg. I mentioned her before. Gary Evers. Jeffrey Burrows. Ceil Rogers. One of the secretaries. Jenna’s, perhaps. I really don’t remember. She seemed highly interested in what I said, in any case. As for who else was in the room at the time…I’m sorry. I can’t be more specific.”

  “And all those folks will be at your office this morning?” Bingham asked.

  “As they are every weekday morning. We do all work for a living, despite common misconceptions to the contrary.”

  “We can’t wait,” Sean warned, turning to look at the cop over his shoulder.

  Bingham glanced at his watch and then shook his head. “It’s nearly five. In the long run it’ll be quicker to meet them there. By the time we round up the addresses and roust these folks out of their beds…” He shrugged.

  “Personnel files?” Sean turned back to shoot the question at Carlisle.

  “Of the staff?” It was clear he wanted to protest, but one glance at the detective’s face stopped him. “At the office, of course.”

  “We’ll need to see those, too.”

  “If you’re implying that one of Jenna’s colleagues—”

  “She swore to me you were the only person she told. I don’t think she was lying. You say you had nothing to do with her disappearance, and we’ve taken you at your word, but someone must have given something away.”

  “You believe you’ll discover who that was by going through the personnel records of my staff?”

  “I believe that by examining their résumés we can eliminate any suspicion the police might have about your people being involved in these homicides. You can’t possibly object to that.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but the psychiatrist nodded. Maybe he figured that the quicker he gave them what they wanted, the quicker this would be done.

  “And we’d like time to go over them before they arrive,” Sean added.

  “Before they arrive? You mean—”

  “As soon as you’re dressed, Doctor. If you don’t mind.”

  Carlisle’s expression said that he did. “I can meet you there. Shall we say in…an hour?”

  “We’ll wait,” Sean said.

  The hazel eyes were momentarily furious, but with an effort that was visible, the psychiatrist controlled the emotion. “I have to shower.”

  “Don’t be long.” Bingham’s admonition seemed low key until he added, “After all, we have no idea how long Dr. Kincaid has before he begins.”

  Carlisle took a breath, deep enough to be visible. It was evident that, despite his doctor-as-God arrogance, Bingham’s reminder had shaken him.

  Maybe he did care about Jenna. Maybe he’d told the truth about the conversation he’d had with her colleagues. If he had…

  They were right back where they’d started.

  “Sergeant…Murphy, is it?” The psychiatrist had taken a few steps toward the staircase when he turned back to address Sean.

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me something, if you don’t mind. You said he killed the cop.”

  “Cut his throat,” Bingham supplied bluntly.

  Carlisle’s eyes focused on the detective before they returned to Sean. “Then…why would he leave you alive?”

  “He knew I couldn’t identify him.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Nothing more than a shape coming out of the darkness.”

  “Still…One would think he wouldn’t be willing to take that chance. It seems like too big a risk. Especially since he so obviously has no qualms about killing.”

  The psychiatrist’s question was only what everyone else involved in this had probably been thinking. Something Sean had already come to terms with.

  “It’s a game,” he acknowledged.

  “A game?”

  “The kind with winners and losers.”

  Carlisle studied his face a moment. “And he wants you around so you can understand that he’s won and you’ve lost.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I believe Jenna said your sister was one of his victims.”

  Sean nodded, unsure where the question about Makaela was going. Wherever it was, he probably wasn’t going to like it.

  “You know it’s all about control, don’t you? With the women, I mean. It isn’t sexual. It’s domination. It’s just as obviously about control with you, too.”

  “Possibly.”

  “He wants you to do what you’re doing right now. To try and find Jenna. To imagine what’s happening to her. And to finally realize that you can’t do anything to stop it.”

  “That’s where he’d be wrong,” Sean said softly. “If you’re looking for someone to bet on in this, don’t choose him.”

  For a dozen heartbeats, the psychiatrist held Sean’s eyes. Then he nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad Jenna has someone like you on her side, Sergeant Murphy. And whether you believe it or not right now, I’m on her side, too. If any of my people are involved—” He stopped, obviously controlling the emotion that had crept into his voice. “That wouldn’t be good for the practice. So…whatever records you need, you’ll have access to. I promise you that.”

  Carlisle could couch the reason for his cooperation however he wanted. The important thing was that it seemed he was finally on board with what they needed him to do.

  Believing that a slip of the tongue made by one of Jenna’s co-workers had led to tonight’s events was a reach. Still, it was the only thing Sean had right now.

  He’d always believed you played the hand you were dealt. At least until it was time for the cards to be reshuffled. That’s what he had to try to do. Otherwise, the Inquisitor still held all the aces.

  Twenty-Seven

  “Here you are.” The psychiatrist held out the four folders they’d asked for, which he’d taken from a filing cabinet in his office. “Any preference?”

  Without answering, Sean took all of them from his hands and laid them out on the edge of the desk. He flipped each open, then reordered them into two stacks. Those belonging to the men were on top, with a woman’s folder beneath it.

  “And the secretary?”

  “I’ll ask Dr. Goldberg when she comes in if she remembers who that was. These—” he said, nodding toward the file “—these are the people I’m sure of.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sean picked up the two belonging to Burrows and Rogers and handed them to Bingham. He took the others and sat down in one of the leather chairs on the visitor’s side of the desk.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Dr. Carlisle,” Bingham said, bringing Sean’s eyes up from the file he’d already started to read.

  He’d deliberately kept Evers’s because of the visit he’d paid to Jenna�
��s the night she discovered the box in her refrigerator. Coincidence, maybe, but considering the events at the motel later on that night, he was no longer sure.

  “This is my office, Lieutenant,” Carlisle said, sounding amused and resigned rather than annoyed.

  “Maybe you could get some coffee or something. Give us half an hour to look at these.”

  “You know how to work an intercom?”

  “I can probably figure it out. I have one of my own.”

  “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be outside.”

  Bingham stood, clutching the two files he’d been handed until the door closed behind the psychiatrist.

  “Exactly what the hell am I supposed to be looking for in these?” he said, lifting them. “These people are mental health professionals. You don’t really believe that one of them—”

  “He’s smart. He’s organized. He knows how to manipulate people. He knows how to get them to trust him. Not bad credentials for a ‘mental health professional.’”

  “So why the women? We know for sure he ain’t female.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll learn more talking to them personally. See if they told anyone what Carlisle said about Jenna’s location.”

  “Carlisle says he didn’t say anything.”

  “Yet somebody knew where she was.” It wasn’t that Sean didn’t know how thin this all was, but other than checking out every silver or gray sedan in town, he didn’t have anything else. “And we need to know what kind of car these two drive.”

  “Burrows and Evers.”

  “Ask Carlisle. If he doesn’t know, tell him to find out.”

  “Okay,” Bingham said. “And the personnel stuff? What are we supposed to look for in these?”

  “Their résumés will tell us where they’ve been for the last few years. We know everywhere this guy’s operated. Read ’em and see if anything sets off alarms.”

  “That’s assuming, of course, that a serial killer’s gonna put down accurate information about where he’s worked.”

  “Jenna says Carlisle’s the kind who would check. Make sure how good they were before he hired them. You heard his ‘it wouldn’t be good for the practice.’ He’s not the kind of person who takes chances.”

  “Just like our boy. I wonder if the doc’s got something in his garage other than the Porsche he drove this morning. ’Course, that could apply to the other two as well. Why don’t I call motor vehicles and see what automobiles these gentlemen pay taxes on? All I need are their addresses.”

  That was the lieutenant’s area of expertise. Sean was willing to let him handle it however he thought was best. He held out Evers’s folder, waiting as Bingham jotted the information he needed on a notepad from Carlisle’s desk.

  When the detective handed the file back, he opened the personnel folder on Burrows and then picked up a business card from the holder on the psychiatrist’s desk. “Want me to go somewhere else to make the call?”

  “No need to let anyone else know we’re checking. Even if nothing comes of it, suspicion in something like this lingers.”

  Sean looked down again at the file in his lap. He was aware when Bingham slid into Carlisle’s chair and picked up the phone, but he refused to be distracted, concentrating instead on the information in front of him.

  The first few pages were evaluations done since Evers had begun working for Carlisle, the initial one dated, as Jenna had said, almost two years ago. Which should probably eliminate the psychologist from serious consideration, despite what Bingham said about modern transportation. Something about Evers’s visit to Jenna’s that night bothered Sean enough that he kept reading.

  Some psychiatrist could have a field day analyzing Carlisle’s cramped printing, Sean thought, turning the page. What he said was far less interesting. Apparently he had found Dr. Evers to be an “exemplary” therapist and a “team player.”

  And the guy’s résumé was impressive, as well, even to Sean’s admittedly uninformed eyes. The list of awards, grants and other recognitions he’d received filled three pages.

  Sean scanned them quickly and then turned to the information he’d been looking for—the listing of the schools the psychologist had attended and his previous employments. His Ph.D. was from UMass in Boston, with a clinical internship and post-doctoral fellowship at the National Crime and Victims Research and Treatment Center in Charleston. Convenient background for a serial killer, Sean thought, lifting the first page to reveal another, half full of training seminars Evers had attended.

  Before he’d come to Carlisle, he’d worked briefly in private practices in Ohio and Spokane. Sean compared those years to the chronology of the murders that had, as of now, been identified as the work of the Inquisitor. There was no record of Evers being in San Diego during the relevant period. Nor in Detroit, where Makaela had been a victim. Nor Atlanta. Boston. None of the cities the murderer had terrorized before he’d moved on to Birmingham.

  Frustrated, Sean went back to the first page of the résumé, studying the list of colleges again. Evers had lived in the Boston area when he’d been in grad school, but not at the time the Inquisitor had operated there. And four of the seminars he’d attended had taken place in San Diego. Other than those—

  “They’re gonna check ’em all and call me back.”

  Startled, Sean glanced up to see the lieutenant standing beside him, looking down at the folder spread across his lap. Obviously the phone call to motor vehicles had been completed. Some time ago, he realized, as Bingham put the folders he’d been given to read down on the edge of Carlisle’s desk.

  “Both of these are local,” Bingham went on. “She attended UAB. Burrows got his Ph.D. in Fayetteville, Arkansas. The last time I looked that wasn’t on the list we should be interested in. Other than that, this guy’s homegrown. You got anything?”

  “Somebody who’s moved around a hell of a lot in the past dozen or so years.”

  “Yeah? Anywhere significant?”

  Sean could hear the note of excitement the detective was trying to hide. They’d known this was a long shot, but since they had virtually nothing else, evidently they had both been hoping for something.

  “The times are wrong. He lived in Boston, but long before the murders.”

  “That means he would have known the city. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that makes him feel safe.”

  That was typical of serial killers. Especially in the beginning.

  “He attended a few seminars in San Diego. No connection to Atlanta. Or Detroit. Not that I can see.” Sean passed the résumé across to the other man.

  Bingham looked at it, using his thumb to raise the first sheet so he could see the second. “Maybe his boss knows something about those two.”

  He stood, reaching across the desk to press the button on the intercom. “Dr. Carlisle? Could you come back in, please?”

  The reply was immediate. As if the psychiatrist had been sitting in the outer office waiting to push that button in response. “Dr. Goldberg is here. Shall I bring her in, too?”

  The detective looked at Sean, raising his brows.

  Why not? They could ask her the same questions they needed to ask Carlisle. He nodded.

  Bingham pressed the button again. “Bring her with you.”

  The lieutenant handed Evers’s résumé back as the door to the office opened. They turned to watch Carlisle usher in a woman about Jenna’s age, with the same dark hair and eyes. Reflected within them was disbelief. Anxiety. Concern.

  Seeing them there, all the emotions Sean had fought since he’d awakened on the floor of the Kincaids’ kitchen came roaring back. He wasn’t sure whether it was Beth Goldberg’s physical resemblance to Jenna or her obvious distress, but the images of what might be happening to Jenna—images he had denied for the past three hours—threatened his control.

  “This is Jenna’s friend and colleague, Dr. Beth Goldberg. Beth, Lieutenant Bingham. He’s in charge of the local Inquisitor task force. Beth came in early to
catch up on some things, so I asked her to come and talk to you.”

  “Is it true?” Despite Carlisle’s introduction, for some reason she spoke directly to Sean. “What Paul said? You believe the killer has abducted Jenna?”

  Bingham looked at him, waiting for Sean to answer. Unsure he could right now without his voice shaking, Sean said nothing.

  After a moment the police lieutenant filled in the awkward silence.

  “We’re relatively certain that’s the case, Dr. Goldberg.”

  “Then if I may ask, respectfully, what the hell are you all doing here?” This time the question was addressed to the detective. “Why aren’t you out looking for her?”

  “Believe me, ma’am, we are. However—” Bingham stopped, turning toward Sean again.

  He was right. The fact that they were here rather than anywhere else was because of his insistence. His instinct.

  “Dr. Carlisle’s the only person Jenna told where she would be last night. The fact that the killer showed up at that location meant we needed to ask him some questions.”

  “And who are you?” Beth asked.

  “My name’s Murphy. Sean Murphy.”

  “You’re the man who threatened Jenna.”

  Not an unfair characterization, but the feelings that had provoked his visit seemed foreign to him now. “I tried to tell her she was in danger.”

  “Looks like you were right. So do you get a gold star or something?”

  “Dr. Goldberg—”

  “How the hell did this happen if you knew she might be a target? How could you have let it happen?”

  “Beth.”

  Carlisle’s admonition made the psychologist press her lips together tightly, but her eyes expressed her fury.

  “You and Dr. Carlisle had a conversation about Jenna yesterday. Is that right?” Bingham asked.

  “I asked if Jenna was okay. I hadn’t wanted to call because I thought my worrying would cause her to worry even more. Give what you had told her credence. That sounds silly, I suppose…” She stopped, seeming to realize she’d gone off track. “Paul said he’d talked to her and that she was in a very secure place and that I shouldn’t worry.”