"Drink. We know how tall the killer is. That's progress," Morry said.
Marcus eyed the mug with disdain. He really didn't like the taste of bourbon, especially a ten o’clock in the morning.
"Drink, Godammit!" Morry shouted.
Marcus drank. His throat felt warmed and his larynx lost more hair.
"You're going to keep following this doctor guy. There's a story there. I mean, the guy tried to kill himself and ran smack dab in the middle of a serial killer case. What are the odds? Unfuckingbelievable," Morry said.
"You think I should?"
"What are you, dense? He tried to fucking kill himself! Why does a doctor try to kill himself?"
"He was depressed," Marcus said.
"And why was he depressed?"
"Because his wife and kid died."
"So fucking what? You grieve and then you move on. You don’t off yourself just because they died." Morry leaned forward and pointed his wrinkled boney index finger at Marcus and said, "There's more to it, my boy. I feel it deep inside this old carcass. There's more to it."
CHAPTER 33
Marcus knocked three times then stood back from the front door. A moment later the door opened just a crack.
"Yes," said the woman inside.
"Mrs. Sharp?" Marcus said.
"Who wants to know."
"Mrs. Sharp, my name is Marcus Cash. I'm a reporter with the Greenwood Times."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Ma'am, I would like to discuss Dr. Randall, not your daughter.”
The door opened enough for Marcus to see Karen; her eyes were bloodshot and puffy.
It had only been five days.
"What about him?"
"You'd never met him before, right?"
"No. Why should I have?"
"No reason, I just spoke to him yesterday and I wanted to get your side of the story."
"My side? Didn't he tell you what happened?"
"Yes he did."
"Then I'm sure you have everything there is to know."
Marcus wasn't sure what sort of "Morry trick" to use to get a distraught mother to talk about the man who chose her house to try to kill himself while her daughter was being strangled in her own bedroom. He was pretty sure there wasn't a Morry category for that one. She was part witness, part victim—with an emphasis on victim.
"You didn't pick him out of the lineup."
"I did. But he wasn't tall enough."
"Did he say anything to you that night?"
"Jesus, you guys ask dumb questions."
Marcus couldn't help but feel Morry's hand smack him on the back of the head yelling, No dumb questions!
"I'm sorry. I wasn't there so I'm…I'm just trying to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Why he chose to go to your house to kill himself."
"I wouldn't know. It's bad enough to lose a daughter, but to have some other complete stranger…" She began to choke up.
"I'm sorry, I have to go." She shut the door. As much as he still wanted to talk, Marcus knew it wasn't worth possibly burning the bridge completely just to ask a few more questions. He turned around and scanned the neighborhood. It was a Monday, and the neighborhood was nearly empty. Everyone was at work. He stepped off Karen's porch and headed across the street…maybe someone else witnessed a crazed lady beating the shit out of some guy in a parked car five nights ago just about two in the morning.
CHAPTER 34
"There's usually a stressor, something that happens in his life, something that puts him over the edge, triggering that first violent attack," Megan said.
She sat across the card table from John in the makeshift "Bedroom Killer Situation Room" he'd built in the corner of his living room. Sitting next to the stack of homicide books was Megan's Bedroom Killer case file, laid open, as Megan scanned it for information to pass on to John. They were talking crime and murder, and Megan found that she couldn't be happier. She'd never taught anything before other than training the rookie detectives, like Andy, when they first arrived. Although the rookies had learned some "classroom" stuff, it never compared to what they encountered on the street, which every detective learns firsthand once they walk into a house with a three-day-old stiff discovered during a summer heat wave only after the neighbors can't stand the stench anymore.
It was the first time they'd been together since the night they first made love and Megan's head was clear; she hadn't taken any pills before coming over. Didn't feel the need. She wanted to be all there so she could take in every moment with John.
His words.
His smell.
His presence.
She reached for the stack of books, grabbing the paperback from the bottom, while John grabbed the top of the stack so they wouldn't fall over.
"Thanks," Megan said.
"Sure," he said.
They traded smiles. It's the little things, she thought to herself. She flipped the book over, opened the back flap to see the author.
"John Douglas," she said. "I had the opportunity to hear him speak in Chicago a few years back. He kinda started the whole profiling thing."
"I've read it already," John said. "It's impressive. And yet, it makes so much sense when you think about it. Everyone has a certain personality, a certain background, and if you interview people in the same occupation, you often find similar backgrounds and personality traits."
"Even serial killers," Megan replied. "Even plain ol' murderers. Doesn't have to be serial killers. But I suppose the profiling fits better with serial killers since they tend to do the same thing each time, their modus operandi, or MO. If you kill just once, it could be from passion, anger, fear, any number of reasons."
"But killing over and over again?" asked John.
"That's because they like it. They want to do it. And it's that stressor thing that becomes more and more a part of the decision when to go back out and do it again," Megan said.
John pointed at the book and said, "I read in there that he interviewed dozens of killers in prisons across the country and from that he's able to look at any case file, review the victim's background, the crime scene photos, and other miscellaneous evidence, and come up with a complete profile of the killer. What he does for a living. Whether he lives alone, whether he's married, whether he served in the military…everything."
Megan flipped the book back onto the table and said, "Well it's not all that cut and dried. If it were perfect, we'd already have this guy." She leaned back and uncrossed her legs to stretch them, then recrossed them the other way.
"So how do you go about figuring out a murder scene?" John asked.
Megan caught herself looking down at his crotch before looking up to find him staring down at his notebook, pencil at the ready.
"Well." She uncrossed her legs again and sat up straight. "Detectives divide the analysis in three ways. What, why, and who. What took place? Why did it happen the way it did? And who would've committed the crime for these reasons?"
John scribbled on his notepad, nodding his head as he went, and Megan found herself transfixed, a smile building on her lips, as she watched him write. She quickly applied her illustration to John.
What took place?
I met a good man.
Why did it happen the way it did?
He happened to be parked in front of a house where a serial killer was taking his fourth victim.
Who would've committed the crime for what reasons?
For this one she had no answer. It wasn't John, she knew that. He was too good.
"Let's take a break," she said. "I was thinking the other day that I don't know anything about you really. Other than some sterile facts we choked out of you."
John set down his pencil, a bit apprehensive. "What do you want to know?"
"Do you have any siblings?" she asked.
John shook his head. "Just me."
"Do you ever think about that? Not having a brother or sister."
"I ha
ve, at times. I don't dwell on it though. You?"
Megan nodded vaguely, her eyes wandering away. "I have a younger sister, Melanie. She's married. They have a ten-year-old daughter, Brittany. Beautiful girl."
"You get to see them much?"
"Not as much as I'd like."
"What about Mom and Dad?"
"My mom is still around. My father passed away when I was thirteen."
"I'm sorry," John said. "Must have been tough."
"It was…on all three of us. I had to grow up fast after that. My mom had to get a job. We had to move. It was bad for a while. But Mom took care of us."
"And you took care of Melanie?"
Megan dipped her head and nodded. They were bad memories that lingered far too long in her life. As if he could read her thoughts, John took her hand in his and Megan raised her head just enough to look at their hands together, his slowly caressing hers, the way someone does when they really care. At that moment, she felt like she belonged to John and he belonged to her and, if she could, she would call in sick and never go back…just as long as he never let go. She tilted her head up farther and found him staring at her, a smile crossing his face, causing his bandage to crinkle as his skin stretched. It was obvious he couldn't smile too much, so he made the face of a stroke victim, with one side of his face paralyzed. It was this defect, this damage to John that attracted Megan as much as anything else. She took in a deep breath and shook their clasped hands as they rested on the table, as if shaking away the memory and asked, "So how long did you have to go to school…to be a doctor?" Megan said.
John hesitated at first, then said, "Four years of college, four years' medical school, three years' residency training in EM—emergency medicine."
"What did you learn in your EM residency?"
"Emergency residents learn a little bit about everything. Orthopedics, lungs, gastrointestinal…emergency room doctors are like…" John stopped briefly; his eyes went blank a moment, then he said, "One of my professors walked into the classroom one morning, dropped a stack of books on the desk with a big bang, turned to face all of us and shouted, ′All emergency room doctors are like detectives!′"
"They're like what?" Megan asked.
"They're like detectives," John said. "They have to be able to ask questions and hone in on what the problem is. Sometimes it's obvious, like a broken arm, other times you just don't know."
Megan smiled. "So, we're both detectives."
She stood up and straddled him in his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing her face close to his.
"I can't explain it. You captivate me," she whispered, then she leaned in and softly kissed his lips. She pulled back and said, "I don't want to freak you out or drive you away. I know I've come on a bit strong."
John smirked his stroke-smile again, "You think? The no panties thing and all?"
"I just…"
She kissed him again, soft smooches at first, then deeply, passionately, softly sliding her tongue in his mouth and slowly twisting and rolling it over his. Tasting him. Letting him taste her. When she'd finished she stared into his eyes again and for that moment no one else existed in her life; just him.
"I don't want to lose you," she said.
He shrugged. "I can't promise you anything right now. I'm going day-by-day—no long-term plans."
She nodded. "That's fine. I understand. Just so you know something as simple as holding hands is enough for me."
"But we're doing more than holding hands right now."
"I know. I promised myself I would be good."
Megan had no plans for sex when she'd come over, knowing that she needed to get back to the office soon. But now, sitting in his lap, the urge was overwhelming.
There might be time.
Would he want to?
She slowly wiggled her hips from side to side on his crotch, as if she were just getting comfortable, but that wasn't true. John shifted his weight in response, breathing into her face, and when she felt his hot breath she couldn't hold back any longer. She kissed him again. He pulled her tight and kissed back. Her mind shot back to their first encounter at her house and that caused her to quiver. She felt his hand gather up her bare breast and she wondered how he'd unhooked her bra, but somehow he did. She moaned, exhaled quickly, then stood up, and unbuckled John's pants, pulling them off his legs. She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her clothes. John curled her legs up and around his body as he lifted Megan off the ground and walked her into his bedroom and dropped her onto the bed. Megan felt his body cover hers. He was passionate and gentle, vigorous and aggressive, touching and caressing the right place at the right time. It was everything she wanted. Everything she needed.
She never made it back to the department.
CHAPTER 35
“What do we know?” Gerald said.
Gerald stood in front of the whiteboards and corkboards that held all the known evidence they had on the Bedroom Killer. Various memos, coroner reports, and crime scene photos tacked up on the corkboards. Photos of the mothers and daughters lined up in order, with their names, the dates of their murders, the home addresses, the address of the mothers' places of work, and all the knowns and unknowns written in shorthand developed over years of investigation by Detective Bell and his predecessors. In front of him was the Bedroom Killer Investigation Team, minus Megan. Each morning, they gathered together in front of the boards and Bell would open with the same question. After he received the list of known items he would ask, What don't we know?
This question would be followed with a list of evidence that still needed to be gathered, information about witnesses and associates, co-workers that needed to be found for questioning, and a long list of items concerning the killer, ending with the killer's identity. They discussed his possible employment, his associations such as church or gym membership, where he gets his hair cut, his marital status, and where he went to school. At this point, they were fairly convinced it was the work of one person, so they used the pronoun "he" whenever they discussed him or his life. The circumstances of the last killing, with the addition of Dr. Randall, had put a question of more than one killer in the minds of many, in particular Gerald. But today the meeting didn't start with, What do we know? It began with "Where the fuck is Ash?"
Bell's eyes shifted from left to right, watching the expressions of his team as he tried to detect any telltale sign that someone knew where she was—but he didn't get one. Instead, he got blank stares because none of them knew where she was. When he realized he wasn't going to get an answer, Gerald began the meeting.
"Rachel Sharp," Gerald said, "fourteen years old. Found dead by her mother, Karen Sharp, after confronting the killer in the act. She was already dead, so he had finished by the time she walked in. She thought she'd heard a noise, call it mother's intuition; however, there was a thunderstorm passing through, so it was just as likely that she was woken up by thunder. You guys know the story…she beats the guy at least three times with her bat, at least one of those times she hits him on the head, but it was a glancing blow, according to Mrs. Sharp. Why didn't he kill her? If he has no problem killing little girls, why not kill the mom. Think about that one and we'll come back around to it."
***
Andy turned to his left and eyed Megan's empty desk, knowing that she would be surely busted whenever she decided to make it in. These morning meetings were mandatory. This worried Andy, not that she would be busted, but the reasons for her absence. He knew, as others suspected, that Megan was going through emotional difficulties with this case. Staring into the dead eyes of young girls and not catching the killer was beginning to take its toll on her. At least, that was the perception. The truth was unknown because Megan would never talk about it, and Gerald didn't suffer excuses for anything concerning the job. Either you're in one hundred percent or you're out one hundred percent. No middle ground.
***
"We have three hairs from the baseball bat," Gerald continued. "They're g
etting tested and we'll get the DNA at some point. This is the best break we've had and just may end up cracking the case if we can find a match in the database. We know that one of the hairs belongs to Dr. Randall from his encounter with Ms. Sharp. We'll run his DNA, too. Kennedy, make a call to Miami Homicide. I was talking with an old associate of mine out there last night, and he thought they might have had a similar case about five years ago. I'll give you the name after. Who knows, we may get lucky." Kennedy nodded.
***
Three hours later, Andy watched as Megan walked out of the hallway and sat down at her desk. Her looks seemed to change from day-to-day, sometimes hour-to-hour. Two days ago she looked run down, her eyes telling the story to whoever looked at them. Today she had a bounce in her step. But it was guarded, he knew. It had to be. You didn't smile at work. Not now.
He remembered when he first came on as the newest rookie detective—Detective Megan Ash was the hot young detective, not a rookie, maybe four years on, but still young and hot. Now she was not so young. As much as he and the others knew her, he still did not know much about her private life. She was a widow at twenty-five, that's what he'd heard. She hadn't remarried, dated some from what he knew, but never brought anyone to the Christmas parties or weekend barbeques. Some had tried to set her up, but these offers were always declined. Too much work, she would say. No time. These days she looked more out of sorts, worn down, and he felt she might be on something.
Speed of some sort.
Didn't anyone else notice?
Maybe he watched her too much. Was that it? He liked her, and used to think about being with her, but that was more of a fantasy since he was married with two kids. In any case, detectives do not date each other. That would not be allowed, and for good reason. Tracking down killers takes immense focus. Leads need to be run down as soon as they come in and fighting with your partner over what was said the night before has no place in a homicide investigation. Even if he were single, he wouldn't be looking for a hookup with another cop. She'd had a boyfriend or friends—office gossip—either way he wanted to make sure she was okay. He felt like a big brother to her and wanted to protect her; even though he wasn't entirely sure she needed protection.
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