by Merry Jones
Finally, number 37 was just across the hall. The door featured large block letters announcing the doctor’s name. I knocked but got no answer. Knocked again. Finally, I tried the doorknob. The door was locked, the office dark. What was going on? Beverly Gardener knew I was coming; Nick had set up our appointment. I didn’t notice the envelope until I stepped back to leave. It was taped inconspicuously to the wood below the knob, and my name was on it.
“Zoe,” I read. We’d never formally met, but she used my first name. Establishing her dominance? “Urgent police consult called me away. Call to reschedule.” It was signed “BG.” Not “Beverly.”
Damp breath tickled my ear. “Are you—I beg your pardon, Ms. Hayes.” I wheeled around and found myself nose to nose with Phillip Woods. I hadn’t heard him approach. “Is that note perhaps—so sorry to intrude—but is that possibly a message from Dr. Gardener?”
I tried to back away but bumped into the door.
“Oh, excuse me,” he exclaimed without moving away. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I mean to say, I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Beverly—oh my. Small world, isn’t it?” He stopped to clear his throat, as if realizing the awkwardness of our situation. His eyes shifted, flitting to the wall, back to me. “Well. I didn’t expect to see you. Certainly not here. Where’s your little girl?”
I swallowed. “She’s home. I work here, Mr. Woods. I’m an art therapist.”
“Oh? Oh my. How fascinating. Yes. Well, then. You and Beverly must be colleagues.” Mr. Woods peered at me through thick lenses, blinking rapidly. I tried to smile, but my mouth twisted, must have resembled a grimace. “So, your little daughter’s at home. I don’t have children myself, of course. Not yet. Although I may finally have found the right woman.” He giggled briefly. “Well, maybe. Time will tell. But you seem a devoted mother. Lucky for your child. I was sent away to school when I was just a boy. To Europe. Switzerland, actually. You see, Mother traveled with Father. Diplomatic service. But it wasn’t all bad. I met Charles, Andrew. Stephanie. All sorts of royals.”
“Interesting,” I said. “How many of you were there?”
“How many?”
“Children.”
“Oh, well. Just myself. Just the one.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting away. Changing topics. “I’m puzzled about Beverly— Dr. Gardener. I don’t understand where she can be. She should have known I was coming by. I called the station first, of course. But they, well, they put me on hold. Can you imagine?”
“You called her radio show?” I’d often wondered what kind of people called in and aired their problems for others’ entertainment. How could they seek serious help in three minutes between commercial breaks? But here was cashmere-coasted Phillip Woods, admitting that he’d made a call.
“Yes, I called. I told them I was a close friend of Beverly’s, but they still didn’t put me through.”
“Dr. Gardener’s your friend?” Prominent Beverly Gardener and mousy Phillip Woods? It was hard to imagine them in a room together, much less in a personal relationship.
“Oh yes. Of course. We’re very close. Believe me, heads will roll when she finds out they put me on hold. I waited a half hour, and then they disconnected me—can you believe it? I called again, and the line was busy. So I called here and found out she was expected, and I left the message that I’d be dropping by. I should have done that to begin with. But I thought I’d give her a kick, you know, a dear friend popping up on the air.”
“I see.” His story seemed far-fetched. Probably he was making it up, creating a cover story, embarrassed to be found seeing a shrink. I began to move away, but he stepped into my path.
“The receptionist confirmed that Beverly was expected in her office today. I can’t imagine where she is.” Had Agnes sent him down here? She should have known better.
“Well, Dr. Gardener’s a busy woman; you’d probably be wise to make an appointment.”
“An appointment? Me? Oh, I don’t think so. She’ll make the time.”
“Like I said, she’s very busy.” I looked him in the eye.
“Besides, she owes me half an hour. After all, I waited on hold all that time.” He chuckled, as if at a joke. If there was one, I didn’t get it.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know when she’ll be in.” I took a sideways step and began to walk away.
He nodded, staring at the floor. “Yes, all right.”
“But I doubt it’ll be soon.” I walked a few steps and turned back.
He stood still, bereft. A lost man in need of help.
“Maybe Agnes, the receptionist in the lobby, can phone her beeper for you.”
“No, no. I don’t want to alarm her. It’s no real emergency.”
His gaze remained on the floor. His eye kept twitching and he bit his lip. I was afraid he was going to cry. I hoped he wouldn’t; I didn’t know how to react if he did. But his eyes remained dry, darting to the ceiling and back down again. “Very well, then. She’s not coming,” he sighed. “Well. Another time, then. Thank you, Ms. Hayes. Very sorry to have bothered you.”
He turned back to the waiting area and resumed his troubled pacing. I saw a small suitcase on the sofa. Was he just here to see Dr. Gardener, or had he been planning to check in?
“But if you want,” I offered, “someone else on staff could probably see you now. Dr. Gardener’s not the only—”
“Why would I want to see someone else? I thought I made myself clear, Ms. Hayes. I’m here as Dr. Gardener’s friend. We have a close, rather personal relationship.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Maybe I’ll wait just a bit longer.” He shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the hallway, and resumed his pacing. I left him there and quickly retraced my steps to the elevator. I’d ask Beverly Gardener about him. Maybe they were friends. But, if they were, why didn’t he just call her cell phone or her home if he wanted to talk? What was the big deal about surprising her? Oh, well. Not my business. What an odd little man. And what a street I lived on. Charlie, the delusional paranoid. Victor, the phobic recluse. And Phillip Woods apparently had a few personal quirks himself. Then, of course, there was me . . .
The note was still in my hand. Dr. Gardener was off assisting the police. Assisting Nick. Was she with him now? I pictured them together. Intense, energetic Beverly Gardener and rugged, big-bicepped Nick Stiles. Maybe she was helping him sort body parts. Maybe he was studying her profile. Maybe I should stop thinking about what they were doing. Whatever it was, why did I care? Dammit, why had I gone to bed with him? And why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? I had patients to see, a group session to run. A killer to watch out for. I didn’t need to spend time wandering a chilly basement, feeling jealous and suspicious, imagining the romantic escapades of a woman I didn’t know and a man I didn’t trust.
I hurried into the elevator, pushed the button, and didn’t look up again until the doors opened, delivering me from the bowels of the Institute to the gray light of the lobby.
TWENTY-SIX
THAT DAY AND THE NEXT, I CALLED BEVERLY GARDENER’SOF-fice several times, only to get Agnes. I left messages about rescheduling but got no reply. I thought of calling Nick about it but didn’t want to, except as a last resort. Besides, I was busy. I had a new patient, Celia Dukell. Celia was fifteen years old and had been carving herself with razor blades off and on for three years. Our first sessions went well enough, but I suspected she was saying and doing what she thought she was supposed to say and do. Her family portrait showed her as a bland and hollow figure amid relatives of substance and color. A polite, controlled, only slightly revealing sketch.
My other cases were demanding, as well. Amanda, almost completely bald now, drew her family without including any image of herself. Hank wouldn’t paint at all until the bristles on his brush were perfectly aligned, which was never. sydney, having adapted to his medications, began a still life of a vase, but the vase in his sketch, unlike the model, was severel
y chipped and cracked.
Evie Kraus finally painted something other than her literal surroundings. she did a self-portrait, examining her features closely in a mirror while she worked. I looked over her shoulder to see what she’d drawn; like the tattoos covering her arms, it was a coiled, thick snake, devouring a cat.
I finally heard from Dr. Gardener on Wednesday morning. I’d begun to think that I’d never see the profile, that Nick might have reconsidered having my input on the case. Then, Wednesday morning, I smelled flowers, heard the quick clack of heels against tile, and looked up to see Dr. Beverly Gardener herself bursting like floodwaters into the arts and crafts room.
“You must be Zoe.” Her eyes focused on me, drenching me with their intensity. she wore a cranberry tweed suit with a knee-length skirt that showed off her incredible calves, and she examined me from head to toe and back to head again, as if measuring me for curtains. “I’m Beverly Gardener. Nick stiles’s friend.”
His friend? Not colleague? Not consultant? His friend. Okay. I got it. Her makeup was simple, accenting her green eyes, and her dark hair was done up in a neat chignon. I stood to greet her. In her low heels, she was taller than I in my flats; I had to look up at her when we spoke.
“Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake; she cupped it in hers like a wounded bird, watching me. studying my. reaction?
“Nick said to pass this along to you.” she handed me a large white envelope, her eyes not leaving mine. “Thank you.”
“You live right in the middle of it, then? You found the finger?” “Yes.”
“How awful for you, dumpling.”
Dumpling? I remembered now; on her radio show, she used epithets all the time. Callers were “honey” or “peach.” It was her shtick to talk in food.
“Well, not as awful as it was for the woman who lost it.”
“I imagine not.” Her eyes probed mine, studying me. I felt them, hot like spotlights. “But cupcake, have you talked it out with anyone?”
Oh, please. Was she going to play sixty-second shrink with me? “Thanks for your concern, Dr. Gardener. I’m fine—”
“Really? Because Nick says you’ve been upset about the nanny case. He said one of the missing women is your friend.”
“Did he?” sonofabitch discussed me with her? What else had he said? That I was easy? That I’d hopped into bed after just two slices of pizza? “He must have caught me at a bad moment.” Damned if I was going to let on that I was upset.
“Look, sugar, you don’t need to impress me with your strength. This case is brutal. Horrible. You’d be nuts not to be upset.” Her eyes were jade green. “Professionals like us don’t like to admit that we can have problems, too. We’re supposed to be invulnerable and help everybody else. But guess what? We’re only human. sometimes we need a shoulder to lean on just like everyone else. so if there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—just call. You hear?” she seemed sincere. Despite the food nicknames and the fact that she hadn’t answered my calls for three days, I found myself oddly drawn to her. Warmed by her energy, flattered by her attention. Almost believing her sincerity Almost wanting to.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m really fine, though.”
“I hope so.” Her voice was husky, like smoke. Her eyes glowed like green embers. “We’re on the same team, after all.”
We were a team? I pictured us in football uniforms, huddled around Nick. Not a good image. I blinked it away.
She was leaving. Heels clacking on my floor, reviving me. I remembered the message I had for her.
“Oh, Dr. Gardener?” Damn, why hadn’t I said “Beverly”? “There was a man at your office, Phillip Woods. He was waiting to see you—”
“Woods?” Her eyes widened. “He was? Oh, Christ. When?”
“Monday morning. He said he was your friend.”
“I’m sure he did. Actually, he’s more like my devotee. He’s a groupie. An infatuated fan. He writes letters and e-mails, sends me flowers, hangs around the radio station hoping to catch sight of me. I guess it was only a matter of time until he showed up here.”
Were we talking about the same Phillip Woods? “Really? He didn’t seem the kind of person who’d intrude that way.”
“Actually, he’s not that unusual. I’ve come to expect that sort of thing—it comes with celebrity. When you’re in the public eye, people begin to think they actually know you, even that they’re in love with you. Like Phillip Woods. He has a crush on me. It’s a nuisance, but no big surprise.” She shrugged. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll take care of it.”
When she waved good-bye, the air shimmered around her; after she’d left, the room seemed empty and deprived. Except for the lingering scent of her perfume, I was alone with her profile.
TWENTY-SEVEN
IT WAS IN A PLAIN WHITE ENVELOPE WITH NO COVER LETTER, no return address, no instruction as to what I should do when I’d finished reading it.
The report itself was surprisingly short and contained few surprises. It said that the likely perpetrator was male, probably under forty, probably a loner, probably with low self-esteem. He probably lived, worked, or had lived or worked in the neighborhood where the crimes were committed. He likely had some sort of sexual dysfunction as well as a history of violence and/or abuse in his childhood. He hated young women or nannies, might have been a chronic bed wetter, might have started fires, might have been cruel to small animals.
The wording was general, the findings broad enough to apply to many serial killers, not just this one. Most of the second paragraph was blacked out; what remained suggested that the suspect would have to be familiar with a variety of tools and adept at using them. He would be neat, intelligent, and organized; a stickler for detail; a patient, persistent person who might have a background in medicine, anatomy, hunting, fishing, engineering, carpentry, or design.
I held the paper up to the light but couldn’t read the blacked-out section. I assumed, though, that it referred to specifics of the recovered victim’s dismemberment, details of which Nick wasn’t ready to reveal to a “civilian,” even if she’d personally found one of the dismembered parts.
I read on. The suspect was probably but not necessarily white; his victims had no consistent racial makeup, and victims usually matched the race of their killer. He was precise and planned carefully. He believed he was empowered to kill because of his own innate superiority, the value of his mission, or the power of a superior being who directed him. He might or might not be torturing his victims. His father might have been an alcoholic or drug abuser; his mother might have abused him, possibly sexually. Also, he might or might not have had a nanny or babysitter who’d abused him. The increasingly bold and open nature of his kidnappings implied that he was confident, even taunting authorities, growing bolder with each crime.
The report so far seemed general and indefinite. Nothing particularly insightful or striking. Was this vague garble the kind of work that had earned Beverly Gardener world renown as a forensic psychologist?
The next paragraph was highlighted in yellow. It said that the killer might insert himself somehow into or close to the investigation, possibly pretending to protect potential victims or to help solve the crime. The fact that significant evidence had been left out in the open indicated that he intended to keep on killing. He might, in fact, leave significant clues in significant places where they would be found by significant parties. An arrow was drawn to a handwritten comment in the margin. It said, “E.g., finger? Z. Hayes? Significance?”
A chilled ripple slid down my back. With equally cold certainty, I understood why Nick had asked for my help.
TWENTY-EIGHT
FOR SEVERAL MINUTES, I SAT AT MY DESK, SHAKEN BY DR. GARdener’s notation. Had the finger been dropped in front of my house deliberately? Was my doorstep a “significant” location to the killer? If so, why? Who was he?
The faces of local men stampeded through my mind. Victor. Charlie. Joe. Gene. Stop it, I told myself. Calm down.
Think. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, made the faces stand in an orderly line. Victor was first. He was the right age, somewhere in his thirties. I didn’t know much else about him, beyond rumors. supposedly, he’d lived with his mother all his life, until her death. Maybe something unnatural had been going on. Had he been abused? Victor was a loner, dysfunctional at everything, probably at sex, too. But Victor was so afraid of violence that he holed up in his house. Unless that was just an act. Maybe Victor wasn’t phobic at all. Maybe he actually snuck out his back door, grabbed nannies, and chopped their fingers off in his spare room. Who would know? Agoraphobia would be a great cover.
What about Charlie? He insisted that he knew all about the evil around us. He said the evil guy was “in his head,” controlling, monitoring his thoughts; that sounded like a “superior power.” Oh Lord. Was the dangerous person Charlie’d warned me about none other than Charlie himself? Had Charlie left the grisly clue at our door as a warning? He had a carpentry background. And skill with tools. And he’d inserted himself into the investigation, promising to protect me. He fit the profile in many ways. But that was ridiculous. Charlie had bad knees. He was no killer. Was he?
Then there was Phillip Woods. He’d seemed almost obsessed with Dr. Gardener. Here was a thought: He’d followed Dr. Gardener’s career and read her books; he knew she was a forensic consultant for the police. Could he have killed women just to get her attention? To be the subject of one of her chapters? How infatuated was he? He was almost forty, a little old for the profile, but he fit it in other ways. He was a loner. A planner. Precise with details. Able to wire an electronic santa—maybe he’d studied engineering.