Megan folded her arms and stared at the floor. “It wasn’t a stupid thing to say. It was the truth. This will be the hardest time that woman will ever see. There’s no arguing that, but time does something to the pain. It changes it somehow. You cope and find a place to put it so you can keep going. At least that’s what I’ve heard, and damn, it better be true.”
Walker realized Megan was speaking more of her dealing with the loss of her father than Mrs. McAllister losing Shannon. “Trust me, it’s true. Hardest day of my life was losing my mother, but over the years I’ve moved past the trauma and I’m left with good memories and the sadness that she’s no longer around for me to share things with. You’ll see.”
“Yep. I have to get back to the conference room. There’s a lot more work to do.”
Walker took twelve message slips out from her inbox and pretended to be reviewing them when she said, “McGinn?”
Megan turned around. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for being here this morning for this. You’re good with them, you know?”
“Good with who?”
“The victims’ families.”
Megan smiled. “Thanks.”
twenty-two
Megan secluded herself in the conference room. It wasn’t even noon, but she felt like the day had already kicked her in the ass. Mounting piles of papers and files covered the table reminding her of her college years. Back then her desk was piled high with textbooks, term papers, and the usual accoutrements: a pack of NoDoz, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, and the ultranutritious Snickers bar. These days, her inner drive replaced the NoDoz, coffee with creamer and three Splendas replaced the Mountain Dew, and chewing the end of a ballpoint pen while she read through files made up her morning nutrition. Term papers and textbooks were now replaced by ME reports, photos of a dead woman, and countless unanswered questions she was no closer to answering than she’d been four hours earlier.
Megan once again felt the same sense of intrusion opening Shannon’s laptop as she had while taking the second walk through her apartment, examining her personal items in the dresser and closet. The desktop picture was of a lake at sunset. A small place in Megan’s heart held out hope that perhaps this—a picture Shannon viewed regularly—was the image greeting her when she succumbed to her killer’s power. It probably wasn’t, but it was something nice to wish for. She hit two clicks and was confronted with password protection.
“Of course. What did you have, naked pictures of your married lover? Of yourself or the two of you together?” Megan was fatigued. Her energy was low, her temper short, and her patience even shorter when there was a knock at the door.
“What?” Megan’s tone was as sharp as the pain searing through her temples, which she began to massage.
Detective Rasmussen entered, unfazed by Megan’s less-than-enthusiastic response. “That cheerful facade you’re putting on is working wonders.” He placed on the desk a large green folder thick with papers.
Megan acknowledged her brusque tone. “Sorry about that. I just met with the vic’s mother. Fuck all. What’s this?”
“Phone records from her work.” Rasmussen removed his jacket, rolled back his sleeves, and began to go through the file, dividing the stack between the two of them.
Megan’s jaw dropped. “That’s not the last twenty-four hours of her life, is it?”
“If we were talking about my ex-wife, yes—but in this case, it’s the victim’s records from the last month. It was a bitch, but we finally got them. What do you want to look at first?”
“Let’s start with her last twenty-four hours and work back. Maybe one of the bat-shit-crazy clients she dealt with had some type of crush or was pissed off at her for something.”
“It sounds like someone is due for a sensitivity training,” Rasmussen said dryly.
Megan grinned at receiving the kind of humor she was accustomed to doling out, but chose not to respond.
Rasmussen unpacked the brown paper bag. He took out a bottle of water, a bag of potato chips, and a large sandwich wrapped in white paper. He passed half the sandwich over to Megan on a napkin. “Eat this.”
“What is it?”
“Eat it.” Rasmussen wasn’t one for long-winded commentary.
“I’m not hungry.” She started to push the sandwich back over to him.
“Eat it.” Rasmussen’s Nordic background showed through with a tall frame and fair features and an occasionally icy demeanor. Some people were put off by his no-bullshit style. Megan respected it, even admired his bluntness at times.
Megan passed the copy of the memorial in The Catholic Times over to him. “Read this.” She took a bite of the sandwich and moaned, “There’s no mayonnaise on this? Jeez, how can you eat turkey without any mayo? God.”
Rasmussen took a bite of his sandwich and tossed a small packet of mayonnaise across the table at Megan while he read the highlighted area. He squinted down at the paper as if he didn’t trust the information his eyes fed him. His expression wasn’t the oh shit reaction Walker gave Megan earlier, but a look of disgust.
“Nappa is checking on it now. He should be back soon.” Megan plunged back into her doctored turkey sandwich, taking an oversized bite out of the middle. A dollop of mayonnaise and residual bread crumbs flanked the sides of her mouth as she chewed.
Rasmussen shook his head and tossed a pile of napkins over to her.
Megan garbled a thank you for the napkins, but made no attempt to use them.
“If you keep eating like that, I’ll arrest you for assault,” Rasmussen said.
“Assault on a turkey sandwich?”
“Assault on dining etiquette.”
A piece of lettuce fell out of the corner of Megan’s mouth as she responded, “I have perfect Catholic-schoolgirl manners. I just didn’t realize how hungry I was. By the way, what’s up with the Eve Scott case? I saw Palumbo earlier when the roommate came in. He said the guy was going to confess.”
“He is one sick twist. When I was his age, I couldn’t even think of anything so demented: handcuffs, sadomasochistic, tie-’em-up, tie-’em-down bullshit. Can’t anyone just have normal sex anymore?”
A spasm of coughs ensued after Rasmussen’s comment. Megan tried to swallow her stunned reaction along with the piece of sandwich stuck in her windpipe.
“You okay?”
She coughed a few more times. Her eyes began to water as she tried to clear her throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She pointed down at the paper, avoiding direct eye contact with Rasmussen.
Please, Christ, change the subject.
“If this is what you think it is, well, I don’t have to tell you—not good, McGinn,” he said.
“So, Eve Scott’s roommate, he’s getting charged?”
“Yep. It was a sex-act-gone-bad scenario.”
Megan helped herself to the bag of potato chips. “That’s what I thought.” The casual conversation to anyone else’s ears would have sounded hard and detached, especially over a turkey sandwich and baked Lay’s potato chips.
“Where’s Palumbo?”
“He’s processing Mr. Sexton. He’ll be in a little while.”
“Who?”
“The weirdo-sex guy from Eve Scott’s case,” Rasmussen answered.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. His last name is Sexton?” They both grinned at the irony of it. “Oh man. That’s fucked up. Funny, but fucked up,” Megan said.
“You must admit it’s weird that two vics in one week both attended the same college,” Rasmussen commented.
“Nothing seems weird to me anymore on this job.” Megan picked up the empty brown paper bag. “Didn’t you get a pickle?”
“Yes.”
“May I have it?” Megan asked.
“No.” He chomped the end off the kosher dill.
“You talk too much, Rasmussen.”
> “Uh-huh.”
Megan devoured the remainder of her lunch. The fatigue and headache she’d experienced earlier started to wane. She felt more focused and energized. She crumpled the leftover napkins and empty lunch bag into a ball and, mimicking a basketball player attempting a three-point shot, tossed the refuse across the room, hitting the trash can in the corner. She parodied the roar of sports fans and motioned a fake high five in Rasmussen’s direction.
Rasmussen stared blankly at Megan and then continued reviewing the phone records. Another hour passed before Nappa returned.
Megan knew by his frazzled look that the news wasn’t good. She put their earlier conversation aside for now. “Don’t tell me, Nappa, good news?”
“Top-notch system they have over there at The Catholic Times. They’re a real aggressive organization. I got his name, phone number, address, case solved.” Nappa pulled up a chair, throwing his jacket over the back. Nappa rarely displayed any level of frustration regarding the progression of a case. This was one of his first.
Megan and Rasmussen glanced at each other, neither daring to interrupt his minor rant.
“Basically, anyone can walk in, fill out a form such as this.” He held up a transparent Pendaflex file containing a yellow form. “And they don’t require anything more than payment. Cash, check, or credit card is acceptable.”
Megan held the plastic sheet up toward the light to see what could be read. The yellow piece of paper had the name of the newspaper at the top, a space for the written memorial to be printed, and the amount due at the bottom. Shannon M. You have been returned was clearly written out. The payment section was just as legible, but the line for signature had what looked like three Ms in succession. “Wow, our first clue. His name is Mmm.” She handed the evidence over to Rasmussen. “I didn’t expect the guy to write out his name and phone number, did you? He’s a sick bastard, but not stupid,” she said.
“Neither did I, but I thought there might be more. I’ll send it in for prints anyway.” He sounded temporarily defeated. Nappa leafed through one of the piles of papers. “What’s up on this end?”
Detective Palumbo entered the conference room on the tail end of Nappa’s question and they brought Nappa up to speed on the Eve Scott case.
“There was no connection between the roommate and McAllister, right?” Megan asked. Palumbo and Rasmussen both said no. “Well, it would’ve been nice if he’d confessed earlier before the papers ran with the assumption that the deaths were connected.” Megan stared up at the picture of Shannon’s sutured vagina, disgusted by the headline in the paper but also inspired in a peculiar way.
Nappa could tell the wheels in her mind were turning. “What are you thinking?”
She smacked her palm down on the table, “The Tailor, that’s what the papers have deemed our unsub.” She pointed at the photo pinned to the board. “What if this is some kind of clothing stitch? Or needlepoint or, I don’t know what the fuck, I never took home economics. Palumbo, Rasmussen, I want you to take this pic and go to as many dry cleaners and tailors on the Upper East Side as you can find. Ask them if they recognize this exact stitch. Dr. Max hasn’t come up with anything on it yet, maybe we will?”
Wide open-mouthed gaps emerged from all three men.
Palumbo pointed at the picture. “McGinn, this picture? Don’t you think it might be a bit unsettling for someone not on the job to see this? Christ, I nearly lost my breakfast when I saw it.”
In Megan’s frenzy, she’d not thought of that. “Good point. Go downstairs and have one of the sketch artists draw the stitch and take that with you. It will be less shocking for the people you speak with.”
Palumbo and Rasmussen glanced at one another with brows raised as they exited the room. Rasmussen said, “Hope whoever sketches this hasn’t had lunch yet.”
Nappa sat down in silence, staring at Megan.
“You think I’m reaching,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. Reaching is a part of our job. What’s been going on here?” Nappa pointed at the piles of paper on the conference room table.
“Rasmussen and I were going through the phone records, cross-checking it with her datebook, trying to put together a timeline of her last weeks, days, hours. She basically worked, went to school, volunteered for what seems like every charitable organization in Manhattan, and talked with her girlfriends a lot. I think we need to go back to her work again and try to talk to more people who saw her the last few days. There are a few names in her datebook—actually let me rephrase that, not names, initials—on certain dates that so far no phone numbers connect with. We know LB is McAllister’s mentor, Lauren Bell. I’ve put a call in to her and she’s expecting us later this afternoon. Now, it’s hard to even read McAllister’s handwriting, but we know PG is Paige Gowan and, as Katelyn Moore said, she isn’t due back in the city for a few days, but I’ve left word for her to contact me ASAP. Now, SIN, BD, BE, MW … equals NFC.”
“NFC?”
“No Fucking Clue.”
“What’s that?” Nappa motioned to the computer case Mrs. McAllister brought in.
“The vic’s laptop. She’d forgotten it at her parents’ house the last time she went home. I’m going to have my friend check it out.”
“Your mystery friend,” Nappa confirmed.
“I checked with the tech guys, and they’ve only just started on the desktop. I’m just taking a shortcut, that’s all. Cashing in on a favor, so to speak,” Megan said.
“What kind of favor?” Nappa asked.
“My usual—oral sex for cash, what else?” she answered.
“Oh, what a relief. I thought it might be a moral or ethical conflict. But since it’s just head for cash, that’s fine,” he deadpanned.
A single knock at the door was followed by Joanne leaning into the conference room. “Megan, this just came in for you.” Joanne handed Megan a small, square package wrapped in brown paper.
“From who?”
“There’s no return address.” Joanne raised her eyebrows. “Downstairs sent it up, sorry, that’s all I know.”
“Throw it here.” Joanne gently tossed it across the conference room table. Megan held it up to her ear and shook it, whispering to Nappa, “Your apology for earlier?”
Nappa’s look of concern overrode her humor. He shook his head in protest. “That’s not from me.”
A travel-size sewing kit fell out of the bottom of the box. “What in the hell?” A note was taped to it.
Sew, sew sorry for your loss.
twenty-three
Megan rifled through an old issue of Psychology Today while she and Nappa waited to meet with Shannon’s mentor, Lauren Bell. The assistant told them she was in the middle of a group session and couldn’t be interrupted, but would be free in twenty minutes. They opted to wait in the lobby. Megan threw the magazine back on the table, missing it completely.
“I’m so fucked off. This unsub is playing with us. First of all, the balls it took to kill during the day,” Megan tugged at Nappa’s jacket to gain eye-to-eye contact, “and now mocking us with a sewing kit?”
Nappa sat forward, demanding her full attention. “That’s what you’re worried about, being mocked? McGinn, the package was sent to you directly. The killer is following your life. Offering condolences for your loss.”
“I know, Nappa. I know.” She rested her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “We both know forensics will come up with absolutely nothing. There’s not going to be any prints.” Megan squirmed in her chair, anxious for Lauren Bell to make her appearance. “We have to get on these tech guys. I want that section of the security video enhanced, Nappa. I know I saw something around the wrist.”
“I saw the same video; I couldn’t make anything out,” Nappa sighed.
“Well, I did. It was a small … something.”
> “Let’s go back a bit today. What did Bauer say this morning when you paid him a visit?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “If this is about our conversation, get over it.”
“No, this is about keeping one another up to speed so we can get a break in this case.”
Megan felt more than just a pinch of remorse for withholding the fact that she’d received a call from Shannon’s phone. Now it was too little, too late. The phone was surely out of commission by now. “If we continue to speak to one another like this in a therapist’s office, they’ll think we’re here for marriage counseling.”
“Fat chance.”
The next few minutes were spent in silence before Megan went into guarded detail about her meeting with Bauer, ending with, “It probably would have been a good idea for both of us to have gone.” Swallowing her pride proved more uncomfortable than when she bought her first home pregnancy test. Megan picked up the magazine she’d thrown moments earlier, now taking a more serious read through.
“Anything interesting?” Nappa asked.
“Well”—she turned a few pages of the magazine—“there’s a self-test, ‘Do I Need Therapy?’”
“Yes,” Nappa said.
Megan rolled her eyes. “There’s an article on obsessive-compulsive disorders, one on how to add humor to your day, and ways to increase communication in your relationships at work.”
“I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”
“I’m communicating one thought right now. Would you like me to share it?” She smiled. “Actually there’s an interesting article about antisocial personality disorder.” Megan opened to the page. “ ‘Also known as sociopathic or psychopathic personality and often leads to conflict with society as a consequence of amoral, unethical behavior.’ ”
“Trying to analyze the killer?”
“No. I guess there’s a part of me that still can’t believe what people are capable of. Even after all of the horrible things we’ve seen, I’m still amazed at …” There were too many words to choose from to describe the total disregard for human life they’d witnessed.
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