The cut on her face blazed. It was probably infected.
She was relieved that the man had not come in for the past day. She scanned the basement, looking for anything that could help her cut the binds. Only a sharp knife or saw would work.
Footsteps above her crossed the room and stopped somewhere for a while before heading back the opposite way. A moment later, a car started and pulled away.
She surveyed the basement again.
46
Mickey sat outside in his truck until eleven a.m., when the first group session began. When he did go inside, he used the bathroom and then found the room number given to him by guest services.
It was a classroom, or what looked like a classroom. About a dozen patients sat in a circle at the front of the room, with two psychiatrists at the head. Mickey waited until one of the psychiatrists finished speaking before he entered.
“I’m looking for Tyler,” he said.
“And who are you?”
He took out his badge, watching the faces of the patients. “Mickey Parsons. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation investigating the death of Janessa Hennley.”
The psychiatrist’s brow furrowed, and he brushed past Mickey. “Let’s talk in the hall.”
Mickey followed him out and leaned against the wall. “Is Tyler in there?”
“Yes, he’s in there. What do you need with him?”
“I just need to talk to him.”
The psychiatrist folded his arms. “About what?”
“Frankly, Doctor, that’s none of your concern.”
The psychiatrist glanced into the room and then at him again. “He didn’t kill her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the night she was killed, he was in my office.” He glanced into the room again. “I checked the dates when I found out what happened. Tyler has a tendency to get obsessed. I just wanted to be sure.”
Mickey turned away from him and faced the patients. Most of them were so medicated they hardly seemed able to stay awake, much less kill an entire family.
“When Janessa was under your care here, did anybody else take an interest in her?”
“No. Most of my patients can’t experience sexual arousal. They’re too far gone or on medications that hamper that urge. Tyler and Janessa were the only two with substance abuse problems, and it’s natural, I suppose, for them to be attracted to each other.”
An orderly pushed a gurney down the hall. Mickey watched him a moment before returning his attention to the psychiatrist. “Is there anyone not here today?”
“Couple of people. No one you’d be interested in. One of them can’t even speak, and the other is in a wheelchair.”
A dark gray feeling tugged at his guts. He’d been so close. “Thanks for your time.”
Mickey walked to the elevators and pressed the down button, but the elevators were already opening. Inside stood an older couple and beside them, a tall man with urine-colored skin and eyes. He gazed up at Mickey, and their eyes locked.
“I see you,” he hissed.
He slammed Mickey in the throat with his fist, throwing him back against the wall. The man’s mother screamed as the elevator doors closed again. Mickey, holding his throat, jumped up and drew his sidearm. He dashed for the stairs and sprinted down two or three at a time. By the time he reached the bottom floor, the elevator doors were opening, and the man stepped out. Mickey lifted his weapon.
“Don’t move!”
The man grabbed his mother by the throat and pulled her in front of him, a hunting knife in his hand. She blocked him completely; Mickey didn’t have a shot as the man inched out the front doors. Mickey tailed him outside, the father yelling at his son to stop. Hospital staff and patients were screaming and dashing away from them. A few hospital security guards ran out, but they stood frozen, mace in hand, uncertain exactly what to do.
Once in the parking lot, the man got into their car and started it, his mother shrieking. As he put the car in reverse and peeled out, he hurled his mother onto the pavement.
Mickey took the shot.
He fired three rounds, exploding the back window. One of the rounds punctured the trunk, and the other missed entirely. He ran to his truck.
Her roared out of the parking lot and turned right onto Main Street. The car ahead didn’t stop for lights or signs, and neither did he. Mickey sped up to ninety miles an hour but still couldn’t catch up.
The car slammed on its brakes and skidded to the right. It disappeared, and his heart dropped. He screeched around the sharp corner and took out a stop sign as another car, blaring its horn, slammed on its brakes.
Mickey scanned all the driveways and any garages that were open but didn’t see him. He U-turned and proceeded up and down several of the residential streets but found nothing.
He pulled over to the side of the road, waited a few minutes before turning around, and headed back to the hospital.
47
The police had arrived by the time Mickey got back, and they were interviewing the man’s parents. The officers interviewed Mickey as well. When they finished, Mickey approached the parents.
“Do you know where he’s going?” he said.
The mother shook her head. Pale and trembling, she was in shock.
“We don’t know,” the father said. “What he said to you… That was the first time I’ve heard him speak in three years.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“We spoke to his psychiatrist a couple days ago, and he said the disorder that David has makes it hard for him to see faces. Even his own. But that sometimes he can see certain faces.”
“He thinks he’s dead,” the mother said, folding her arms and lightly rocking back and forth. “That’s what his doctor said. That’s why he looks the way he does. He doesn’t eat or take care of himself because he thinks he’s dead.”
Mickey stared at her. “I’d like permission to search David’s room.” She shrugged without looking up. “Let’s go. I’ll give you guys a ride home.”
Mickey followed them out of his truck and up to the front porch of the Shyams’ home after riding in complete silence. Mickey tried once to ask about David’s childhood, when the disease began to manifest, but he received one-word or one-sentence answers and dropped it. The wound was too fresh right now.
The home was clean, almost antiseptic, the way many empty nesters kept their homes. Mrs. Shyam put her purse down and took off her shoes.
“David’s room is upstairs, first door.”
“Does he have any friends he could’ve turned to? Any relatives? An uncle or an aunt, maybe?”
“No. David keeps completely to himself. He doesn’t use the phone or go outside. The only thing I’ve ever seen him do is surf the internet sometimes. I didn’t even know he still remembered how to drive. I thought he was a walking vegetable.” She pulled nervously at her fingers, cracking them. “But apparently there’s more there.”
Mr. Shyam sat at the kitchen table, absently rolling a cup of coffee between his palms. Mickey left the Shyams alone to talk and found David’s room.
It was difficult to walk in the cluttered room. Clothes and newspapers were thrown around like an explosion had gone off. A thin film of what looked like slime stained the sheets on the bed. Deteriorating, jaundiced skin. In the corner were a set of dumbbells and some thick rubber bands used in cardio classes.
A laptop rested on a desk against the wall. The keyboard was sticky with hardened yellow lumps. He rolled his hand into his jacket sleeve and typed.
He pulled up the browser history. His name and Suzan Clay were Googled. He opened a bookmarked investigative website, used for finding out people’s personal information. Under the browser’s history tab it said “Janessa Hennley.” He clicked on her name.
A photo, her phone number, and her address all popped up. Mickey clicked around a little more and then closed the laptop. She was a minor. Despite the website’s illegal activity, they would likely neve
r be punished. Mostly based overseas, the investigation websites reopened with another URL as soon as they were shut down.
He peeked into the closet before going back downstairs. The Shyams sat in silence at their kitchen table.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” he said.
“He wasn’t a bad kid,” Mr. Shyam said. “He was quiet but never misbehaved. Not until he got really sick.”
“But he can get better,” the mother said. “Dr. Boyack told us that with really strong drugs, he might get better.”
“Can I have Dr. Boyack’s number, please?”
“Certainly. I’ll get it for you.”
She handed him a scrap of paper with a number written on it in pen. He tucked it into his pocket and placed one of his cards on the table. “If he comes back, please call me. He’s hurt a lot of people. And he’s going to hurt more. I can take him into custody without harming him, but the police won’t be so gentle. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
As he left the house, Mickey dialed Martin Boyack’s number. He told the receptionist he was with the FBI and needed to speak to him right away. A few seconds later, a male voice said, “This is Dr. Boyack.”
“Doctor, this is Mickey Parsons. I’m a special agent with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Unit. I received your number from Mr. and Mrs. Shyam. David’s parents.”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“I believe David is responsible for the murder of five people and the kidnapping of another. When I confronted him today, he attacked his mother, using her as a shield, and managed to slip away from me.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“I was hoping you could shed some light on that.”
“With doctor-patient privilege I can’t—”
“The privilege doesn’t apply when the patient has harmed or is going to harm a third party. I was an attorney before joining the Bureau. You’re fine.”
A pause. “I don’t know where he could be. We’ve had maybe five sessions, and he hasn’t said a word during any of them.”
“Can you tell me anything about his disorder?”
“It’s called Cotard’s syndrome. David believes he’s dead. He’s so certain about it that his body is reacting with a psychosomatic response. It’s rotting, even though he’s still alive.”
“Can he think clearly?”
“For all intents and purposes, David is exactly who he was before the onset of the disease. It’s just that now he believes he’s a corpse.”
“Is he coherent enough to have rented an apartment or house somewhere? Some place he could take a victim?”
“Victim of what? What did he do exactly?”
“He told me he could see me before he ran. Janessa Hennley, a sixteen-year-old girl found murdered with her family, had the words ‘I see you’ scrawled across her forehead. Before she was stabbed and bitten to death.”
“Bitten? I had no idea. If I had a clue he was violent—”
“Too late for that now, doc. I need help finding him.”
“I can’t help you there. He just didn’t give me any information.”
Mickey climbed into his truck and shut the door. “If he really believed he was dead, would he be drawn to cemeteries?”
“Yes,” Dr. Boyack said, excited. “Yes, he absolutely would. In fact, many patients are repeatedly found wandering in cemeteries.”
“Thanks, doc.”
“You’re welcome. And Agent Parsons?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t hurt him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing is wrong. If we can get him into treatment with a heavy dose of anti-psychotics, get him on the right combination of SSRIs, he might make a full recovery.”
“I’m hoping I won’t have to hurt him.”
48
One of the windows had been left open, cooling the room. Suzan screamed for nearly an hour until her voice went completely hoarse and it felt like someone had ripped her throat out. But no one came. She couldn’t even hear any cars.
She saw no tools lying around, but one of the corners of a metal drawer had a sharp edge. If she could rub her wrists against it, it might be enough to cut through the plastic binds, depending on what type had been used.
She sat up and was instantly dizzy. Based on the light through the windows and the intervening darkness, she guessed she’d spent over two days without food or water down here.
She pushed with her feet and crawled slowly across the floor, making her way to the metal drawers. Sweat dripped down into her eyes, her remaining strength vanished. She took frequent rests to catch her breath, but she made it.
The hard part was figuring out a way to get her wrists flush against the drawer. She pushed her back against it and then scooted up until the sharp edge pressed against her forearms. The binds tugged against her flesh as she thrust up a little more.
She scraped the plastic against the metal as fast and as hard as she could, until her arms burned and blood trickled down her wrists and into her hands. The binds didn’t even loosen.
And a stench she couldn’t place, like skunk, overpowered her.
She struggled, fought, and pulled on her binds so hard, she thought she would dislocate her shoulders. After a short time, complete exhaustion set in. She laid her head against the cool cement floor and cried.
49
Mickey tried Kodiak Basin Cemetery first. Several cruisers, along with Deputy Woody, were there. The sky was a deep gray, and rain wasn’t too far away. Woody wore a plastic rain cover over his uniform that reminded Mickey of a condom.
“Agent Parsons. What’chyu doin’ here?”
“Looking for someone. What’s going on?”
“We got three dead over in the groundskeeper’s booth. Teenage couple and the groundskeeper. It’s bad. They all had their faces cut up real good.”
Mickey contemplated the small shack. “You see anybody here? Anybody walking around?”
“No, and we combed this place good. The coroner thinks they been dead about two days.”
“Let me know if you see anybody, would you?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Mickey pulled away and stopped at the cemetery gates. He Googled Anchorage cemeteries and found five, then input all five into Maps and drove to the first one.
He traversed the first two, Suzan Nell and Jordan Crawford Memorial Park, quickly. Seeing no one there, he continued on to Alfred Hiller Memorial. He turned on the classical radio station for the drive and then turned it back off.
The Hiller Park was empty except for a family holding services near the center of the green. The sky had opened up now and rain drizzled, but the family didn’t move. Only a few held umbrellas. Mickey drove by. He wished like hell there was anyone else that could do this.
Next, he drove to Angelus Memorial Park. This was the closest cemetery to the Shyams’ home. Why didn’t he think to go here first?
The cemetery was pleasant enough, as cemeteries go. He skimmed the tombs and graves. A figure stood at the far end, hidden partially by a tree. A man in a shirt and jeans.
The figure stared at the headstone. Mickey approached him from behind and stood still.
The figure let the rain bounce off him without a single movement. If he had been on a pedestal, Mickey doubted anyone could tell him from a statue. Mickey took out his cell phone and texted his location to Deputy Woody.
After putting the phone away, Mickey didn’t speak. He reached for his sidearm, but then he moved his hand away.
“Can you see me?” the figure finally said.
Mickey was silent a moment. “I can see you, David. You’re not dead.”
David Shyam turned around, and their eyes locked. He was tall and lean but hid a wiry strength in his frame.
Mickey thought, initially, that a mask covered his face. He could see the cut, red edges and the looseness near the jaw.
He was wearing someone else’
s face.
“David, listen to me. You’re not dead. Do you understand? You’re alive. You have a disorder. It’s a disease of the brain that makes you think you’re dead. But you’re not. You have a family that loves you very much, and they’re scared right now. You’re scaring them.”
He stepped close. Mickey’s gut instinct was to move back and pull out his weapon. It took everything he had to hold his ground and show him he wasn’t a threat.
“I scare myself.”
“I spoke to your doctor, David. Dr. Boyack. He says that with medication, you can get better. It can fix the imbalance that you have right now. But to do that, you have to come with me. We have to get you help. You can’t get better on your own. Do you understand?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Can you really see me?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“And I can see you.”
David rushed him and closed the distance. He grabbed Mickey by the collar and flung him onto his back, then pulled out a knife tucked under his waistband.
He swung the knife down. Mickey kicked at his knees, throwing him off balance. The knife blow went wide, and Mickey rolled to his feet.
David ran at him. Mickey waited, his knees bent, and sprung to the side as the knife grazed his arm. Mickey pulled out his weapon, but David knocked the gun to the ground. The knife penetrated his side as if he were steak; blinding pain shot through him.
Mickey swung with a right hook that connected to David’s jaw and then with a left, loosening his grip and knocking him back. He ripped the knife out of his side with a groan and threw it at David as he turned for the gun.
David tackled him from behind, and they landed on the wet grass. Rain splashed in their eyes, and thunder roared above them. Fingers on Mickey’s throat cut off the air. He reached up and grabbed the face. It slid off David’s, revealing the slick, bloody mess underneath. Mickey stabbed his fingers into David’s eyes as far as they could go. David didn’t make a sound.
The Murder of Janessa Hennley Page 14