by Blake Pierce
The man said, “That’s a pity. I would have thought you’d be interested in learning more about Wesley Mannis.”
Riley felt a jolt of surprise.
Who is this guy? she wondered.
CHAPTER TEN
Feeling groggy and disoriented, Riley struggled to make sense of the early-morning phone call.
“How did you get this number?” she demanded.
“Oh,” the man said, sounding a little surprised himself. “I guess I didn’t say, did I? Dr. Amy Rhind told me how to get in touch with you. In fact, she’s rather expecting you and your colleagues to come over to Wilburton House right now. I’m here. We can talk more then.”
Without another word, the man ended the call.
She was about to phone Dr. Rhind to say that the agents had other plans for the morning and couldn’t meet with whoever this Bayle person was.
But Riley realized she was intrigued as well as annoyed.
The man had said “I’m here” as though that should be good news.
She looked at her watch and saw that she and her colleagues weren’t due in New Haven for a little while. Whatever might be going on, there was still time to check it out. Riley got on her cell phone and called Bill and Jenn to wake them up.
*
Bill and Jenn hadn’t asked a lot of questions when Riley grumpily insisted on heading over to Wilburton House without stopping for breakfast.
“This guy better deliver on his promise,” she muttered as she drove them to the meeting that Kevin Bayle had requested.
When they walked into the lobby, they found Dr. Rhind eagerly awaiting them.
“Oh, I’m so glad you could make it!” she said. “Dr. Bayle said he’d gotten in touch with you, Agent Paige.”
Riley exchanged startled glances with Bill and Jenn.
“Dr. Bayle?” she said. The man hadn’t identified himself as a professional.
“Why, yes,” Dr. Rhind said. “He’s a therapist from Bridgeport, a specialist in severe cases like Wesley’s. I called him yesterday. He’s quite brilliant, and much in demand, and he’s extremely picky about his cases. When I first got him on the phone, he didn’t seem interested in coming here. But then …”
Dr. Rhind tilted her head at Riley and added, “As soon as I mentioned your name, Agent Paige, he was suddenly eager to come. He said he was anxious to meet you. He wouldn’t tell me why.”
Riley just stood there, speechless. She heard Bill chuckle.
Then Dr. Rhind said brightly, “Come on, he’s expecting you.”
Riley and her colleagues followed Dr. Rhind through the facility to Wesley’s room. The scene was much as it had been yesterday. Wesley was playing with the gyroscope, and his mother was sitting at the table beside him.
But now, a tall man in a corduroy jacket was standing nearby. Riley thought he was in his early thirties, despite his prematurely graying hair. And he struck her as startlingly handsome.
Dr. Rhind introduced him as Dr. Kevin Bayle. As Riley and her colleagues produced their badges and introduced themselves, Dr. Bayle peered intently at Riley. She found his gaze to be more than a little unsettling.
He stood there with his arms crossed, not offering to shake hands with her.
“I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Agent Paige,” he said in a crisp, oddly efficient-sounding voice. “We’ll have much to talk about together, I’m sure. Meanwhile, though, we’ve got work to do. Let’s get right down to it.”
Dr. Bayle walked over to the table, and Gemma Mannis got up to let him have her seat. Then, without saying a word, Dr. Bayle sat and watched Wesley play with the gyroscope.
While she waited for something to happen, Riley glanced around Wesley’s little studio apartment. At one side of the room was a strange object that hadn’t been there yesterday. It was a wooden frame shaped something like a coffin that was open on each end. The bottoms and sides were covered with mattress-like padding.
Noticing Riley’s curiosity, Dr. Rhind murmured to her, “We call that a ‘squeeze machine.’ Dr. Bayle said we should have one ready in case we needed it.”
Riley wondered …
A “squeeze machine”?
She couldn’t imagine what it might be used for.
Then Dr. Bayle spoke to Wesley almost in a whisper …
“I love gyroscopes.”
“I do too,” Wesley said, pulling the string to make the gyroscope spin anew.
Dr. Bayle then said, “May I try something?”
Still not looking at Dr. Bayle, Wesley made no protest as the therapist picked up the string and wrapped each end around his forefingers. Then he slipped the string under the spinning gyroscope and lifted it up so it balanced on the string like a tightrope walker.
As he maneuvered the gyroscope, Dr. Bayle continued to speak in an almost hypnotic voice.
“Amazing, isn’t it? Almost like magic. Look how I can make it lean from side to side. Almost like it’s defying gravity. But it’s not defying gravity, not really.”
The gyroscope slowed and fell off the string, wobbling around on the table until it came to a stop. This time Dr. Bayle threaded the string through the axis and wound it back up.
“Do you know how a gyroscope works, Wesley?” he asked.
Wesley shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“It’s simple physics,” Dr. Bayle said, sending the gyroscope spinning again. “It has to do with the conservation of angular momentum …”
His voice now gentle and purring, Dr. Bayle explained how the gyroscope worked and pointed out its parts, then went on to talk about the practical uses for gyroscopes, especially in navigational systems.
Riley realized she was finding the little lecture fascinating. Again, she remembered playing with her own gyroscope when she was a little girl.
But somehow, she remembered it as being more than just play.
The spinning wheels had been very important to her, although she couldn’t remember just how or why.
Suddenly, Dr. Bayle looked directly at Riley and held her gaze for a moment.
Almost like he’s reading my thoughts, she thought with a chill.
To Riley’s relief, Dr. Bayle quickly turned his attention back to Wesley and continued his lecture.
Pretty soon Riley was startled to realize …
Wesley’s looking at him!
In fact, the two men were actually making eye contact.
The gyroscope lay motionless on the table now as Dr. Bayle said …
“I hear you have a job working on a garbage pickup route.”
Wesley nodded.
Dr. Bayle said, “Well, when I was younger, I had a job as a dishwasher. So I guess you could say that I’ve had experience working with garbage too.”
His voice remained flat, as if he didn’t mean this as a joke.
Then he said, “Tell me a little about your route, Wesley.”
“What do you want to know?” Wesley asked.
“Anything you want to tell me. What sorts of things do you see when you’re working?”
Wesley’s face crinkled in thought.
Then he said, “Most of my route is along Victoria Street, and I see a lot of things at different addresses. At one0forty, they’ve got a broken gate. There’s a swing on the porch at two twenty, and another at two-forty-five. The people who live at three-fifty-two leave their garage door open all night, I don’t know why …”
Wesley’s words began to pour out faster and faster as he kept describing countless odd details that he’d noticed on Victoria Street. He seemed almost frantic to say as much as he could. After a couple of minutes, the flood of words slowed and came to a halt—much like the gyroscope had.
Then Dr. Bayle said …
“What about four-sixty-five Victoria Street?”
Riley felt a stir of anticipation. She knew that was Robin Scoville’s address.
Wesley went suddenly pale, and his mouth hung open.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Wesley face twisted violently, and he barked out …
“I’m not a peeper.”
“Nobody said you were,” Dr. Bayle said.
“I’m not a peeper,” Wesley repeated.
Dr. Bayle watched and listened silently as Wesley kept repeating those words over and over again, more loudly and violently every time …
“I’m not a peeper … I’m not a peeper … I’m not a peeper …”
Wesley began to shake all over as if he had a terrible fever or was going into a deep state of shock. Finally he collapsed onto the floor and curled up in a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably.
Dr. Bayle rose from his chair and knelt down beside Wesley, offering him his hand.
“Come with me, Wesley,” Dr. Bayle said.
“No-o-o-o!” Wesley wailed with despair.
Dr. Bayle calmly took hold of Wesley’s hand and said again …
“Come with me.”
He coaxed Wesley into a crouch, then helped him crawl across the floor to the strange object that Dr. Rhind had called a “squeeze machine.”
He guided Wesley into the padded structure.
To Riley’s surprise, the agitated patient simply lay on his back amid the padding and folded his arms across his chest.
Then Dr. Bayle pulled a lever, and the two sides closed in around Wesley, holding him firmly but gently.
Wesley’s sobbing ebbed away. Instead, he made sighing, cooing sounds of relief.
Riley turned to Dr. Rhind and asked quietly, “What just happened?”
Dr. Rhind smiled slightly and said, “Some autistic people suffer from a paradoxical sort of a problem. They desperately need physical security, an embrace or a hug—and yet they can’t tolerate human contact. Ironic, isn’t it? Well, this is a sort of hugging mechanism that gives those patients exactly the kind of comfort they need. As you can see, it works extremely well with Wesley.”
Looking at Bill and Jenn, Riley could see that they were as startled and shaken as she felt,
Jenn said, “This looks like a really bad setback.”
Dr. Bayle put his hands on his hips and gazed down at Wesley, who seemed to be becoming calmer.
“Not necessarily,” Dr. Bayle said. “This just means I can’t stop now. It means the rest of you must leave Wesley and me alone.”
With a sharp look at Gemma Mannis, he added, “That includes you.”
Looking as if she was about to burst into tears, Gemma fled the room.
Riley was about to insist on staying when Bill touched her on the arm. “We’ve got to get down to New Haven.”
Riley nodded reluctantly. But as Dr. Rhind was leading Jenn and Bill out of the room, Riley locked gazes with Dr. Bayle again.
Riley felt a deep shiver at that stare.
She wondered as she turned and followed the others out the door—what was it about that man that disturbed her so …?
And why does he seem to be so interested in me?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As Bill drove their borrowed car south to New Haven, Riley felt her emotions still reeling from the shocking scene they’d just witnessed. The image of the tortured young man crawling his way to solace in that odd padded box kept replaying in her mind.
She sensed that both Bill and Jenn had been struck by that encounter too. After a few minutes on the road, she felt that it was time to get some of their feelings out in the open.
She said to Jenn, “What do you think about Wesley Mannis now?”
Jenn paused for a moment, then said …
“I’m still not ready to count him out as a suspect.”
Jenn paused again, then added …
“For both murders, not just Robin Scoville.”
Riley was startled. Just yesterday, Jenn had agreed that it was unlikely that Wesley had killed Vincent Cranston in New Haven. What had changed her mind?
“Why do you think that, Jenn?” Riley asked.
Jenn shrugged, then said, “Well, I had a bad feeling about him yesterday. And what just happened made me even more concerned. He seems to me to be a very erratic personality.”
Bill said, “But we know that Wesley was in the facility when Cranston was killed.”
“Do we, really?” Jenn said. “It’s just a short trip from Wilburton to New Haven. And it’s not like he was locked in the place. He could have gotten out if he wanted to. Maybe if he worked with a partner …”
“You’re reaching, Jenn,” Bill said with a shake of his head.
“Am I? That autistic kid I knew back where I grew up—his meltdowns looked a lot like that, and he could be really threatening. He had no empathy, and he manipulated people, fooled them into thinking he was more disabled than he was. He was highly organized, obsessive, and even cunning.”
Riley felt a chill as she imagined how Aunt Cora would have exploited such a kid—someone who would follow her every order without letting any moral feelings get in the way.
Riley said, “And Wesley reminds you of him?”
“A lot,” Jenn said.
The three of them fell silent. Try as she might, Riley couldn’t buy into Jenn’s suspicions. She was sure that Bill was right and Jenn was reaching, thrashing about blindly as she searched for a plausible hypothesis.
And that’s not a bad thing, Riley thought.
Riley knew that at least one of them needed to be thinking far outside the box right now, and it might as well be Jenn. They needed to entertain even the most farfetched possibilities until they got more solid clues than they had just yet. But it was important that they didn’t latch onto any of those ideas just yet.
It was only a twenty-minute drive to the park in New Haven called Friendship Woods. When Bill pulled up to the park’s front entrance, Riley and her colleagues found Agent Rowan Sturman standing beside his car waiting for them.
As he led them along the jogging trail toward where Vincent Cranston was killed, Sturman said …
“We’re still doing the best we can to keep it quiet that Cranston was murdered. God knows, we don’t want to have to deal with a lot of media hysteria.”
Bill asked, “Does anybody in his family know?”
Sturman said, “Yeah, his uncle, Niles Cranston, the family patriarch. As you can imagine, he’s really been leaning on us to solve the case. And with his money, he could make a lot of trouble for us if we don’t wrap it up soon. By the way, he’s expecting us to pay him a visit today, and we probably had better do that as soon as we’re finished here. It would really help if we could report some actual progress.”
As they walked along, nothing about the green and peaceful setting gave Riley any notion about what had happened. Lean, fit, and stylishly dressed joggers trotted by at various rates of speed, some chatting companionably together, others more focused on their workout.
Riley looked all around and saw countless places where someone might have lurked, lying in wait in the brush alongside the wending path. Doubtless Agent Sturman and his team had combed the whole area looking for clues. So Riley wondered—what could she hope to find that hadn’t been found already?
Agent Sturman brought the group to a stop in a place where the path took a sharp curve. He pointed to the ground.
“Vincent’s body was found right here,” he said.
He handed Riley a folder with some crime scene photos of the body. Riley glanced back and forth between the photos and the actual scene, trying to visualize exactly how the body had fallen on the path.
As she did so, she noticed something about the expression on the dead man’s face. His eyes were open, and his lips were shaped into what almost seemed like a smile—or maybe a smirk.
She wasn’t sure why that struck her as odd, except that facial muscles tended to go slack soon after someone died.
It probably doesn’t mean anything, she thought.
What mattered right now was whether she could get any sense of the killer. It might not be easy a full week afte
r the murder, with no physical clues to be found, and with passing joggers eyeing her and her colleagues curiously.
First she wondered—had the victim and the killer known each other?
She asked Agent Sturman, “Would anyone have expected to encounter Vincent here?”
Sturman shrugged. “Maybe. Vincent hadn’t been in New Haven very long. He was just starting his freshman year at Yale. But from what I’ve been told, these morning jogs were already part of his routine. He’d been hoping to become a marathon runner.”
Why an athlete and then an amputee? Riley wondered. How is this killer choosing his victims?
Bill observed, “If this was his routine, any number of people could have known he’d be here.”
Riley nodded in agreement. As she looked around at the setting, she began to feel one thing about the killer…
He didn’t conceal himself.
He hadn’t ambushed Vincent from the brush. He hadn’t felt any need for that. Instead, he’d met Vincent right out in the open.
That also seemed like a contradiction. The killer had sneaked into Robin Scoville’s house and apparently had ambushed her.
Riley walked a short distance in the opposite direction from where Vincent had come. Then she retraced her steps, imagining that she was the killer preparing for his encounter with Vincent. She ignored the sound of Agent Sturman’s cell phone ringing, and how he stepped away from the group to take the call.
She felt just a flicker of connection with the killer, but then it was gone. She couldn’t even tell whether he had known Vincent or not. But as she approached the spot where the victim had fallen, she got a brief image that stopped her in her tracks.
For an instant, it was as though Vincent Cranston’s eyes were staring into hers.
Then the vision was gone too, and she felt nothing at all about the scene of the murder. But now Riley was sure of one important thing about Vincent and his killer.
They looked directly at each other.
They made eye contact.