by Blake Pierce
Jenn asked, “Fix? How?”
“Through surgery. It looks like his cleft was accompanied by a slight deformity of his nose, and also some dental malalignment. Those problems are pretty typical. Cranston probably got the cleft and his nose worked on when he was about three months old, then had some dental work done as he got older. It looks like good work overall. But there was no way the surgeons could avoid leaving a slight telltale scar. He carried that with him all his life.”
Riley heard the ME scoff a little. “I still don’t see what this could have had to do with his murder—nor why Donovan’s birthmark had anything to do with his murder. Who would want to kill somebody over little things like that?”
Riley didn’t answer his question. But she could tell by her colleagues’ expressions that they now shared her suspicions.
All three victims had some kind of imperfections.
With no other connections of any kind, that one had to mean something.
Riley thanked the ME, who told her to get back to him if she needed any other information. Then they ended the call.
Riley, Bill, and Jenn sat looking at each other for a moment.
Then Jenn said, “OK, now we’ve got a real theory. We’ve got a killer who hates physical imperfections, and it doesn’t matter whether they’re big or small. To him, an amputated leg and a repaired cleft lip are equally intolerable.”
“That’s right,” Riley said. “And my guess is, he considers it sort of a twisted mission to rid the world of such imperfections.”
Bill added with a growl, “Meaning he kills anyone who has them. We’re lucky he hasn’t killed a lot more people already. But the question still remains—how exactly does he pick them out?”
Jenn said, “Maybe he just wanders around from town to town looking until someone stands out. He must stalk them for a while. Then he plans his killings carefully. He learned Vincent Cranston’s jogging route, probably stopped him for a friendly chat, then drove the ice pick in his ear. Then he planned his break-in at Robin Scoville’s house and killed her. Finally, he knew where to find Ron Donovan fishing yesterday morning.”
Bill scratched his chin and asked …
“So what kind of a profile are we getting of the killer?”
Riley thought for a moment, then said …
“He’s fastidious, perhaps even fussy. He hates messes. That’s why he likes using an ice pick in the particular way he does. One blow carefully placed. He’s not really trying to make it look like his victims died of natural causes. He just likes the neatness of that kind of killing—just a trickle of blood, and that’s it. It suits him.”
“So we are learning something about this character,” Jenn agreed.
Bill got up and started to pace.
He said, “All this makes good sense—but only to the three of us. I doubt that we’ll persuade Agent Sturman to buy this theory, not while he’s still sure he’s got the real killer in custody. So the three of us are still on our own.”
Jenn added, “What’s worse, all the killings have been spread out geographically. He seems to travel around this part of the state. We have no idea where he might strike next. And in terms of a description, we’ve got nothing except his height and his hair and maybe an occasional limp. How the hell are we supposed to track somebody like that?”
Riley and her colleagues fell into silent thought. Riley got up and walked toward the window and looked outside, letting her mind wander in hopes of hitting upon an idea.
Three victims … three deformities.
It seemed too bad that they hadn’t figured out about Vincent Cranston’s cleft lip until now. For some reason, they’d assumed that Vincent hadn’t had any such imperfections …
But why did we stick with that conclusion?
Now that she thought about it, that seemed odd to her.
Surely there had been some reason they had failed to think outside of that box …
Riley gasped aloud as a realization came to her.
She turned toward her colleagues and said, “Niles Cranston lied to us.”
“What do you mean?” Jenn asked.
Riley said, “Do you remember what he said when I asked him if Vincent had any distinguishing mark or imperfections?”
Jenn squinted and replied, “He said his nephew was ‘a perfect specimen.’”
“It wasn’t true,” Riley said. “It was a lie.”
Bill’s pacing grew more agitated.
“What are you trying to tell us, Riley?” he said. “That Niles killed his own nephew because he had a cleft lip? You’re saying he found out he liked it or that it fulfilled him or something, so he went on to pick out two other victims?”
Riley bit her tongue to keep from saying …
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
She knew Bill had good reason to be skeptical.
But she remembered again Wesley’s description of the killer …
“He had brown hair, slicked back, parted on the right.”
Of course it was an innocuous description that could fit countless men.
Nevertheless, it did fit Niles Cranston.
Bill continued, “Not mentioning his nephew’s cleft lip might not even have been intentional. Niles Cranston might barely have been aware of it himself. He said he hardly knew the kid, remember? Or maybe he didn’t think it even counted as an ‘imperfection.’”
Jenn shook her head and said, “I’m afraid I’m with Bill on this, Riley. I think you’re seriously reaching now.”
Riley stifled a discouraged sigh. She couldn’t blame her colleagues for doubting her about this.
Still, she had a strong gut feeling about Niles Cranston now.
We’ve got to find some proof, she thought.
And she had a vague idea of how to do that.
She said to Jenn, “I need for you to go online. Find any pictures you can of Niles Cranston.”
Jenn sat down at her computer again and clacked away at the keyboard while Bill and Riley stood looking over her shoulder.
After a few minutes, Jenn said, “Wow, this is tougher than expected. I’d always heard that Niles Cranston was reclusive. But it looks like he’s gone to a lot of trouble not to be photographed in public at all.”
Feeling a sense of urgency, Riley leaned on the table next to Jenn.
There had to be something.
“Go back in time, go back through his life,” she said to Jenn. “Keep going until you find something. Anything.”
Jenn soon found yearbook photos from Cranston’s years at Yale and in prep school—nothing that showed them anything out of the ordinary. Finally she brought up a group picture that had been taken of Niles Cranston’s class at an elite private kindergarten. Niles was sitting in the front row of children.
Riley heard her colleagues gasp at what they all saw.
As a little boy, Niles Cranston had had a brace on one of his legs.
Riley’s hand shook with excitement as she pointed to the screen and said …
“It’s him. Niles Cranston is the killer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Riley couldn’t stop staring at the photograph on Jenn’s computer screen. She realized that both Bill and Jenn were fascinated by it too. The group picture of Niles Cranston and his kindergarten classmates suddenly brought everything into focus.
Cranston had suffered from some kind of disability as a child—something that had affected one of his legs.
Jenn remarked, “Cranston is the only kid in the picture not smiling.”
“That’s right,” Riley said. “Whatever was wrong with his leg, it made him miserable. And he’s carried that misery through his whole life. It’s a permanent psychic scar.”
Pointing at the screen, Riley asked, “So, does either of you have any doubts that he’s the killer?”
“I don’t think so,” Jenn said.
“Me neither,” Bill said. “But I’ve still got lots of questions. You mentioned that Wesley said t
hat the killer walked with a limp. When we met Cranston at his mansion, he didn’t limp at all.”
“You’re forgetting something, Bill,” Riley said. “According to Wesley, the killer only limped when he was approaching his victim. He stopped limping after he killed her.”
Jenn nodded and said, “Almost like the murder was some kind of—what? Therapy that made him feel better?”
“Something like that,” Riley said. “Anyway, we know that the killer doesn’t limp all the time. So it might make sense that Cranston didn’t limp when we met him.”
Jenn said, “The question is, what do we do now?”
“First things first,” Bill said. “We need to let Rowan Sturman know about this. As the FBI agent-in-charge here in Connecticut, it’ll be up to him to decide how to proceed. I’ll give him a call.”
As Bill took out his cell phone and called Sturman, Riley and Jenn huddled over the computer, hoping to find more information about Niles Cranston’s childhood condition. A quick search found nothing, but Riley wasn’t surprised. The rich and reclusive Niles Cranston had made sure that little about his life could ever be known to the public.
Meanwhile, Bill had been carrying on a contentious-sounding conversation with Agent Sturman.
As he ended the call, Bill grumbled, “That didn’t go well. For one thing, Sturman had no idea we were still in Connecticut, and he didn’t like being left out of the loop. Also, he thinks Wesley was either imagining things or making things up. He still believes that Bruno Young is the killer. And he sure as hell doesn’t like the idea of us accusing the richest man in Connecticut of murder.”
Jenn asked, “Should we give Meredith a call?”
Bill grunted and said, “Not a good idea. Believe me, he’s in no mood to listen to any of our theories. He’s already pissed with us.”
Riley suppressed a discouraged sigh.
“The three of us will have to go it alone,” she said, then added, “again.”
Bill let out a bitter chuckle.
He said, “Well, I guess we ought to be used to going rogue by now. As mad as Meredith is, though, I doubt he’ll fire us when all this is over. As long as his boss doesn’t find out, we should be OK.”
“Walder would definitely love to fire us,” Jenn observed. “Especially you, Riley.”
Riley nodded. She and Special Agent in Charge Carl Walder had been mutual enemies for a long time, and he’d suspended and even temporarily fired her in the past.
“We won’t be fired if we can stop the killer,” Riley said. “Meanwhile, I think we should pay Niles Cranston another visit—unannounced this time.”
*
A few minutes later, the three of them were driving south toward the Cranston estate. With Bill at the wheel, Riley and her two colleagues discussed lingering worries—including whether they’d even find Niles Cranston at home. If they did, why on earth would he be willing to talk to them? Worse still, what if they spooked him into fleeing?
Jenn got onto her laptop and brought up some satellite photos of the estate. Sure enough, they could readily see that the Cranston estate was fully equipped with a flight pad and what looked like a helicopter.
Riley shook her head worriedly.
She said, “We’ve got to be careful, or he’ll slip out of the country before anyone can stop him. And it’ll be our own damn fault.”
“But if he is at home, how do we approach him?” Jenn asked. “What do we tell him?”
Riley shrugged and said, “We start off innocently enough—just assure him that we’re confident that we’ve got the right man in custody, and we just need a little more information to help prove our case against him.”
“And then?” Jenn said.
“We play it by ear,” Riley said. “See if we can trip him up and get him to reveal himself.”
Bill chuckled a little and added, “That means we let Riley do the talking, Jenn. Playing mind-games with killers is what she’s good at, you know. There’s a good chance that she’ll get the truth out of him. If we’re really lucky, we’ll be able to make an arrest right then and there.”
Riley appreciated the faith Bill had in her.
I just hope I don’t let everybody down.
When they arrived at the edge of the Cranston estate, they found that the enormous front gate was closed. Riley remembered how easy it was to get through last time, when they’d been expected and Sturman had simply identified himself to the guard.
This time they had no choice but to show their badges again. When they did, the guard made a phone call—to the main house, Riley was sure. Then he opened the gate and waved the three agents on inside.
“This isn’t good,” Jenn said as they drove onto the vast, feudal-like estate with its many smaller structures scattered around the enormous wooded areas. “He’s expecting us now.”
Riley silently agreed.
So much for the element of surprise.
They pulled up to the castle-like main building, got out of the car, and rang the doorbell. They were greeted by the same elderly, stern-looking butler they had met the last time they were here.
“I just answered a call from the front gate,” he remarked. “What business does the FBI have coming here again?”
Riley said, “We’d like to have a few more words with Niles Cranston. We’ll try not to trouble him. We’re just trying to wrap up a few loose ends.”
A worried look crossed the butler’s face.
“I’m afraid he’s not at home,” he said. “He left here early this morning.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Jenn asked.
The butler hesitated, then said, “He said he was driving over to Holloway.”
Riley and her colleagues exchanged uneasy glances.
“Did he say what his business was there?” Bill asked.
“No, I’m afraid he didn’t,” the butler said. “He’s been coming and going rather a lot these last few days. I believe he sometimes just likes to … drive around and see things.”
Riley could hear Bill curse under his breath.
Riley too winced inside at those words.
“I believe he sometimes just likes to … drive around and see things.”
She was sure that she and Bill were thinking the same thing …
He’s out stalking another victim.
Someone else might be dead already.
Bill muttered to Riley and Jenn, “We’d better drive over to Holloway. God knows how we’ll find him there, though.”
As Bill and Jenn started to turn away, Riley said to them in a hushed voice …
“Wait a minute. We’re not going yet.”
She turned and locked eyes with the butler. She sensed that he was deeply troubled.
This man knows something, she thought.
She had to find out what it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The butler dropped his gaze for a moment, but then he looked up at Riley again. She was positive …
He not only knows something …
He wants to tell us about it.
The last time they’d been here, he’d treated them with icy efficiency. But something was different this time.
In a gentle voice, Riley said, “What’s your name, sir?”
The butler bowed ever so slightly and said, “Edward, ma’am. I’ve been with the Cranston family since before Master Niles was born.”
Riley’s mind boggled at the thought of family secrets Edward surely knew.
The question was …
How deep is his loyalty?
What will he be willing to tell us?
Riley asked slowly, “Edward, have you noticed whether Mr. Cranston has been behaving … well, strangely lately?”
Edward fell silent, and his gaze seemed to turn inward.
Finally he said, “I believe the three of you should come inside.”
Edward led them into an enormous living room and invited them to sit down. Still standing himself, he said, “You asked whet
her Master Niles has been behaving strangely. Indeed, he has. Something has been troubling him since his pains resumed several weeks ago.”
“His pains?” Riley asked.
“Yes, he was born with a clubfoot. He had to wear a brace as a child, until surgery could be performed to correct his … debility. Unfortunately, the pain recurs from time to time. He never says anything about it, but I can tell because he starts limping.”
Riley felt a tingle of excitement.
Limping!
Edward shook his head slightly and said in a hushed voice …
“I fear that his pain … goes much deeper than the merely physical.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked.
“Other children teased and … shunned him. Worse still, his own father tormented him about it. ‘A Cranston must be perfect,’ the old Master Lew said. ‘You’re a hopeless addition to the family.’ Even after the leg was corrected by surgery, his father wouldn’t let the matter go. He kept railing against his son’s ‘imperfection’—especially whenever the pain returned and the poor boy couldn’t help but limp.”
When Edward fell silent again, a question crossed Riley’s mind.
“Did anything happen to trigger his recent limping?”
“I believe so,” Edward said. “About a month ago, his nephew Vincent came east to start college at Yale. Vincent comes from the West Coast branch of the family, and I can’t remember that Master Niles had ever met him before. Once Vincent got here and Master Niles did meet him, he fell into a strange, brooding mood.”
Riley asked, “Was it on account of Vincent’s cleft lip?”
Edward looked surprised at the question.
“Why, yes, I’m sure that was the case. Master Niles took to limping again, and he wandered around the house muttering to himself … about his nephew’s ‘imperfection.’”
Edward took a long, slow breath, as if to gather up his resolve.
“Then Vincent died, so suddenly and strangely. Master Niles took it calmly—too calmly, I thought—and his limp disappeared for a short time. And yesterday I heard on the news that Vincent had been murdered—with an ice pick. Also that two other victims were then murdered in the same way. And all this while Master Niles has been coming and going, and limping and not limping, and he’s always been such a troubled soul …”