by Herron, Rita
The rage seething inside him burned like a fire out of control as he carved out her tongue.
Tears streaked her face, her cheeks paling, shock robbing her of color as her body turned cold. He leaned closer, holding her bloody tongue in front of her face as he whispered in her ear. “Now no one else will ever have to listen to your vile words again.”
Laughter rumbled from his chest as he dropped the tongue into a jar. Another piece in his collection.
Chapter Eighteen
Rafe stepped back into the room with a grimace. Dr. Castor leaned forward in his chair, his face grim. “Why would you think we knew anything about Arthur Blackwood? And what in the world does he have to do with our son?”
As he spoke, Rafe noted the books on surgical techniques and dissections on the bookshelf to the right of Dr. Castor. “We identified all but one of the subjects,” Rafe said.
The couple exchanged confused looks. “What are you saying?” Dr. Castor asked.
Rafe decided to cut to the chase. “Is it possible that your son was one of the subjects?”
Mrs. Castor gasped. “You think we put our little boy in that experiment?”
“That’s preposterous,” Dr. Castor said angrily.
“Did Brian ever receive treatment at a free clinic in Slaughter Creek?” Liz asked.
Dr. Castor stiffened. “No. We used a pediatrician here in Memphis when he was little. Then our family doctor. Why?”
“Because some of the subjects were originally affected by vaccines they received at the free clinic in Slaughter Creek,” Liz explained. “Later they experienced emotional problems as a result and were referred to the mental hospital, where they were used as test subjects.”
Mrs. Castor massaged her forehead. “Our Brian didn’t have any health problems, and he certainly never spent time at the sanitarium.”
“We would never have let a doctor do the things to him that that Blackwood maniac did,” Dr. Castor said.
“Commander Blackwood is dangerous,” Rafe said sternly. “He tried to kill everyone who knew about the project. So if you know anything about it, it would be in your best interest to tell us.”
“In exchange for your cooperation, we can offer you protection,” Liz added.
Anger blazed in the doctor’s eyes. “I’m telling you one more time—we had nothing to do with that project. And neither did Brian.”
Liz changed tactics. “Has Brian ever exhibited signs of violence?”
“Brian?” Mrs. Castor said, wide-eyed. “God, no. He loves animals. He worked with my husband all through high school.”
“Brian was tenderhearted,” Dr. Castor said. “When one of our patients was in trouble, he’d stay and watch the animal all night just so it wouldn’t be alone.”
“Did you lose any of those patients?” Liz asked.
“A few,” Dr. Castor admitted. “But that’s part of the business.”
“You never suspected that he might have helped them along?” Liz pressed.
Dr. Castor’s nostrils flared. “You mean, did he euthanize them?”
“Yes.”
“Brian would never have done that without talking to me,” Dr. Castor said.
“No autopsies on the animals to prove that?” Rafe asked.
Dr. Castor removed his reading glasses with a trembling hand. “No. There was no need.”
“Brian is a good boy,” Mrs. Castor insisted. “He volunteered at rescue shelters for animals and helped find them homes. He even applied to med school, but later he decided to go into police work.”
“Why did he change his mind?” Rafe asked, fishing for more information. Something that would catch Brian in a lie.
“A friend of his was killed,” Dr. Castor said. “A young woman. Brian was so torn up about it that he dogged the police until they solved the crime. Turned out the girl’s former boyfriend was stalking her.”
Rafe glanced at Liz, his jaw tight. The couple seemed sincere, but all parents were capable of lying through their teeth to protect their child.
Liz considered the information. If Brian was a psychopath, had he hidden those tendencies from his parents?
Or were she and Rafe mistaken about his identity?
“He never had to see a counselor?” Liz asked. “No problems at school?”
“He did see a counselor for a while his freshman year, but that was because of personal matters,” Dr. Castor said.
“What kind of personal matters?” Liz pushed.
Mrs. Castor sighed wearily, as if resigned. “Because Brian had learned he was adopted.”
Liz nodded.
“He was upset about it?” Rafe asked.
Mrs. Castor twisted her fingers together. “At first, yes. He asked a lot of questions about his birth parents, but we’d been told they died in a car accident when Brian was three months old.”
Of course that could have been a lie.
Mrs. Castor wiped at a tear trickling down her cheek. “We wanted a child so badly that when we heard, we adopted both boys.”
Liz tempered her voice to be gentle. “What do you mean, both boys?”
Mrs. Castor looked over at her husband as if she were debating how to answer.
“What happened?” Rafe asked the father.
Dr. Castor rubbed his temple. “Brian had an older brother, who was four when we adopted them . . .”
Truitt had been adopted at that age.
“But we decided we couldn’t keep him,” Dr. Castor said. “That we’d taken too much on ourselves. We had to let him go back to the agency.”
Something about that didn’t sound right. “What was his name?”
“Jeremy,” Mrs. Castor said.
Jeremy. Could he be J. R. Truitt?
“Why exactly couldn’t you keep him?” Liz asked. They obviously had enough money.
Dr. Castor stood. “Look, that was a long time ago. We really don’t want to talk about it anymore. Now I think it’s time you left.”
He motioned toward the door. Liz and Rafe stood, but Liz paused before moving. “One more question. Does Brian know he has a brother?”
Dr. Castor shook his head. “Not that we know of. We thought it might upset him, so we never told him.”
“What happened to him?” Rafe asked.
The couple looked away, obviously disturbed by the question. “We have no idea. It was too painful for us,” said Mrs. Castor.
What about the child? Liz thought. “Who handled the case?”
“We’ve already told you enough.” Dr. Castor gestured toward the door again. “Now let us be.”
Liz would have to call Sienna again. The Castors were definitely keeping something from them.
Something that might offer insight into the case, possibly confirm that Jeremy and J. R. Truitt were one and the same.
And exonerate—or cast more doubt on—CSI Brian Castor.
Rafe phoned Nick and filled him in on what they’d learned as he left the Castors’ and drove toward the station.
“Any word on the Commander?” Rafe asked.
“No, and I’m getting heat from Secretary of Defense Mallard to find him. I have a meeting with a friend of mine from the CIA,” Nick said. “The Commander’s followers created a website. We’re investigating them to see if they helped him escape or are hiding him now.”
“Keep me posted.”
Liz was talking to her friend Sienna when he hung up. “Yes, Sienna, the Castors’ originally adopted brothers. The baby was Brian, but there was another child. I need everything you can find on that adoption and what happened to the brother Jeremy.” A pause. “Thanks.”
She hung up and turned to look out the window while he phoned Lieutenant Maddison and got Brian Castor’s home address.
He slowed as the SUV skidded on black ice. “Castor lives in
those apartments near the crime lab.”
Liz stared out the window as they drove, her expression pensive.
“What are you thinking, Liz?” Rafe asked.
She angled her face toward him. “Just wondering if Brian found out about his brother. And if Jeremy and J. R. Truitt are the same person.”
He was wondering the same thing. “If so, Brian could be angry at the Castors for giving up on his brother and for keeping secrets.”
“Or the older brother could be furious that Brian was adopted, and he could be framing Brian.”
“That’s a possibility.” They definitely needed more information. Rafe turned in to the apartment complex, a new development perched on the side of the mountain that featured decks overlooking the woods. He parked, and they both tugged their coats tighter to fight the wind as they hurried up the sidewalk to Castor’s building.
Rafe knocked, bracing himself for animosity from Brian. Hell, if Brian had no knowledge of his brother or the project, this was going to be a hard blow.
But his gut told him Castor knew more than he’d revealed.
Footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened. Brian adjusted his glasses when he saw them on the doorstep. He was also holding his cell phone, anger flaring in his tight expression. “Yes, Mom, they’re here now.”
Rafe grimaced. They should have known the Castors would warn Brian they were coming.
Brian said good-bye to his mother and then crossed his arms, his stance belligerent. “More questions?”
“A few,” Rafe said.
Liz offered him a smile. “Can we come in, Brian?”
He blew an exasperated breath between his teeth. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
Rafe bit back a comment, and the two of them followed Castor inside. Steely gray leather furniture dominated the room along with chrome and glass tables, striking Rafe as impersonal.
Except for photos on one wall, of hunting expeditions where he’d bagged a deer.
Odd for a vet’s son who supposedly liked to rescue animals.
“I see you’re a hunter,” Rafe said.
Brian shrugged. “A couple of the guys at the academy took me once. They say hunting blows off steam.”
“I don’t understand how killing anything relieves tension,” Liz said.
Brian glared at her. “Is that why you came? To ask me about my hunting?”
“No. You were on the phone with your mother,” Rafe cut in. “You know the reason we’re here.”
Liz studied Brian’s posture and body language, analyzing his behavior for clues to his psyche.
Brian’s mouth twitched, a nervous tic that Rafe had mentioned earlier. But he seemed resigned as he invited them in.
They followed him to the den and took seats on a sofa across from him. Rafe gestured toward a desk in the corner with high-tech computer equipment. A file was open with articles detailing the Slaughter Creek experiment.
“You’re doing research?” Rafe said.
Brian shrugged. “I figured if I was going to be accused of something, I might as well learn all I could about it.”
“We haven’t accused you of anything,” Liz said. “We’re simply trying to figure out connections, and your name came up.”
“Your mother said a friend of yours died, that that’s the reason you decided to become a CSI instead of a doctor?” Rafe asked.
Brian slanted him a cold look. “Yes.”
“Her death changed your mind about medicine?” Liz asked.
Brian released a wary breath and then angled his head at Liz. “Yeah, just like your mother’s murder made you decide to choose police work.”
Liz forced herself not to react. Brian was trying to throw her off guard.
He angled his head toward Rafe. “And you? You grew up in the system, too, didn’t you, Hood? One of your own foster sisters died. My guess is that you felt guilty, so you joined the TBI. Maybe you’re the serial killer, not me.”
“Let’s talk about your family,” Liz said.
“What if I say no?”
Rafe shrugged. “We can do it here or down at the sheriff’s office. When did you find out you had a brother?”
For a brief second pain flickered in Brian’s eyes before he masked it. “A few months ago.”
So he had known. “How did you find out?” Liz asked.
Brian clenched his hands together. “One day I was helping my dad clean out the garage and found a box of old pictures. There was one of me as a baby and this other kid. He was about four.” Brian scraped a hand through his hair. “That’s when I realized they lied to me.”
“Did you ask them about him?” Liz asked.
“Yes. At first Dad got mad and didn’t want to talk about it. But he admitted that they gave my brother back, said he had emotional problems.”
“What kind of emotional problems?”
“That he was violent.” Brian cursed. “Hell, he was only four. How can you tell that at four?”
“Some mentally ill people exhibit signs at a very early age,” Liz pointed out.
“Did you find your brother?” Rafe asked.
“No. The social worker who handled our case wasn’t around anymore.”
“Did you find anything on him?” Liz pressed.
Brian fisted his hands by his sides. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I think he’s been through enough.”
Rafe cleared his throat. “What did you learn, Brian?”
“That he was put it an institution,” Brian snapped.
Liz glanced at Rafe, her mind ticking away the possibilities.
“Where?” Liz asked.
“I don’t know. But what the fuck? Who locks a four-year-old away like that?”
Liz had no answer that would satisfy Brian. “We have to find out where he was and what happened to him. He could be our killer.”
Brian glared at her, but didn’t offer any more information.
Liz swallowed hard. “I understand you may have compassion for him. You may even feel guilty that you had the better life. But if he is subject Six, and he mutilated those women, he needs to be stopped.”
“Have you had any contact with him?” Rafe asked bluntly.
Brian’s gaze shot to Rafe. “No.”
“Brian, please,” Liz said softly. “If you’re hiding him, you’ll be considered an accomplice to murder. The loyalty you feel for him may not be returned. It’s possible that he resents you, that he may try to get revenge on you. He may even be setting you up.”
“I can take care of myself,” Brian said. “Now we’re done here.”
“May I use your restroom before we go?” Liz asked.
Brian frowned. “I guess so. Second door on the left.”
Liz walked down the hall. The first door led to a small bedroom that doubled as an office. Dozens of books on medical and surgical techniques filled the bookshelf, along with books on crime-scene investigation. A clear glass jar on one shelf held colored marbles.
They made Liz think of Beaulah Hodge’s missing eye.
She examined the desk and found files about the Slaughter Creek project, about the murders orchestrated by Blackwood, about Amelia, and about the senator’s arrest. Another folder held articles about adoptions and a paper trail chronicling Brian’s adoption.
But there was nothing about his brother.
A bulletin board hung above the desk with photos of all the victims of the Slaughter Creek project. He’d added photos of Ester Banning and Beaulah Hodge.
Pulse pounding, Liz glanced at the desktop computer screen. Articles on amputations and eye surgeries filled the screen.
Brian had drawn lines connecting some of the photos and articles on the bulletin board; in another section she noticed a picture of a woman in her mid-fifties with shaggy brown
hair and pale skin.
Liz leaned closer and skimmed the notes Castor had made about her. She was the social worker who’d handled his adoption.
Her name was Rusty Lintell.
And she was dead. Murdered two years ago.
About the same time Brian decided to become a CSI.
Rafe tried to mentally place himself in Brian Castor’s shoes. But their pasts were different.
At one point he’d attempted to find out where his real parents were, but that had only opened up a boatload of pain. His father had murdered his mother when he’d caught her trying to leave him, and had died in prison.
For the longest time, Rafe had wondered if he’d turn out like his old man. If genetically he’d been born a bad seed and would one day snap and murder someone.
But he’d met a cop who volunteered with homeless boys at a shelter, and that cop turned his thinking around. First he got Rafe involved in the Boys’ Club, where he made friends with other kids like himself. Then he encouraged Rafe to channel his rage into tracking down men like his father.
Every time he got justice for a victim, he was getting justice for his own mother.
It was the one connection he’d had with Liz. He understood her drive to find her mother’s murderer.
What would he have done if he’d discovered he had a sibling somewhere? A brother he’d been denied knowing? A brother who’d suffered horrendously at the hands of adults who should have taken care of him?
Liz walked back in, her expression troubled. “Thanks for talking with us,” she told Brian. “If you remember anything else that might help, give us a call.”
Brian looked confused that she was dismissing him, but Rafe followed her cue.
When they were headed back toward her place, Liz explained what she’d seen. “We need to review Castor’s phone records and put a trace on his cell. Then I want to talk to the sheriff who investigated the social worker’s murder.”
Rafe’s cell phone buzzed, and he pressed answer.
“Agent Hood, Mazie hasn’t shown back up at work, and she isn’t answering her phone.”