by Robert Ellis
“So at night,” Teddy said, “they bring in the steaks and real coffee.”
Holmes nodded. “When I told them I’m a vegetarian, they laughed and called me names.”
“That won’t happen again, I promise you. But you need to do me a favor, Holmes. Don’t talk to the guards. Don’t say anything at all, no matter what, okay? And watch who you’re with. You don’t know who’s who in here.”
Holmes nodded as if a child.
“May I look at your sketchbook?” Teddy asked.
“Why?”
“Because I need to.”
Holmes seemed reluctant, but finally passed the sketchbook over. Teddy flipped through the pages until he reached the beginning, carefully examining each drawing. After a moment, he realized Holmes was recreating the view from the sun porch at his apartment in the city. His art studio. He could see the park outside, figures moving down the sidewalks like shadows.
“Have you ever done any portraits?” Teddy asked.
“I’ve tried, but they don’t come out right.”
“You still having nightmares?”
“Only when I sleep,” Holmes said.
Teddy caught a faint smile on his client’s face. The first he’d ever seen. His sense of humor was subtle, but there. Teddy handed the sketchbook back.
“What about your memory of the day Darlene Lewis died?”
Holmes face went blank again. “That’s the nightmare. The day she died.”
“What about before this, Holmes. Before Darlene was murdered. How’s your memory? Are there any other blank spots?”
Holmes thought it over as if he hadn’t considered it before. After a moment, he shook his head at the discovery.
“Tell me about that day,” Teddy said.
“No,” Holmes said.
“How bad can it be if you don’t remember what happened?”
“I remember touching her,” Holmes said. “Doing things to her with my hands.”
“What’s her face look like in the dream?”
Holmes lowered his gaze and shook his head. “Her eyes are bulging,” he whispered after a moment. “She’s dead.”
THIRTY-NINE
Teddy stood on the sidewalk beside his car, smoking his first cigarette of the day and keeping an eye on the building. His fuse was burning. Once he saw Carolyn Powell, he was afraid he might explode.
He crossed the street, ditching the smoke and entering the building lobby. Security in the district attorney’s office was tight. Three male receptionists worked the desk behind bulletproof glass. They looked like ex-cops, real bruisers. Beside the desk on the left were the metal detectors. You couldn’t pass without going through.
He pulled his cell phone out and entered her number. When her assistant picked up, he gave her his name and told her he was in the lobby. A moment later, Powell came on and said she’d be right down.
Benches were set up like church pews off to the side. Teddy took a seat and waited, unable to appreciate the ornate wood paneling or moldings that lined the walls of the old building. There had been a leak and it came from this office. Although Teddy had let Barnett make his point from his hospital bed without a response, the evidence seemed less important than what he was packing in his gut. District Attorney Alan Andrews had the wrong man. And now Holmes was tarnished beyond resurrection, his ability to defend himself ruined.
Powell entered the lobby carrying a file folder. When she spotted him, she passed through the security gate and walked over.
“You want to come up?” she asked, handing him the file.
“I don’t have time.”
“It’s the toxicology report,” she said. “Let’s go in here.”
He followed her into the empty press room and watched her close the door without switching on the lights. She looked upset as she crossed to the window. It read like guilt.
“We didn’t leak the story, Teddy.”
“If it wasn’t you, who else is there?”
“We’re trying to figure that out,” she said. “We’ve been working on it all morning.”
“Let me give you a hint. His name’s Alan Andrews and he’s a politician. Now you can stop wasting your time and get back to work on making the biggest mistake of your life.”
She took the blow and looked disappointed. Teddy didn’t move.
“We’re back to this,” she said after a moment.
“Not Andrews himself. He’s smarter than that. You know who’s working the case better than I do. You’ll have to figure out who’s talking yourself. Maybe it’s his scary cop friend, Michael Jackson. By the way, Jackson drinks from a flask. Not the one I saw the night Barnett was run over. He’s got another one now.”
She gave him a look and sat down. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“I know what it looks like, Carolyn.”
She turned to the window without responding.
“It was in the papers before the Lewis murder,” he said. “An overzealous prosecutor with political ambition screws up and needs a big case to get himself out of a deep hole. That’s the context. The specifics get better. The lead defense attorney is in a hospital bed and may not walk again. Details of the crime scene have been leaked to the papers killing the jury pool. Prison guards working the night shift are taunting the accused and trying to get him to talk.”
She was staring at him, her eyes burning in the dim light and measuring his anger. “The evidence against Holmes is overwhelming. What you’re implying is ridiculous. You’re spending too much time with Nash.”
She stood up and turned to the door, reaching for the handle. She’d written him off and was ready to leave. Teddy pushed the door closed and could feel her breath on his face.
“What about Rosemary Gibb?” he said.
“Refresh my memory.”
She didn’t know who Rosemary was. He tried to get a grip on himself.
“You said you spoke with Ferarro in missing persons,” he said. “There’s another girl and I can’t even get a look at the missing persons report.”
She flashed a reluctant smile, remembering. The kind of smile that said Rosemary hadn’t made the cut. Even worse, it seemed clear that she’d written off Teddy’s motives as some sort of cheap defense tactic. Teddy felt his pulse smack the ceiling and steadied himself against the door.
“You said at breakfast the other day that you regretted what happened between us,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry we did it, too.”
She was staring at him. She was dressed in a turquoise suit that brought out the color of her eyes. Teddy ignored what he felt for her. He tried to, anyway, and moved on.
“You’re dangerous, Carolyn. You’re just like Andrews. Maybe you’re in it with him. Is that what happened? Were you keeping me busy that night? Did we get drunk and fuck so the hatchet man could get a clean shot at Barnett on his own?”
She seemed stunned. Her eyes suddenly looked glassy. What he was saying was outrageous, even vicious. Still, he needed to break the flow. One way or the other, he needed to change things.
“You really fooled me, you know it?” he said. “I thought it was more than that. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since it happened. But you’re playing on another level. You’re in another league. You and the city’s next mayor. You don’t give a fuck about anybody just as long as you chalk up another conviction. Another win for the record books. You want it so bad you’re blind to what’s really going on. You can play follow-the-leader all you want. But keep your guards away from my client. We’ll deal with the leak next time we’re before a judge.”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. Teddy opened the door, leaving her in the empty press room where the lights were out.
FORTY
Her tits were too big.
Eddie checked his canvas, then peered back at Rosemary slumped in the chair before him in his basement studio. The light was right, the sun hitting the greenhouse and feeding the room with a soft, steady haze that glow
ed. It was her body that was wrong. She didn’t match the others. She seemed too voluptuous. Even with her eyes closed, she radiated too much beauty, too much life.
He looked back at her and wondered if she might not be moving. She’d been sleeping for the past three hours—in a stupor since they’d become friends and partied on the Love Drug.
Eddie moved in for a closer look. He couldn’t really tell. Maybe she was moving, but maybe she wasn’t. When his eyes fell across her naked body, his dick got hard again and he swore. It was a pitfall that went with the job. A wrong turn up a dead end alley if he wanted to become famous.
Work before pleasure. It’s a lost secret, son.
He stepped back behind the large canvas, deciding he wouldn’t look at her again for the rest of the day. Not until he could tell if she was moving or not. Not until he backed out of the wrong alley. He dabbed his brush in the paint, swirling it through a blend of deep reds. He’d spend the afternoon working on the background. The buildings and lights along the streets that were in his head.
The doorbell rang.
Eddie flinched, his brush driving across the canvas and ruining an entire section of the large work.
The bell rang again. His jaw muscles tightened as he heard it vibrate through the house. He wanted to scream. Instead, he wiped the brush stroke away with a rag and assessed the damage to his masterpiece. It would take him all night to fix. It might take him longer if Rosemary didn’t wake up and start cooperating.
Someone began pounding on the front door. Eddie threw the rag down.
“Sit still,” he ordered Rosemary.
Then he hurried up the steps, too upset to worry if the neighbors were eavesdropping on his mind or not. He entered the kitchen and saw a figure through the living room window. It was Mrs. Yap, staring back at him and beaming. Her needless visit had almost ruined his life’s work.
He tried to control his anger. Faking a lose smile, he crossed the room, switched the lock, and popped open the door.
“I was worried about you,” his landlady said. “I stopped by the other day, but you didn’t answer. May I come in?”
He nodded as if he had a choice, stepping aside as Mrs. Yap entered.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she went on. “I was afraid I might have to use my key or call the police. You don’t look so good.”
The chattering had started. Her peppy energy only seemed to turn his anger into rage. He followed her into the kitchen, watching her grab the teapot like she owned it and fill the vessel with tap water. As she rambled on, she noticed the curtains were drawn and pulled them open.
Eddie squinted as the light struck his face. He looked through the window at the house on the corner. There was a man on the roof, adjusting the fake satellite dish pointed at him. Their listening device was down, the monitor on their computer, blank. The watchers had no idea what he was thinking.
Eddie was free. At least for now he was.
He looked back at Mrs. Yap. She had the drawer open, admiring his Sterling silver flatware. She was dressed in bright colors—the mouth below her beaklike nose prattling in overdrive. Soon the babbling turned into chortling, the woman transforming into a bird before his eyes.
It wasn’t the drug after all, he thought. It was his vision. His strength.
He drew the curtain. When he saw the giant canary turn from the stove, he noticed he was trembling. Still, he moved toward the bird without hesitation. It was pecking at him with its beak, flailing its wings in the air. It seemed so close. So fucking real.
Eddie lunged at the animal, biting its beak off and spitting it on the floor.
The canary did a stutter step and looked overwhelmed and defenseless. Blood spewed all over its nape and chin, staining the brightly colored feathers on its chest. The bird’s eyes widened and the pecking stopped. It flapped its wings again. When the bird tried to fly away, Eddie grabbed a butcher’s knife off the counter and plunged it into the animal’s back. Over and over again until the pesky thing stopped jittering and collapsed onto the living room floor.
FORTY-ONE
Teddy ran up the stairs to Nash’s office, sensing something had happened. It felt like a cold draft, working its way inside him until it blew against his core.
When he entered the office, Nash wasn’t there. Instead, he found someone he didn’t know seated at the jury table with the murder book and a copy of their initial profile. The man looked at him and smiled. Teddy guessed he was about fifty. His light brown hair was streaked with gray, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You must be Teddy,” the man said, offering his hand as he acknowledged Nash’s absence. “He’s giving an exam. He’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve spent the morning reading through all this and trying to catch up.”
The man introduced himself as Dr. Stanley Westbrook, a criminal psychiatrist from the FBI’s Behavioral Science section who’d made the trip up from Washington via the Metroliner as a favor to his friend. He said he’d been a student of criminal behavior for most of his career, and worked with Nash many times in the past. When he mentioned some of the cases he’d been associated with over the last ten years, Teddy recognized most of them and knew Westbrook was real.
A copy of the Daily News was set on the table. As Teddy glanced at it, he tried to find some assurance in the psychiatrist’s presence, but couldn’t. It felt like they were moving too slowly. Like their feet were anchored in piles of dry sand.
“There’s been a leak,” he said.
“Nash told me about it,” Westbrook said, glancing at the newspaper. “He admires you, by the way. He trusts you. He wishes you’d been his student and thinks we should hire you.”
Taking a seat at the jury table, Teddy handed over the medical examiner’s report Powell had given him. As Westbrook opened the file and scanned through the autopsy results, Teddy couldn’t help but think about what he’d said to Powell just a half hour ago. Even though a life was at stake, he’d been out of line and didn’t feel very proud.
Westbrook thumbed through the report until he reached the toxicology results and shook his head. Teddy noted the coffee cup on the table set beside an ashtray.
“This is troubling,” the psychiatrist said, still eyeing the report.
The door opened and Nash walked in, carrying a sheaf of papers and dumping them on his desk. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “You two have had a chance to meet?”
Westbrook looked up from the report and nodded.
“Good,” Nash said, opening a fresh cigar and joining them at the table. “So where do we stand?”
“I think you’re correct,” Westbrook said. “You’re looking for a man in his twenties or thirties with a history of serious mental illness. He was abused as a child, or suffered some great emotional crisis as a young boy. If we could look back at his childhood, I’m certain we’d find numerous cases of animal abuse as well.”
“What are the chances that he’s an artist?” Teddy asked. “Even an attorney? Have you thought about the tattoos, or is it a stretch?”
“I don’t think it’s a stretch at all.”
The crime scene at the Lewis house flashed before Teddy’s eyes before the psychiatrist could say anything more. The sitting room on the other side of the hall with the magnificent paintings by Seurat, Gauguin, and Cezanne hanging on the walls. He hadn’t thought of it before. He’d seen it, but its meaning hadn’t registered.
“A chair was turned toward the paintings,” Teddy said. “Someone had moved the chair to look at the art. At the time, I thought it was the owner.”
Nash and Westbrook traded looks and nodded as if the insight impressed them. For Teddy, this new observation read like everything else. It wasn’t evidence of anything. But it was another sign.
Westbrook lit a cigarette and looked at him. “Nash told me your theory, and I agree. Darlene was rejected because of the marks on her skin. Since there’s a good chance you’re dealing with an artist, there’s a certain appreciation for pu
rity going on here. Valerie Kram is a different story. She spent time with the killer. She modeled for him. When she was used up, he threw her away. But remember, Valerie Kram was part of his work by then, something akin to sacred, so she was placed in the water where he found her and cleansed.”
“What about Holmes?” Nash asked.
“Based on your profile, I’d say he’s outside the model or field of inquiry. Of course I’ve never spoken with the man and there’s always the chance that I’m wrong. What interests me most is the condition of the body found in the river.”
“The cut down the middle of her chest,” Teddy said.
The psychiatrist nodded and turned to Nash. “Teddy brought the toxicology report with him,” he said. “Cutting the victim open could have more meaning than it seems. The medical examiner found drugs in her system. It’s a safe bet they’re in his system as well. You’re looking for a user and your profile should be amended to reflect that. Valerie Kram may have died from strangulation. But she was on the verge of overdosing on Ecstasy as well.”
This was new. Teddy hadn’t looked at the toxicology report Powell had given him earlier. He was too upset with her, too upset with himself for treating her the way he did, and he’d been running late. But Teddy knew something about Ecstasy. It was pretty much the drug of choice with his classmates in school. He’d used it a handful of times himself, but stopped when he woke up one morning overwrought with depression. He knew the drug’s effects, though. He knew its power and what a single dose could do.
“He’s using Ecstasy as a way of controlling his victims,” Teddy said. “He’s using the drug to soften them up.”
Westbrook glanced at Nash again, then turned back. “But Ecstasy has a nasty side effect, Teddy. Particularly in high doses. Beyond what chronic use can do to the brain, the drug causes a marked increase in body temperature. In an overdose like this, Valerie Kram was literally cooking from the inside out.”
“Then this could be another explanation for dumping her body in water,” Nash said.