“I agree,” Spencer said.
“Maybe they got what they wanted out of them, and that was enough.” Kelly undid the collar button of his shirt under a patterned green tie.
“And they wanted the police and everybody else to know very quickly who the first victim was,” Madison continued.
“I’m liking this more every minute,” Dunne said.
“Is Sorensen in charge of this at the lab?” Fynn asked.
“Yes, she is,” Spencer replied.
“Good, because after three days all we have right now is paint flakes, and the clock’s ticking. Also, I don’t want to tell the press about the connection between the murders. Let the killers think we don’t know. We don’t have motive, and we don’t have suspects,” Fynn said, straightening up. “We really don’t have to work very hard to look like we’re treading water.”
Nobody said it, but they all knew that the media would seize on the story of a serial killer and lead readers to spew out the same superstition: Everything comes in threes.
Madison was making notes of Ronald Gray’s early employment records—sparse and unsatisfactory—when the call came in.
“Homicide, Madison.”
“Hello, may I speak with the detective investigating the Ronald Gray case?”
“That would be me. How can I help you?”
Madison had the handset in the crook of her shoulder while she kept typing.
“I’m calling about his brother.”
Madison stilled for a moment, then palmed the phone and spoke into it. This had better not be a joke. “Mr. Gray had no siblings on record, sir. Whom am I speaking to?”
“Dr. Eli Peterson, at the Walters Institute.”
Madison’s mental Rolodex flipped to the appropriate page: residents at the Walters Institute had psychiatric problems ranging from the moderate to the very serious, and most of them lived there long-term and did not expect to leave. Most of them, reflected Madison, might not be entirely sure of their surroundings in the first place.
“Please go on, sir. Our records show that Ronald Gray had no next of kin.”
“The relationship between them was not one of blood, Detective. They were foster brothers; they grew up together. And his brother is a resident of the Walters Institute.”
“I’m sorry for his loss,” Madison said. “Has he been told?”
“I think it would be best if we spoke about it in person. Do you think you could come over sometime today?”
“Did you know Ronald Gray, Doctor?”
“For years.”
“We’ll be right over.”
The Walters Institute, a red-brick building from the early 1900s, sat at the center of its private grounds, lined by tall firs and by a perimeter fence almost as tall. The iron railings were painted black and well maintained, and even though they were a world away from the concrete and barbed wire of the King County Justice Complex, Madison observed that they were certainly not making it easy for someone to leave the grounds without authorization.
She gave her name and Kelly’s at the intercom by the main gate and waited; two cameras had their car in view.
Chapter 21
Alice Madison, fifteen, sits in the school counselor’s office and looks around. Some of the posters on the wall have changed since the last time she was here, three months ago. She is about to miss PE and would rather they got on with it, but the woman is poring over a file with her grades, occasionally looking up with a smile and then back at the file.
Having run out of leaflets and posters to examine, Alice focuses on the woman sitting on the other side of the desk, and, before she realizes what she’s doing, she reads her the way her father taught her. The woman is in her mid-thirties, unmarried—no ring—and her clothes are more expensive than a part-time school counselor could afford. Although they are not brand-new: Alice notices that the maroon cashmere twin set is beginning to pile a little, and the pumps are beautifully kept, though the leather is slightly scuffed by wear.
Miss Harley genuinely likes working with teenagers—many of Alice’s classmates have confided in her and let her help with their troubles, but not Alice. For some reason Miss Harley has always been a tad uncomfortable with her and, thus, has tried ten times harder to get the girl to like her and open up.
Alice appreciates the effort and yet has kept her own counsel, which the older woman has begun to feel is her own personal failure as a professional.
“Your grades are very good.” A flash of the Harley smile.
“They’re okay.” Alice shrugs.
“You plan to go to college?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Good, that’s good.” Miss Harley closes the file. “And how are things generally?”
Alice shifts on her chair. She runs with the track team and swims with the swim team; she goes out regularly for burgers and milkshakes with Rachel Lever and a group of classmates, and she has gone out on the odd date. Still, as immersed as she is in the life of Three Oaks High, Alice feels like an odd number where there should only be even ones.
“Okay,” she replies.
Miss Harley’s magic might not be working with Alice; however, that doesn’t mean the woman doesn’t see a troubled teenager when one is sitting right in front of her, even though being troubled is pretty much a synonym for being a teenager.
“Look, Alice, you’re doing really well in school, and from what I hear, you have lots of friends and are involved in extracurricular activities, as well. Great.” Miss Harley doesn’t go for the smile this time; she fixes Alice with her pretty hazel eyes and cocks her head to one side. “Sometimes being smart doesn’t make things easier. Being fifteen is already fraught with all kinds of issues that have to do with growing up, and you are a very smart fifteen-year-old who has dealt with a lot. I just want you to know that it’s okay to feel . . .” Miss Harley waves her hand and waits for Alice to finish off that sentence with whatever word pops into her mind, which would be more appropriate than anything she could supply.
Alice nods, as if a great truth has just passed between them.
“And I’m here,” Miss Harley continues. “For anything you want to talk about, anytime.”
Alice is well aware that her file on the desk says that her mother died three years ago and that she lives with her grandparents. Maybe this well-meaning woman thinks it’s easier to open up to someone closer to her age than to her grandparents.
Alice stands up and picks up her heavy backpack from the floor. She needs to get to the track fast and start warming up, or Coach Lewis will throw a hissy fit.
For a long time she thought that a psychologist like Miss Harley would be able to see right through her and spot the thing, whatever that was, that made Alice feel different, the way a metal detector would pick up a gun. It took her a while, but finally she had to admit that Miss Harley was just as much in the dark as she was, with one difference, though: Alice believes it has nothing to do with being fifteen.
She reaches the track—thank God she is already wearing her sweatpants—dumps her pack by the bleachers, and starts a gentle jog.
“Good of you to join us, Madison,” Coach Lewis hollers from across the field. “Ten laps, and put some mustard in that stride, will ya?”
Alice half raises one arm in assent. Maybe it’s just that they haven’t yet invented the metal detector that works for her particular thing. Maybe a proper psychologist or, even better, a psychiatrist who works with lunatics would be able to take one look at her and say, Yup, girl’s wired up wrong; no need to put her with the crazies, but let’s keep an eye out, for everyone’s sake.
The sweet spring air is a balm after all the hours cooped up inside, and Alice takes it in in big lungfuls. Only time will tell.
Chapter 22
The gates swung slowly open, and Madison put her foot on the accelerator; as they locked shut behind them, she felt Kelly bristle at her side. They had been inside countless jails, and yet a residential home for the mentally il
l was a slightly different game, however its landscaped gardens looked.
“Be good to know how Ronald Gray could afford this place,” Madison said.
“It’s prettier than my house,” Kelly replied.
Both of them had forgotten that they were not supposed to talk to each other.
The silver sky brought out the deep green in the firs that dotted the grounds; Boston ivy would make the red-brick building even lovelier in the fall. They followed the drive that wound around the lawn and parked in a visitors’ lot beside the main building; it was Monday, and the lot was almost empty.
As Madison locked her door, she noticed a solitary figure looking out from one of the windows on the top floor, staring at the line of trees. For some reason she turned but saw no one there, only the growing darkness pooling between the branches.
Kelly seemed troubled.
“What’s wrong?” Madison asked him. They had already spoken that day; she figured another couple of words wouldn’t hurt.
Kelly rolled his broad shoulders under the coat. “Ever feel if you walk into this kind of place, they’re not going to let you back out?”
He wasn’t being prickly; he was being honest.
“Every single time,” she replied without hesitation.
He snorted. “One day it might just happen.”
The reception area was brightly lit and friendly, more country hotel than a clinic whose residents couldn’t leave.
Dr. Eli Peterson was waiting for them. He was in his late thirties, with a little gray in his copper hair, and a couple of inches taller than Kelly. Her grandmother would have said he was a fine-looking young man. The receptionists, Madison noted, gazed at him as if he was the Second Coming. He didn’t seem to notice. From their phone conversation Madison had imagined an older man in a tweed jacket; Eli Peterson wore pressed jeans and a white button-down with a tie. He introduced himself, and they shook hands.
“Let’s go to my office; I’ll explain once we’re there.”
He punched in a code and led them through a door and down a corridor to an office wing. The inside of the Walters Institute, what they could see of it, was as pleasant as the outside, and Madison wondered if any of the people who had nodded hello to them were long-term residents or just staff.
The office of the institute’s director turned out to be the same size as the ones on either side; it was simply decorated with antique furniture and bookcases crammed with tomes. There were diplomas on a wall, but that was as far as Peterson’s ego went. He motioned for them to sit, but he himself went to stand by the tall window behind his desk; the view of the grounds ran uninterrupted to the line of firs.
He had hardly made eye contact on the walk there, and now he seemed to be struggling with whatever it was that had made him pick up the phone and call them. Madison hoped Kelly would let him come to it in his own time and heard the squeak of leather as her colleague shifted in his chair.
“I first met Ronald Gray ten years ago,” Peterson said suddenly, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. “That’s when I started working here. Ten years ago: three as associate, five as deputy, two as director. By then Ronald had already been coming for years, of course, and inevitably we got to know each other on his visits.”
“His visits to his foster brother?” Madison asked.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Peterson, what you said on the phone earlier—”
“I spoke with Ronald the day he died—the day he was murdered—and he sounded terrified.”
“What did he say?”
No one—not at work, not one of the neighbors they had interviewed—had spoken with Gray the day he died.
“He said he was going out of town for a while and that we shouldn’t expect any visitors for Vincent. In fact, if anybody came looking for him, we should be very wary. He stopped short of saying we should call the police, because that’s not our remit here—we’re not a jail—but that is what he meant. He said I should keep Vincent inside and not let him out in the gardens. He seemed exhausted and paranoid.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Very. Ronnie was a quiet kind of person, reserved. I asked him if he wanted to come in and talk about it. He said there wasn’t time but that I should look after Vincent while he was gone.”
“Did he say why he was going away?”
“No.”
“Did he mention names, situations, someone who was after him and Vincent?”
“No. He just said he had to go away immediately and his car’s transmission was dead.”
Madison and Kelly exchanged a look: that was why Gray had been at the bus station.
“Let’s start from the beginning. You said Gray had been coming since before you started working here?”
“Vincent Foley became a resident in the 1980s; he’s our longest-staying resident, in fact.”
“What’s . . . ?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale?”
“Yes.” Madison refrained from mentioning her psychology degree and that she had spent weeks writing about W.A.I.S.-III, the Kaufman Brief Intelligence Test, and even the Kaufman Test of Educational Achievement. As a student she had given enough tests to teenagers and adults to see the block-shaped designs even in her dreams.
“Vincent Foley, who’s forty-eight years old, was tested as a teenager and as a young man—before coming here—and his IQ score was sixty-nine, which is below average—in fact, borderline low.”
“Was he tested here?”
“No.” Peterson shook his head. “By then he couldn’t be tested. He’s not here because he has an IQ of sixty-nine; he’s here because something happened to him one day, and his intellect did not have the resources to deal with it and effectively shut down. Nobody knows what happened, and he has never been able to speak of it. He had been living his life—as best he could under the circumstances—being looked after by Ronald and with a degree of independence. Then one day Ronald got back from work and found him in a catatonic state. Vincent came out of it eventually, but he hardly spoke; when he did, he didn’t make sense, and he had fits and night terrors and suicide attempts. Ronald couldn’t look after him anymore and brought him here.”
Something occurred to Madison just then. “Doctor, you are putting aside doctor-patient confidentiality here for some reason?”
Peterson sat at his desk. “Vincent Foley doesn’t have anyone else; he’s my responsibility now in every way. And I thought Ronald was being paranoid. I wanted him to come in for a chat. . .”
Madison nodded. She could well imagine the conversation and the doctor thinking quietly to himself that maybe Gray needed to lighten up and have a Happy Meal.
“Ronnie also does volunteer work here,” Peterson continued. “He visited Vincent once a week, and a few weekends he would do some filing or odd jobs around the place for us. He had his own volunteer staff ID.” He closed his eyes. “When he called and said no one should visit Vincent, that he should be kept inside, I thought he was, maybe, high or intoxicated.”
“Had that ever happened?”
“No, never.”
“Has Vincent Foley ever had any other visitors except for Gray?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Then you saw the news . . .”
“Yes.”
It was the oldest joke in the book: just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get you. Gray had not been high; he had been right on the money.
“How could Mr. Gray or Mr. Foley afford this place?” Kelly asked out of the blue.
“We’re a nonprofit organization. Our patients pay on a sliding scale, depending on income, and some get government subsidies.”
“Why was Ronald Gray afraid for Vincent Foley?” Madison asked.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. Vincent is in his ow
n world, and he has no contact with the outside.”
“We need to speak to him. You haven’t told him about his foster brother yet?”
“No.” Peterson straightened the papers in front of him, a small gesture of self-comfort. “Vincent doesn’t interact with people with ease; he has fixations and compulsions, and he lives every second of his life in a state of acute anxiety, but he recognized Ronald, and he was always calmer after his visits.”
“What is he afraid of?”
Madison regretted the words as she said them: Vincent Foley’s horrors lived this side of the walls and had no reach and thus no bearing on the outside.
“The sun going down,” Peterson replied. “He’s afraid of the darkness. He thinks someone is after him, and they will come at night.”
It was simple, straightforward: someone had done something to him in the past, and that someone might come again.
“Was there a police report of any kind of assault on Vincent?”
“No. Ronald told me long ago that he couldn’t get him to speak of whatever had upset him so, and he had no physical injuries. By the time Vincent was admitted here, it was months after whatever event happened. We tried pretty much any therapy we could, but nothing helped. Vincent used to stack shelves in a supermarket; he would come and go from work alone. He would have been an easy target for an assailant, I suppose, though, as I said, Ronald reported no injuries to his foster brother.”
“Have you ever seen this man before?” Madison produced Warren Lee’s photograph from his driver’s license.
“No.”
“His name is Warren Lee. Did Ronald Gray ever mention him?”
“No.” Something seemed to shift and click in Peterson’s mind. “That’s the man who was . . . found dead days ago.” He didn’t say the man on the chair, and yet the words hung in the room all the same.
“Yes.”
The news had reported enough details that even someone who wasn’t interested in the particulars of such a violent death knew of them.
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