See No Evil e-2

by Allison Brennan

  Dillon wondered whether Santos had in fact pulled off the judge’s murder. On the one hand, the brazenness of the murder suggested payback, and Santos was both brash and arrogant. He could pull it off. But on the other hand, two members of Wishlist had their tormentor killed. Dillon didn’t buy into that coincidence.

  “I still have Emily for thirty hours. You’re not getting to her.”

  “Dammit, Dillon, we’re on the same side!”

  Dillon hadn’t yet trusted Andrew with the information that Victor had sexually abused Emily. The court would have the information soon enough, if the case got that far.

  “Emily is innocent. I’m not giving her to you one minute before I have to.” Dillon stared at Andrew. “I’ll commit her myself if I have to, while the police work the case. There’s much, much more to this than a simple domestic violence.”

  “Shit, Dillon.” Andrew stuffed his hands into his pockets and paced. “We have blood evidence that she was at the crime scene. Her fingerprints were on his desk. The weapon-pruning shears-was found on the grounds. I can make a case against her. I want her accomplices.”

  “What if she’s telling the truth?”

  “How would I know? You’ve kept her under medical wraps, we haven’t even been able to talk to her! You’re making this harder on everyone involved, particularly Julia.”

  “Why did you put Julia Chandler on administrative leave?”

  Andrew stopped walking. “She’s going through a difficult time. She’s getting paid. I just don’t-”

  “It’s not because she hired an attorney for Emily. It’s because of Connor.”

  At the mention of his name, Andrew reddened. “Connor is a loose cannon. You can’t trust him, even if he is your brother.”

  Dillon took a step toward his former brother-in-law. They were the same height, so it was easy to get in his face.

  He said in a low voice, “You hate Connor because he exposed your affair after Justin was killed. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” But the punch was out of Andrew’s words.

  Dillon nodded. “You were in bed with your mistress when your son was murdered, and you’ll live with that truth for the rest of your life. Now Julia is paying for your guilt because you feel better blaming Connor than looking into your own heart.”

  Andrew’s mouth opened and closed.

  Dillon softened his tone. He didn’t hate Andrew, and he didn’t want to hurt him. “Don’t be so blinded by the past that you jeopardize this investigation. I won’t let Emily be a pawn in your game.”

  “In thirty hours, she’s ours.”

  “Don’t push me, Andrew.”

  “You’re jeopardizing your career.”

  “I’ll let Emily talk to the police when I think she’s ready. Not a minute before.”

  “When do you think she’ll be ready?” Andrew barely restrained his anger.

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Julia passed the La Jolla Library on her way home. Jason Ridge was nagging at her. One Bowen client dead, one cleared of murder, and one suspected of murder.

  Coincidence? She didn’t believe it. She made a U-turn and pulled into the library parking lot. She couldn’t help but remember that only six weeks ago, a young volunteer of the library was found dead right here.

  She shivered, not knowing if it was remembering the brutal murder of Becca Harrison, or thinking about how Garrett Bowen creeped her out. Something about that guy was disconcerting. She’d met him several times in court, in particular when he was assigned to Emily’s case. On the surface he was attractive, professional, and intelligent.

  But Emily didn’t trust or like him, and that held a lot of weight with Julia. Comparing Bowen to Dillon Kincaid, there was no comparison. She’d prefer working with Dillon any day of the week.

  She walked in and found an available computer terminal to search the newspaper archives for Jason Ridge. She found several articles about his death as well as many about previous games he’d played in, going back to his freshman year. She printed every article she found.

  The first article about his death on the field had a byline by someone she didn’t recognize, but the second article’s byline she did recognize: Grace Simpson.

  Why was a crime reporter covering the drug-related death of a high school football star?

  She read the article carefully.

  Mystery Surrounds Football Star Death

  By Grace Simpson

  Saturday night’s game between the La Jolla Rockets and the San Diego Sprints was interrupted in the third quarter when star Sprints quarterback, senior Jason Ridge, collapsed on the field. He was pronounced dead at the scene after a vigorous attempt to save his life by the league’s doctor, David Mortimer.

  A subsequent autopsy on Monday indicated the cause of death to be heart failure due to steroid use.

  All varsity football players in public and private schools who play in public leagues are required to be tested at least once a season for steroid use, and can be randomly tested throughout the year. The school released Ridge’s records showing he’d been tested two months before his death and was clean. In his high school career, he’d been tested a total of six times and all were marked “pass” with no traces of steroids or illegal drugs in his system.

  The pressure senior Ridge was under this season was more intense than last year, however, according to his grandmother Evelyn Squires of Carlsbad. “Scouts are at every game watching him. It bothered him, the pressure.”

  Ridge’s father, James, denied his son used steroids. “Jason loved football and he was naturally a star athlete. He’d never take drugs or steroids. There’s got to be some mistake.”

  There was no mistake, according to the coroner’s office spokeswoman Anita Ferrar. “The report is conclusive. Six to twelve hours before his death, Jason ingested four times the safe limit of an anabolic steroid popular among bodybuilders.”

  Dr. Mortimer said he’d never heard of an athlete overdosing on steroids. “Steroids cause death usually from repeated use,” he explained. “I’ve known Jason for four years and he’s the last person I’d expect to take steroids.”

  Steroid use has been under scrutiny nationwide and colleges are cracking down on players who use. “One strike, you’re out,” UCSD football coach Brian Kyak said. “We don’t control the testing anymore, it comes from the league. They don’t play favorites.”

  Jason’s friends were shocked, but one high school junior who asked to remain anonymous said, “Jason was under a lot of pressure this year, especially after all the rumors about him and his girlfriend.”

  Jason’s ex-girlfriend, Michelle O’Dell, refused to discuss their past relationship, saying only, “Jason had issues. He was getting help.”

  When asked, his father declined to comment about any issues O’Dell may have been referring to.

  The police are looking into how Jason obtained the steroids. The selling of steroids without a medical license is illegal in California.

  A memorial service will be held this afternoon at 4 p.m. at Good Shepherd Church in San Diego. A private burial service will follow. The Sprints head coach retired Jason Ridge’s jersey, Number 10, in a somber school assembly Monday.

  Grace Simpson, crime reporter. She knew more about the story, otherwise she wouldn’t have been assigned to it. Maybe she thought she could get someone to talk about the “issues” Michelle O’Dell had mentioned. Was Michelle the girl Jason had been accused of raping? Or perhaps she knew what had happened.

  Julia wondered if journalist Grace had been trying to get more information about the underground market for steroids.

  Only one person knew for sure. Julia hesitated before picking up her cell phone.

  “Grace Simpson. Talk to me.”

  “Grace, it’s Julia Chandler.”

  A long pause. “You’re just about the last person I expected to call me. Do you have a comment about Victor Montgomery’s murder? Or maybe
why you were put on administrative leave?”

  How did everyone know about her leave? “No. I want to talk off the record about something other than Victor’s murder. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “It’s well past lunchtime. You’re going to have to give me more. The judge’s murder is my number one priority right now and I can’t waste my time.”

  “I promise if anything comes of this, you’ll be the first to know. And it could be really big. Please.”

  Julia could almost hear Grace weighing the pros and cons. “All right,” Grace finally agreed. “When and where?”

  Julia named a restaurant in La Jolla, far from where any of her colleagues might spot her talking to a reporter.

  Julia hung up, far from certain she’d made the right decision, but her instincts told her there was something about Jason Ridge’s death that seemed peculiar, perhaps related to the other two murders. She hoped Grace had information to share.

  And she hoped it didn’t cost her.

  Dillon feared he’d missed Garrett Bowen at the country club, but saw him above an empty plate, drinking a cocktail at a table overlooking the golf course.

  “Dr. Bowen.” Dillon sat across from him.

  “Dr. Kincaid. This must be important to track me down on a Friday afternoon. May I call you Dillon? ‘Doctor’ seems too formal among colleagues.”

  Dillon nodded. “It’s about Wishlist, Doctor.” Keep it formal. He watched Bowen’s expression. Except for a tightening around his mouth, his expression didn’t change. If Dillon hadn’t been watching carefully, he’d have missed it.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard of the group?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “I created it.”

  Though Dillon knew he shouldn’t be surprised, since all the evidence pointed to Dr. Bowen’s involvement in the online community, he was nevertheless shocked at the frank admission. “Why?” he asked.

  Bowen cocked his head, looking at Dillon as if he’d asked a ridiculous question. “It’s therapeutic, of course.”

  “How so?”

  Bowen laid his hands on the table. His right index finger lightly tapped on the linen cloth. “Anger management is a difficult discipline, as I’m sure you well know,” he began. “Especially with teenagers. Especially today. Young people mistrust their elders. They’d believe the word of a fellow teen-however ill informed-over the word of an experienced adult.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Dillon said.

  “True, but with the additional pressures of a complex, sensory-rich society with every fantasy, every wish, able to be fulfilled, keeping young adults focused on their own health and safety-as opposed to the take-what-you-want-when-you-want-it attitude prevalent today-is an almost impossible task for parents. Add to that dilemma the situation of rich kids with distant parents, physically or emotionally, and you have a recipe for disaster. In my practice, I deal almost exclusively with teenagers who have problems with their parents and their teachers-in essence, those in authority over them. I realized this when I started taking cases from the court with youth who vandalized property, acted out against people in a rage, anything that stemmed from anger. And these weren’t the underprivileged, but kids with means and education.”

  Bowen was on a roll. “Take the issue of cutting. You know what that is, correct?”

  “Of course. When people, usually young teens, mutilate their bodies in order to feel pain.”

  Bowen shook his head. “Partly, but you’re focusing on the pain when in fact it’s the feeling and the control that they hold on to. That the feeling comes from pain is incidental. Cutting is about being in control. Some kids turn to drugs or drinking to dull the feelings-to give up control and responsibility. If under the influence, they become detached from themselves. Cutting is the exact opposite. In fact, in my practice, cutters often have a disdain for drug users. Cutters would rather die than give up their bodies and minds to drugs and alcohol. Cutting heightens their feelings, gives them control over their own destiny. Drugs take away control.”

  “I understand, but what does cutting have to do with Wishlist?”

  “Cutting is anger management. They can’t release their feelings, or they don’t know how to release them, so they turn inward. It’s empowering. Just like yelling at your parents or vandalizing the school. They get a brief high. But each time, they need to go deeper, hurt longer. If they can’t control it, they’ll self-destruct.” Bowen sipped his drink as the waiter cleared his dishes.

  “So you started Wishlist for people who cut themselves?” Dillon said.

  “Originally, several years ago I put together a small online group of cutters. I felt they would benefit from talking to each other. And I was right. The results one-on-one were far better after the anonymous group therapy. So I expanded Wishlist to include all teens with anger management or emotional control issues, which is really the same thing. A teen who lashes out in anger has the same basic problems as a teen who turns to promiscuity to solve problems. They don’t feel as if they are in control of their destiny.”

  “There are a thousand underlying reasons for self-destructive teenagers. You can’t put them all in the same category.”

  “I understand that, Dr. Kincaid,” Bowen said, irritated that he’d been contradicted. “But together they see that others have problems like theirs and they can try different methods to control their spontaneous destructive behavior and to develop sound coping mechanisms.”

  “Kids counseling kids.” Dillon couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice.

  “I supervise the list,” Bowen insisted. “I use the information in my practice and work with other teens experiencing the same problems. It’s the same principle as group therapy.”

  “Except there’s no professional supervision.”

  “It’s anonymous.”

  “You’ve gone online. You’ve read the messages.” It wasn’t a question.

  Bowen acknowledged the fact. “Just to observe or to provide prompts.”

  “Like how they would kill those who hurt them.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s about getting rid of the anger in a safe and anonymous environment in order to move on and heal.”

  Dillon said, “So when Emily Montgomery wrote that she wanted to kill Judge Montgomery by making him choke on his penis, that’s healing?”

  “I didn’t know the message came from Emily. It was anonymous.”

  “But you saw the message.”

  He hesitated. “Yes. But-”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “It’s therapy. And there was no threat. It was a fantasy, nothing more.”

  “It’s a secure server that you need a password to join and is monitored by a licensed psychiatrist who should know better than to put a group of mentally imbalanced young people into a group to talk about murder.”

  “That’s not the purpose, Kincaid. You’re only looking at one message out of thousands.”

  “And where would those messages be kept?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “You don’t retain them?”

  Again, he hesitated. “Not for the long term.”

  “Any other messages you remember that you might want to make the police aware of? Any other threats?”

  Bowen stood. Dillon had crossed the line. “I wasn’t aware that I was the subject of a police investigation.”

  “I’m trying to help Emily.”

  “Hmm.” Bowen looked down his nose, trying to use his height over the sitting Dillon to intimidate.

  Dillon stood.

  “What do you know about Paul Judson?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  But Bowen wasn’t looking him in the eye. Dillon knew he was lying.

  Bowen went on the offensive. “Perhaps you’re the one on the wrong side here. Have you thought that perhaps Emily acted out her own fantasies? She is a violent, emotionally distrau
ght girl who has never recovered from her father’s sudden death. She has a verbally abusive mother, and her stepfather was attempting to fill a role that emotionally she couldn’t handle. You can’t overlook her potential involvement.”

  “And do you believe Emily was involved in Paul Judson’s murder as well?”

  Bowen looked at him blankly, but Dillon didn’t forget his original reaction.

  “Do you have a list of everyone you invited into the group?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you without a court order, Dr. Kincaid.”

  Dillon started to leave, then turned and said in a low voice, “You should have your license pulled. Giving your patients essentially the right to counsel each other. You’ve created a forum for anger to fester, not diminish.”

  “You’re wrong, Dr. Kincaid.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  FIFTEEN

  Connor parked outside Emily’s private college preparatory high school in La Jolla. It was after two and the kids were still in class.

  Emily had given him a list of her friends, surprisingly short for an attractive, smart girl like Em. The school wasn’t large-maybe a thousand students in all four grades-but it was meticulously maintained and looked like a small version of an Ivy League university. A place rich parents sent their kids.

  There were a handful of girls on the list, but the one Emily said she was closest to was Wendy Roper, whom she’d known since early childhood. Connor had a description of the girl and her car, and waited until classes let out at three. Ten minutes later he spotted Wendy, a dark-haired beauty, tall and lanky, and dressed impeccably. He followed her to the parking lot to verify her identity and as she was about to get into a sporty red compact, Connor called out. “Wendy?”

  She turned, neither scared nor worried. “Yeah? Who wants to know?”

  “Connor Kincaid. I’m a friend of Emily.”

  Wendy’s round face relaxed. “Em’s talked about you.”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Sure. Is Em okay?”

  “She’s going to be fine.” He looked around, saw too many people walking around, curious about him. He pointed to a grassy slope with trees on the far side of the parking lot. “Let’s go someplace private to talk.”