“You know what?” she said fiercely.
“That a tubal ligation was performed on you without your knowledge that rendered you infertile.”
There was a long silence. “You don’t know what you’re talking—”
King interrupted. “George Diaz corrected your diverticulitis and operated on your colon all right, but at the same time he also stapled your fallopian tubes shut. And he did it on purpose. You couldn’t go to your old ob-gyn with those staples in you: how could you explain them? So you went to a new one, probably with dummy records, and she removed them. I went to see her with a bogus story about my ‘wife’ and her fallopian tube problem. I said you’d recommended her because you said she’d done such a wonderful job on you. Because of confidentiality restrictions she couldn’t tell me much, but it was just enough to confirm my suspicions. And the damage was permanent, wasn’t it? You’d never have children.”
“You bastard, how dare you—”
King interrupted her again. “Your husband found out you and Bobby were lovers. You fell for the old man just like hundreds before you. And George took his revenge for your infidelity. And then you took yours.” He picked up the photo of George Diaz off her desk and laid it facedown. “You don’t have to keep up the facade of the poor, pining widow for me.”
“I was lying flat on my back in the hospital when George was killed!”
“That’s right. But I’m betting your husband told you what he did. He’d want you to know how he’d avenged himself for your betrayal. And you called Bobby and told him all about it. And he took his Rolls-Royce, went over to your house, saw Diaz out walking, and that was that. At first I thought Bobby had run Roger Canney’s wife off the road and killed her, because her death also occurred around the time George was killed. But hers was a simple car accident. Your husband’s death was murder.”
“It’s all conjecture. And even if it happened as you say, I did nothing wrong. Nothing.”
“The wrong comes later. Because you killed Bobby by injecting a lethal dose of potassium chloride into his nutrition bag.”
“Get out of my office.”
“I’ll go when I’ve had my say,” he shot back.
“First you say I’m the man’s lover, and then you say I’m his murderer. What possible motivation would I have for killing him?”
“You were afraid of being exposed,” King said simply. “On the very day he was killed we saw you at Diane Hinson’s home. Michelle told you Bobby was conscious, but that he was just rambling, calling out people’s names, saying stuff, totally incoherent. You were terrified he’d say your name, talk about your relationship. Then everything might come out. Maybe he’d already thrown you aside by then. So maybe you owed him nothing. I don’t know that for sure, but I do know that you went and killed him. For a doctor it would be easy. You knew the hospital routine. You put the poison in the bag and not the tube, and you left the feather and watch because you wanted the murder attributed to the other killer. You were very quick to support my theory of a family member having killed Bobby. But you made a mistake. You didn’t take anything from his hospital room. Those thefts from the other victims, the St. Christopher’s medal and the like, weren’t revealed to the public or to you. So you didn’t know to copy that detail.”
Sylvia shook her head. “You’re crazy. You’re as crazy as Eddie, you know that? And to think I was looking forward to rekindling what we had.”
“Right, me too. Guess I’m really lucky.”
Her face twisted hideously. “All right, you’ve had your say, now get out. And if you repeat one word of it, I’ll sue you for slander.”
“I’m not finished yet, Sylvia.”
“Oh, there’s more insane talk to come?”
“A lot more. You were also the one who burglarized the Battles’ home.”
“You just don’t stop, do you?”
“Bobby had probably given you the access code and a key. Junior had done work for you, you told us that. You got the stuff to frame him easily enough, and who better to forge a print than a medical examiner? I’m not sure how you did that, but I know with a very experienced person that it’s possible.”
“Why would I burglarize their home? What would I want with Remmy’s wedding ring?”
“You didn’t care about the ring! There was something else you were after. Battle was in a coma in the hospital. You weren’t sure if Remmy knew about Bobby’s secret cache. You weren’t even sure what you wanted was in there, but you had to look. In Bobby’s closet you knew where the secret drawer was, but you didn’t know how to open it and had to break in. Someone would obviously see that, so you broke into Remmy’s closet to make it look like a burglary and framed Junior for it. You’d probably heard from Bobby that Remmy had a secret cupboard in her closet, but he didn’t know its exact location. That’s why you had to bust everything up, looking for it.”
“And what exactly was I supposed to have stolen?”
“A picture of you and Bobby together. Some of the lettering from the back of the Kodak paper had stained the drawer. He might have told you he kept it there. Either way, you had to get it back. Because if he died and the photo was discovered, people might start putting the pieces together about your husband’s death. And even if you weren’t to blame for that, no one would believe you. And maybe it seemed pretty ironic your ending up with Remmy’s wedding ring. Did you ever wear it in the privacy of your home?”
“Okay, that’s it! Get out! Now!”
King didn’t budge. “And did you really have to kill Kyle? What, was he trying to blackmail you?”
“I didn’t kill him. He was stealing from me!”
King glanced over at the coatrack. “You were doing Hinson’s post the night Battle was killed. You said Kyle came to the morgue that night, but you didn’t mention that you’d seen or spoken to him, only that he’d accessed the door, and that was recorded on the security log.”
“I never saw him. I was in the back working on Hinson.”
“Not around ten o’clock you weren’t. And that’s probably what Kyle saw, or, more to the point, didn’t see.” He pointed at the neatly arranged things by the coatrack. “Your jacket, shoes and such you always place there when you’re here working. And it’s also pretty strange to perform an autopsy at night and without assistance or a witness, as you did with Hinson. You gave Todd such a hard time about him ducking the other autopsies, but you didn’t want him at Hinson’s, because you had someplace else to be. Namely, killing Bobby during the nurse changeover. You feigned illness when Todd called you later that night about Battle’s death because you had to complete Hinson’s post, or else you couldn’t bring yourself to see Battle’s body so soon after you’d killed him.”
“That’s crazy. And I wanted to perform the autopsy as quickly as possible. The body will only give clues for a certain period of—”
“Save the lecture for somebody who cares,” said King. “I’m betting Kyle put all this together and tried to blackmail you. So you came to me with the perfectly true fact that he was stealing drugs and selling them, and I told you I’d have Todd see Kyle the next day. Only by then you’d killed him. Maybe you went right after we finished dinner. And during the post you conveniently found enough evidence to make it look like murder. And of course there was Dorothea ready to take the blame, which I’m certain was your intent. In fact, I bet you recognized her at the Aphrodisiac and knew she was Kyle’s drug client.”
He looked over at her. She was simply staring blankly at him now. “But was it all worth it for a monster like Battle? Was it, Sylvia? You were just one in a hundred. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love anyone.”
She picked up the phone. “Unless you leave right now I’m calling the police.”
King rose. “Oh, just so you know, Eddie put me onto this. He knew you’d killed his father; that’s why he was going to kill you.”
“So now you’re listening to convicted murderers?”
“Ever heard of a guy
named Teet Haerm?”
“No.”
“He lived in Sweden. Maybe still does. He was accused of killing some people back in the eighties. He was arrested and convicted, but it was later overturned and he was set free.”
“And what exactly does that have to do with me?” she said icily.
“Teet Haerm was the medical examiner for the city of Stockholm. It’s said that he even performed the autopsies on some of his victims. Probably the only time that had ever happened. At least until now. Eddie left a clue behind, only he misspelled it on purpose. He wanted to get to you first after all.” He paused and added, “I don’t know if Teet was guilty or not, but I know you are.”
“And you can’t prove one word of anything you’ve said.”
“You’re right, I can’t,” conceded King. “At least not right now. But let me tell you something, lady, I’m not going to stop trying. In the meantime I hope your guilt will ruin your life.”
King walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.
Chapter 101
King and Michelle boarded the small plane and flew down to South Carolina. From there they drove an hour to the maximum security prison Eddie Battle had been transferred to and where he would spend the rest of his life. Michelle chose to wait outside while King went in.
Eddie was brought in wearing shackles and surrounded by four beefy guards who never took their eyes off him. Eddie’s hair was shaved to the scalp, and there were scars and wounds on his face and forearms which King knew had been inflicted since he’d been incarcerated. He wondered how many others were hidden under the jumpsuit. He sat down across from Eddie. They were separated by inch-thick Plexiglas. King had already been instructed on all the visitor’s rules, chief of which was to make no sudden moves and never ever try to have any physical contact with the prisoner.
King knew he’d have no trouble following those procedures.
“I’d ask you how it’s going, but I can see.”
Eddie shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Pretty basic stuff. Kill or be killed and I’m still here.” He eyed King with a curious look. “Didn’t expect to be seeing you again.”
“I had a few questions to ask you. And then I had something to tell you. What do you want first?”
“Give me the questions. The boys in here don’t have many. Spend most of my time in the library. Lifting weights, playing ball, getting some of the boys organized into a team. They won’t let me paint, though. Guess they’re afraid I’ll drown somebody in a bucket. Shoot.”
“First question: Did your father’s stroke start everything in motion?”
Eddie nodded. “I’d been thinking about it for a while. Wasn’t sure if I’d have the balls to actually do it. When the old man went down, it just snapped in my head. Now or never.”
“Second question: Why kill Steve Canney? I thought you did it for your mother, but now I know that wasn’t the case.”
Eddie shifted in his seat, the shackles rattling. One of the guards looked over. Eddie smiled and waved before looking back at King. “My parents let my brother die, and my old man goes off and has another son with some slut. Well, I didn’t want or need another brother. This Canney kid grew up healthy and strong. That should’ve been Bobby, you hear me? It should’ve been Bobby.” His voice rose higher, and now all four guards looked over. King didn’t know if he was more frightened of Eddie or them.
“Third question: What made you kill Junior? At first I thought it was because you believed he’d stolen from your mother. Now I know you wouldn’t have cared about that. So why?”
“There was a drawing of my brother that got busted up during the burglary.”
“Your mother showed me it.”
“It was a drawing of Bobby before he got really sick.” Eddie paused and put his shackled hands on the wood in front of him. “I was the one who drew it. I loved that picture. And I wanted it in Mom’s room so she’d always know what she did. When I saw it smashed up, I knew I’d kill whoever had done it. I thought Junior had broken it. That was his death sentence.”
King suppressed a shudder at Eddie’s reasoning for murder and said, “In case you’re interested, this has all really hit Remmy hard, though she tries not to show it.”
“She’s just lucky I didn’t have the guts to kill her.”
“Did you come up with the plan to impersonate famous serial killers because of Chip Bailey?”
Eddie grinned. “Old Chippy. Bragged all the time about how much smarter he was than everyone else, how much he knew about serial killers, their M.O. He claimed he could run down the smartest of them. Well, I took him up on that challenge. I think the results speak for themselves.”
“If your father hadn’t been murdered, what would you have done?”
“Killed him. But before I did I was going to tell him about all the people I’d killed and why. I wanted him to know what he’d done. For once in his life I wanted him to take responsibility.”
“Last question. Why’d you take something from each of your victims?”
“So I could plant them at Harold Robinson’s, to put the blame on him.” He paused, his brow wrinkled, and he finally said in a low voice, “I guess I’m just like my old man.”
King understood that this was by far the harshest sentence Eddie could have been given, and it was a self-imposed one. That was why he had asked the question.
“So what’d you come here to tell me?”
King sunk his voice low. “That you were right about Sylvia. I confronted her with it all, but I can’t prove any of it, though I’ll keep trying.”
“Did you figure out my ‘Teet’ clue?”
“Yeah.”
“Found out about him when I went down to the FBI at Quantico with Chip once.”
“Sylvia’s moved away from Wrightsburg, probably set up a new life under another name.”
“Lucky her.”
“I haven’t told anyone else about it, not even Michelle.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter, Eddie, there’s just nothing I can do about it right now. I have no proof. She covered her tracks really well, but I’ll keep trying.” King rose. “I won’t be back to see you.”
“I know.” As Eddie started to rise, he called out, “Hey, Sean, can you tell Michelle I wouldn’t have really hurt her that night? And tell her I enjoyed our dance together.”
The last image King had of the man was him shuffling off surrounded by the guards. And then Eddie Battle was gone. King hoped forever.
As he was leaving the prison, King was stopped and given a package at the visitor’s center. He was only told that it had been mailed here and they were to hold it for him. It was actually addressed to Michelle. He got back in the car.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s for you. We’ll stop for lunch at that diner we passed earlier, and you can open it.”
It was truly a greasy spoon full of truckers, but the food was good and the coffee hot. They found a spot near the back and ate their lunch.
“Don’t you want to know how he is?” asked King.
“No. Why, did he ask about me?”
King hesitated and said, “No, he never mentioned you.”
Michelle swallowed her bite and chased it with some coffee.
“One thing still has me puzzled,” she said.
“Really, only one thing?” King attempted a smile.
“What was in her closet safe that Remmy wanted back so badly?”
“I think they were letters from a certain gentleman acquaintance of hers.”
“So she was having an affair?”
“No, this was a case of unrequited love. The gentleman in question would have it no other way with a married woman. But she wanted his letters back.”
“I wonder who it could have—” She stopped, eyes huge. “Not—”
“Yes,” said King quickly. “Yes. But it was a long time ago, and he did nothing to be ashamed of. He simply cared for a w
oman who turned out not to have deserved it.”
“God, that’s so sad.”
He helped her rip open the package. They both sat staring at the object.
It was the painting of Michelle in the ball gown that Eddie had done.
King looked at her and then at the painting but said nothing. They paid their bill and left. Before they got in the car, Michelle threw the painting in the diner’s Dumpster.
“Ready to go home?” King asked as she climbed in the driver’s seat.
“Oh, yeah.”
Michelle punched the gas, and they drove off in a swirl of dust.
Acknowledgments
To Michelle, it’s hard to believe, novel number ten and counting. I wouldn’t have wanted to share the ride with anyone else.
To Rick Horgan, for helping me see the forest and the trees when I really need to.
To Maureen, Jamie and Larry, for all you do, and for being such terrific friends.
To Tina Andreadis, for being a dear friend and a major reason why the public knows who I am.
To the rest of the Warner Books crew for all your hard work and support. I know the books don’t sell themselves.
To Aaron Priest, for always being there for me.
To Lucy Childs and Lisa Erbach Vance, for all that you do.
To Maria Rejt, for your thoughtful editorial comments.
To Dr. Monica Smiddy, for all your forensics wizardry. You’d make a great teacher.
To Dr. Marcella Fierro, for patiently answering all of my questions and giving me a behind-the-scenes look at the medical examiner’s office in Richmond.
To Dr. Catherine Broome, for making this author seem far more knowledgeable about medical matters than I actually am.
To Bob Schule, my resident wine expert, stellar proofreader and great friend.
To Dr. Alli Guleria and her husband, Dr. Anshu Guleria, for helping me on medical matters, for allowing me to borrow your really cool cars for the story and for being such wonderful friends. Consultants are great, aren’t they?
To Jennifer Steinberg, for all your excellent research. I haven’t stumped you yet, but I’ll keep trying.
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