“P. mot.” wasn’t standard for anything, but Abbie guessed it meant “possible motive.” SecLD would be “Second Lead Detective.” Abbie looked behind Sandy Riesen’s manila folder but the space was empty. She frowned, and paged through the folder to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, then sighed and was about to stash the entire case file next to her on the bench seat when she noticed something about the manila folder that held all the papers. Abbie brought it closer to the cabin light that shone dully above her.
There, at the top of the folder, was a thin loop imprinted on the thick paper. Abbie traced the shape. It was the outline of a paper clip, even a little mark where the metal had begun to rust and left a trace behind.
Something had been clipped here. But folder 3CW was gone.
7
The van slowed and pulled up to a checkpoint, thrown up in the middle of one of the tiny two-block mill towns that were strung from Buffalo to Syracuse like faded charms on a bracelet. The roadblock was three white barriers with orange striping across the road, plus men in gray with shotguns and rifles.
Soon they were moving again.
Each murder would have gotten progressively harder to pull off, Abbie thought. Teenage girls would have vanished off the sidewalks of Buffalo, kept inside by their parents, and on those rare occasions they were let out to visit a friend or go to church, they would have had escorts. A father. An uncle or older brother. But, still, as rare in public as a four-leaf clover.
Sandy Riesen was next. The famous missing girl, the last of Hangman’s victims—and his own cousin. Her body was never found. Hangman had called her the day of her disappearance from his cell phone, and she’d slipped out of the back door of her family home. Hangman had picked her up a few minutes later on a street corner three blocks away. The reason for their meeting had never been revealed.
With the state of panic the city was in, Sandy’s father had immediately noted her disappearance and called her in as a missing person. The license plate of Flynn’s car had been put out as a “Be On the Lookout,” and the car was spotted by a driver on 20A three hours later, pulling into the twelve-room Warsaw Motel. When cops arrived, Hangman was sprawled diagonally across the full-size bed, a wound to his right temple pumping out a thin stream of blood onto a pale green polyester comforter. Flynn was alive, gasping out quick breaths, but unable to speak. Nitrocellulose and other traces of gunshot residue—in popular CSI terms, “powder burns”—were found around the entrance hole. It was determined that the right-handed Flynn had shot himself once with an unregistered SIG Sauer.
The girl’s black nylon jacket, a size 6 from Banana Republic, was tossed casually on the bed, as if she’d stepped out to buy a soda at the vending machine. Her scarf was in the suspect’s BMW, underneath the passenger seat. In the file, there were pictures of the two items of clothing, along with a close-up shot of one of Sandy’s school photos. The detail that had been blown up for the picture was a gold signet ring with an S written in a jagged medieval script, on the ring finger of her right hand. The next was an emerald ring, big stone. They were the only two pieces of jewelry Sandy had been wearing when she disappeared. Both were still missing. Along with Sandy.
Abbie stared out into the trees whipping by.
She flipped back through the witness testimonies from the early cases. No one had seen anything until the third murder: a six-year-old boy had spotted a man walking out of the field where Maggie Myeong had been found. She found the original interview transcript. “His face was all red. The man’s head was covered in red.”
The call went out to the public: Look for a man in a red mask. But it was the killer’s method of execution, not his mask, that haunted Buffalo. That’s what led locals to give him his name: Hangman.
“Five minutes till Auburn,” the driver called to her.
She flipped to the beginning of the file, looking for Detective Raymond’s number, then called him on her cell.
“What you got?” he said.
“Nothing yet, but I need a few things.”
“Shoot.”
“Find out if any cars were ticketed within half a mile of the escape site either early today or late last night. Any reports of cars idling by the road? Any nonlocals in the coffee shops or diners that morning, looking nervous?”
“You think there was a vehicle waiting for Hangman?” Raymond said.
“Maybe.”
Raymond whistled. “What else?”
“It’s going to sound crazy. But have uniforms check with the costume stores, toy stores, anything that sells outfits. Ask if they carry any kind of Halloween outfit with a red mask and if they sold any in the last week; even red ski masks. Maybe Hangman has an accomplice who got him one before he escaped. Most stores itemize purchases now with a description, so there should be some kind of database. Assuming he picks up where he left off, I don’t think Hangman kills without a mask. He’s meticulous, ritualized. If there are any sales, see if there’s a credit card trail with a name on it.”
“That is the definition of a long shot.”
“They all are at this point,” said Abbie.
“Who are you going to talk to first?”
“The person who knew him best up here. Hangman’s shrink.”
8
Dr. Andy Lipschitz looked like an unkempt bear, a bear raised in captivity that had forgotten how to hunt. He was tall, six feet at least, with lank brown hair and warm blue eyes behind his rimless glasses, a fuzz of reddish three-day beard. He was wearing a lab coat with a black nameplate that read “Lipschitz” and he smiled at her as he entered his office.
“Detective Kearney,” he said, tossing a file down onto his desk. “They told me you were here.”
Lipschitz’s office in the Auburn Correctional Facility was homey and unusually warm. There were two diplomas on the wall, the second one crooked and cheaply framed, a metal desk meticulously neat, with three stacks of papers, a stuffed red bear hanging from the lamp, and a framed photo of a dark-eyed young woman along with others picturing what Abbie assumed were other members of Lipschitz’s family. Abbie had taken her coat off when she entered and she was thinking of taking off her black blazer as well. The entire prison seemed to be fed by some enormous boiler that wouldn’t stop pumping up heat.
Abbie stood up and Lipschitz took her hand for a languid shake. “I’m sure you’ve spoken to a few investigators, but I need ten minutes of your time,” she said.
“They haven’t asked me much,” he growled, sitting in a chair and leaning back. “This is a fox hunt. They’re not interested in what was on Marcus’s mind.”
“I am.”
“Any particular reason? Hold on, did I offer you coffee?”
“No, you didn’t but I’m fine.”
Lipschitz nodded. Abbie thought he came across as an overgrown college student, but there was a sharpness behind all the slovenly bumbling.
“Now why do you need to know about all this?” he asked.
“I’m Plan B,” Abbie said, smiling. “For that one-in-a-million chance that Flynn makes it through the perimeter. We might need to know what his thinking is.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Lipschitz said, tilting his eyes away and studying her. “But I’m not sure that I know what his thinking is. He still had some impairment.”
“Can you tell me about his progress? Where was he?”
Lipschitz’s eyebrows shot up, and he steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Well,” he said abruptly, like a professor giving his assessment of a paper. “We’re talking about brain function? I don’t know how much you know about his original injury but it was significant. The bullet came in here.” Lipschitz took one of his meaty fingers and pointed it above his left eye. “Impacted but didn’t destroy the entorhinal cortex, parts of the temporal lobe, and the parietal lobe. He didn’t talk for six months and then he had to relearn basic things. Eating, walking, how to function in the bathroom. But within two years, that all came back. Other things didn
’t. He still can’t taste anything; the receptors were too damaged, putting it crudely. He can’t do a crossword puzzle. And his memory is often hit-and-miss.”
“Does he remember the killings?”
Lipschitz’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Ah, the question of all questions. Yes and no.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The thing is, Marcus Flynn is still my patient. Whether he’s inside these walls or running around outside, that hasn’t changed.”
Abbie nodded. “We’re not adversaries here, Doctor. I’d like him to continue to be your patient, so we can learn as much about him as possible. I want to get Flynn back alive.”
There was a heaviness in Lipschitz’s expression, almost a sadness. He said nothing.
“Were your sessions with him taped?” she continued.
“Yes. But I can’t release any tapes or records without a formal request. New York State law. I can tell you there wasn’t anything in them about an escape or anything resembling that.”
Abbie nodded. “It can’t be easy, working in this atmosphere,” she said, taking her foot off the gas for a moment. “Did you choose to work in Corrections?”
He smiled. “What you mean, Detective Kearney, is did I fuck up or go to some podunk college so that this was the only job I could get?”
Abbie glanced over his shoulder. “I spotted the diploma. Cornell postgrad. You didn’t have to come here.”
“Damn right I didn’t have to come here.”
“So why did you?”
“Because half the week I do private practice in downtown Buffalo. The nice parts. And by the second year of that, I wanted to quit psychology once and for all. You get a lot of boyfriend talk, a lot of mother talk. Women—” He shrugged and laughed apologetically. “Some women feel they’re entitled to perfect lives and are just devastated when they don’t get them. Those are the ones who can afford me, so those are the ones I get.”
Abbie smiled. “So you came to where the bad people are.”
“Yes. I applied to Auburn specifically. I knew Marcus Flynn was here. I wanted to work with him. This place, I like to think of it as a sanctuary from … out there.”
What a fascinating thought, Abbie said to herself. Prison as a refuge from the real world. As if dealing with Hangman was better than dealing with some neurotic thirty-year-old lawyer in downtown Buffalo. “And did Flynn meet your expectations?”
Lipschitz frowned thoughtfully. “It’s a good question. He’s interesting enough. When you’re sitting with him, it’s almost like you’re watching pieces of his life come floating back into view. He had hallucinations, and it took time to separate out the real from the imagined memories, but there were times he’d have a kind of flashback. He was just starting to recover sensory information from the time of the murders. Piecemeal.”
Abbie felt her pulse bump up. “On which girl?” she said.
Lipschitz studied her. She had the feeling in the quiet of the room that he was sorting information, putting it in two piles. Some for release. Some not.
“Dr. Lipschitz,” Abbie said, leaning back. “I’ve heard the bloodhound teams in Wyoming County are the best in the state. Do you really want them catching Hangman? Or someone like me? Trust me, in this circumstance at least, I’m nicer.”
He didn’t answer. Finally, he let out a breath. “The last one,” he said.
“Sandy Riesen?”
“Yes.”
Abbie felt a tug of excitement. “What exactly did he remember?”
Lipschitz stood. “Excuse me,” he said.
Abbie wheeled her chair toward the door and Lipschitz went by her in the tiny office. He walked to a slim black filing cabinet in the corner, took a set of keys out of his pocket, found a small snag-toothed one, slipped it into the small stainless steel lock on the second drawer from the top, then slid it out. He flicked through a few files. Abbie’s eyes wandered over his desk, looking at the framed photos, the scattered files.
Finally he took out a manila folder and pushed the drawer shut. He walked back to his chair and pulled two sheets. “Marcus wanted to remember Sandy. Sandy was the one everyone talked about, the one the press focused on, because her body was never found. And, of course, he was related to her. The impression I got was that he was trying to remember her.”
He handed over the first sheet. “Eighteen months ago, he drew these and hung them on his cell wall.”
It was a series of small sketches of human heads. The drawings were roughly the size of apples. Done in a soft pencil, not a drawing pencil but something a little better than a number 2, with a broader point and softer lead. They weren’t half-bad. The shapes looked recognizably human, not a child’s moon-circles, but studies that showed skill and motor control. All of them had hair sketched in roughly. Long feathery hair swept off to the side. Some were slightly more detailed, more worked-over, with serious attention given to the shape of the face. The ovals had no features. It was eerie, faces without eyes and lips, not a smudge of human expression.
“Well, that’s creepy,” Abbie said.
“Creepy?” Lipschitz said, surprised. “I guess in this context.”
Yes, in this context, Abbie thought. A serial killer of girls drawing blank faces. I will hereby qualify that as creepy.
“I was just happy that he’d begun to look outward and reconnect with other humans, even on a pictorial level. When I first started working with him, his drawings were … inward. Demon eyes. Rage-scrawls, I call them.” Lipschitz paused. There was another sheet tilted in his hand, and he was looking down at it thoughtfully.
“What’s that?” she said.
“This?” Lipschitz handed the sheet across to her. “This was last week.”
Abbie took the paper. Just one face, taking up most of the center of the page, with an inch of white space on each side, and at the top and bottom margin. Much more detail here. The face had eyes, almond-shaped. A pert nose, flared at the end. And the hint of two full lips, drawn faintly, the top one shaded in, the bottom one just traced.
“The hair, the eyes, the shape of the face,” she said. “It’s Sandy.”
“Could be. The beginnings of her, anyway. And he drew her face normal size.”
“What’s the significance of that?”
“Well, it’s not a completely accepted interpretation, but the consensus is that the life-size face indicates he’s thinking of Sandy as fully human, on an equal level with him. He’s literally not minimizing her image.”
Just the eyes gone, Abbie thought. A human being slipping back into your memory, a human being that you killed. How did that feel?
“Did he talk about her a lot?” she asked.
“Yes. Sandy and his daughter.”
Abbie sat back. “I didn’t know he had one.”
“Oh, yeah. She’d be about nineteen now. Spent the last eight or nine years with the mother. Marcus has a lot of guilt about her, growing up without her daddy. Some anger, too. I gather his wife got full custody.”
“Apart from his memories, did Flynn have hallucinations?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me anything about them?” Abbie asked.
Lipschitz leaned back in the chair and it creaked under his weight.
“They were both visual and auditory. As I said, he saw faces. Not only of his victims. He visualized his own daughter, Nicole … hung. He was very upset about those instances, naturally. He hadn’t seen Nicole for years, but he began to dream about her death.”
“Do you think those fantasies of Nicole’s death were a way of atoning for his crimes?”
Lipschitz smirked. “That would be classically Freudian, I guess, but I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“What about the auditory hallucinations?”
“At night, he’d hear voices asking about Sandy. Where is the girl? What did you do with Sandy?”
Abbie shivered despite herself. “ ‘What did you do with her’?” she said. “Was Marcus a split persona
lity?”
Lipschitz clucked. “We haven’t used the term split personality in about two decades.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Did he have dissociative identity disorder? No, I don’t believe so. This was part biology, having to do with brain injury. But it could also be Marcus coming to terms with what he’d done. It was like a horror movie for him, a flash of gore. Each session, he’d describe more details. And the voices perhaps reflected his horror at what he’d done, as well as his efforts to remember it.”
“Were the hallucinations getting worse?”
“Well, more intense. His brain was healing, rewiring itself in certain ways. Things were coming back. But Marcus … Marcus is still a confused soul.”
“Did he have visitors?” Abbie asked.
Lipschitz smiled. “No one visited Marcus. He was the infamous Hangman, after all.”
“Groupies? Serial killers often have them.”
Lipschitz shrugged. “That you’d have to take up with admin. They monitored his mail. I wasn’t aware of any. But Marcus was … he was fragmented. He hid things from himself, let alone me.”
Something buzzed in Lipschitz’s pocket. He seemed grateful for the distraction.
“If you don’t mind.”
Abbie stood to leave. “I need to see Hangman’s cell.”
Lipschitz studied the screen of his iPhone. “Damn nuisance,” he said, placing the device on his desk. He looked up at Abbie. “Um, what did you say?”
“Hangman’s cell. I’d like to see it.”
“Why? They had a tac team sweep it already. They didn’t find a thing.”
“If you could humor me, I’d appreciate it.”
Lipschitz picked up his desk phone. “A guard has to bring you down.”
9
Abbie had to wait forty-five infuriating minutes for the new guard shift to come on. She spent the time checking Flynn’s prison file: he’d had no visitors in five years, not a single one. He’d gotten letters, apparently from wannabe groupies, but never answered them. He’d been largely cooperative and had been granted “basic earned privileges”—including the right to have pencil and paper in his cell.
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