“Vince Vega,” Fox said, as Kostakis took another photo out of the folder and laced Vega’s mugshot in the suspect column.
“It gets more interesting when you check out the list of suspects for the other two crime scenes,” said Jordache. “In each case, the victim of the later homicide was a suspect for the earlier one.” Jordache stopped his pacing and slapped his palm against the whiteboard. “The pattern’s pretty clear.”
“It seems we’ve got a vigilante on some kind of divine mission,” Kostakis said, holding up a photo of one of the marker pen messages. “He sees himself as an avenging angel meting out justice to the demons in the world.”
“But why now?” said Allen, stroking his goatee “These are old crimes. And why the connection to Jane Doe?”
“Perhaps she’s his inspiration — and the trigger,” said Fox. “He reads her story plastered all over the press, sees her as this avenging angel stepping into hell to save those girls from the Russian traffickers and becomes obsessed with her. He thinks he knows her and wants to match her deeds so he targets the suspects of similar unsolved crimes: rape-homicides.”
“That would explain why he drugged the cop last night but didn’t kill him,” said Kostakis, nodding.
“The killer doesn’t actually know Jane Doe?” Jordache said. “He knows her image in the press but not her?”
“It looks that way,” said Fox.
“What did he want with her last night and the night before?” said Kostakis.
“I’m not sure,” said Fox. “But we have to assume he’s dangerous. Obsession can flip from love to hate in an instant for no rational reason.”
Jordache frowned. “If his kills are virtual duplicates of the earlier crimes, how did he find out about the prior murders? How did he know the details of the victims, the MO of the crimes and the prime suspects?”
Allen tapped the pile of manila folders on the table. “He’s got to have access to files like these.”
“A lot of this stuff’s available on the web if you know where to look,” said Kostakis, “but it’s more likely he had some inside knowledge. Which probably means he is or was involved with law enforcement or journalism. In the past he may even have known one or all of the earlier victims, and had dealings with Vince Vega or Kovacs or Paz. We could start with journalists and PIs who fit the physical description we got.”
“We’ve got to be careful with this, Phil,” said Jordache. “If we’re right, then we’ve got to include serving police officers and ex-cops as suspects, especially those in homicide and vice.” He turned to Fox. “What do you think, Nathan? You think this stacks up? You think the profile makes sense?”
Fox nodded cautiously. Given the little they knew, it made as much sense as anything else. “There probably is no real connection between the killer and Jane Doe. And since the suspect had to have access to details of the past murders, it’s a good idea to focus on journalists and law enforcement professionals. I’d also include administrative staff and third parties involved in processing crime pictures and managing files. It might be worth spotlighting men what a past grievance or trauma which could have fueled a need for violent justice and revenge.”
Fox’s phone rang and he grabbed it from his pocket, concerned it might be from Samantha or Jane Doe. “Excuse me, Karl, I’d better get this.” He picked up. “Fox.”
“Dr. Fox, it’s Professor Fullelove. You need to come back immediately.” She sounded unusually breathless and excited.”
“Why? What’s happened, Professor?”
When she told him, he sat back in his chair and let the news sink in for a moment. “I’ll be right over.” He put the phone back in his pocket and stood up. “Sorry, Karl, but I’ve got to go.”
“What’s up?” said Jordache. “Is there a problem?”
“Not a problem.”
“What then?”
“We’ve got a walk-in at the clinic asking about Jane Doe. He says he knows her. Says he knows who Jane Doe is.”
Chapter 27
When Fox got back to the clinic he saw two police cars from the increased security detail parked in the driveway. After last night’s incident Jane Doe had felt so guilty about endangering Samantha she had insisted on returning to Tranquil Waters. Fox drove to the staff parking lot and entered the clinic by the side entrance. He found Professor Fullelove hovering by his office. He had never seen her look so flustered.
“He’s in reception,” she said without any preamble. “He wants no media coverage and won’t give his name or say anything until he talks to Jane Doe’s doctor and the person in charge here. We can interview him in one of the conference rooms. I suggest we only inform her once we’ve checked him out.”
“Fine. I’ll get her updated medical file.” He had already briefed Fullelove on Jane Doe’s total synaesthesia, explaining that it — rather than psychosis — was responsible for her hallucinations. He had, however, omitted any mention of her death-echo synaesthesia. Jane had insisted that that was kept strictly off the record.
“Does her file contain any identifying features not released to the media?”
He reached for the folder in the cabinet by his desk. “Yep. She has a birthmark on her left scapula.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He felt a surge of excitement that the mystery of Jane Doe’s identity was about to be solved. He had so many questions to ask about her background, especially how it might explain her unique synaesthesia. As they approached the reception he noticed Professor Fullelove smooth her skirt, adjust her hair and slow her usual brisk walk to a hip-swaying stroll. A young nurse walked past and did exactly the same. Both performed these unconscious subtle gestures immediately they spied the stranger standing by the reception desk. Fox saw others whispering and throwing glances at the visitor. The object of their attention radiated a still calm, apparently oblivious to the excitement rippling around him.
Sexual charisma, from the Greek kharisma, meaning ‘gift from God’, is an elusive and indefinable thing. One of Nathan Fox’s colleagues at Stanford had once attempted the impossible task of defining it for his PhD thesis. He had interviewed scores of high-profile movie stars, politicians and successful businesspeople but discovered that although all had seemed attractive, magnetic and charming, less than a handful had possessed genuine charisma in person. The rest were so disappointing he had abandoned his PhD. “Essentially, charisma’s as rare as genius,” he’d concluded. “You’ve either got it or you ain’t. And if you gotta ask, then you ain’t got it.”
Although he was probably in his fifties and his face was too craggy to be conventionally handsome, the visitor clearly had whatever that elusive quality was. Dressed in black trousers, white collarless shirt and a long blue linen jacket, the man was about six feet tall, a few inches shorter than Fox, and lean, with a light tan, piercing blue-green eyes and striking cheekbones. His shoulder-length silver-gray hair was as thick and sleek as an animal’s pelt. As he directed his smile at Fullelove and shook her hand the redoubtable professor almost blushed. When he extended his hand and turned those piercing eyes on him, even Fox felt his power. “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Fox.” He spoke quietly with the timbre of someone who is accustomed to being heard — and obeyed — without raising his voice.
“Our primary concern is Jane Doe’s welfare,” Professor Fullelove said after they had settled in the conference room. “She has no memory of anything or anybody and we need to determine you’re genuine.”
“I understand,” the man said softly.
“What’s your name?” Fox asked.
“Regan Delaney.”
“You have any identification?”
Fox saw the muscles clench in the man’s jaw. He was clearly unaccustomed to having his word questioned. “It’s complicated. I’ve lived off the grid for some years and I doubt any government agency has any recent record of me.” He smiled so disarmingly that Fox found himself smiling with him. “My birth family were horse breeders in northern Califo
rnia but that was many years ago, before I founded our settlement here in Oregon. My people live in the wilderness, away from the corruptions of the cities. We make no apology for avoiding the intrusions of the modern world — or the attentions of the government. We’re self-sufficient, keep ourselves to ourselves and cause no harm to others. All we ask is that the rest of the world shows us the same consideration.”
“What sort of settlement is it?” asked Fullelove.
The man reached for an amulet hanging from his neck by a silver cord. It appeared to have been fashioned from a single piece of stone in the shape of an ankh: an ancient cross topped with an oval loop instead of a vertical bar. The loop was filled with a large amethyst. “We are a religious community.”
Fox found himself staring at the amulet, remembering a muscled forearm and the tattoo of a cobra coiled around a similar strange-shaped cross. His collar felt suddenly tight and he was aware of beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You’re a cult?” he said.
Delaney smiled. “That’s such an emotive term, Dr. Fox. You know what they say: if you believe in it, it’s a religion; if you don’t, it’s a sect; if you fear or hate it, it’s a cult. We prefer to see ourselves as a family.”
That didn’t reassure Fox. Charles Manson had called his cult the Family and that hadn’t ended well. He thought of his parents and sister and the two cult members who had killed them, and of the patients he had treated because of their damaging involvement with cults, and he immediately disliked and distrusted Regan Delaney. He tried, however, to remain objective. Her being a cult member helped explain the enigma of Jane Doe: why she appeared on no database and why, despite the media coverage, it had taken so long for her people to find her.
“Can you please tell us some more about your religious community?” said Fullelove. “To help us understand and protect our patient we need to discover as much as we can about her background, especially if you intend to return her to a cult. What’s the name of your community?”
“If you think it’s important, we call ourselves the Indigo Family.”
“What are your beliefs?” asked Fullelove.
A shrug. “It’s difficult to explain personal beliefs without exposing them to ridicule. Suffice it to say we’re concerned with seeing beyond the material constraints of the human world, with harnessing and harmonizing our physical and psychic senses to glimpse the spiritual realm. We seek to be at one with the universe by going beyond the human to experience the divine.”
Fox listened but made no comment. Delaney’s mystic nonsense fitted the formula for most New Age cults: cherry-pick the appealing aspects of Eastern religion, apply some Western concepts, add a dash of magic, then stir. His skepticism was tempered by his knowledge of Jane Doe’s death-echo synaesthesia. “How did you find out Jane Doe was here?”
Delaney placed his hands on the table and clasped them in front of him. “I venture into what you call civilization from time to time. I saw the news reports.”
“Can you prove you know her?” said Professor Fullelove. “Are you aware of any identifying features?”
A nod. “She has a birthmark on her back, on her left shoulder blade.”
Fullelove reached for Jane Doe’s medical file but Fox already knew the answer. “She does have a mark on her left scapula,” Fox said. “Anything else you can tell us about her?”
“She has the mothú.”
“The what?” said Fullelove.
“The mothú. The sense. The third eye.”
“I’m still not following you,” Fullelove said.
“You probably prefer to call it synaesthesia.”
“Are you aware that she has total synaesthesia, Mr. Delaney?” said Fox. “This is incredibly rare, probably unique.”
“The mothú in all its forms is an uncommon and misunderstood gift,” Delaney said matter-of-factly. He stared at Fox. “But then you must know that, Dr. Fox. I see you have it, too.”
Fullelove’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“He has an indigo aura. It’s obvious. To me, at least.”
It was Fox’s turn to scrutinize the visitor. He burned to ask him about Jane Doe’s death-echo synaesthesia. “Anything you can tell us about my patient’s unique synaesthesia could prove beneficial…”
“Beneficial to who, Dr. Fox?” countered Delaney with a half-smile. “To her? Or to you and your research?”
Fox frowned but kept his voice even. “To her, of course. Particularly in understanding her hallucinations.”
For the first time Delaney paused. “Hallucinations?”
“Yes. Dr. Fox is helping her gain some detachment and manage her fear,” said Fullelove.
“We’ll help her back at the settlement,” said Delaney. “My people can clear her chakras and—”
“Her chakras?” interrupted Fox. “Jane Doe needs proper treatment.”
Delaney laughed. “Psychiatry is no more proper or effective than the ancient medicine we use. Chakras have been around for thousands of years. Psychiatry is in its infancy. You psychiatrists can't even fully explain how most of your new miracle drugs work.”
“You can’t compare—”
“Is she physically recovered?”
“Yes,” said Fox.
“Is she mentally sound, apart from her memory loss?”
“I believe so, but—”
“Can you cure her amnesia, Dr. Fox?”
“Not directly, no, but we can help treat it. If you tell us why you think she went missing we might uncover the stresses that triggered her fugue state. Something apparently frightened her. Do you know what it might have been? Do you know why she might have been trying to escape the cult?”
Delaney shook his head. “She wasn’t escaping anything. She’s no longer a child and, like all my people, she’s free to come and go as she pleases.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m the reason she left.”
“Why?”
“She’d say I neglected her, didn’t pay her the attention she thought she deserved. So she ran away, hoping I’d come after her.” He sighed. “So here I am. It’s hard to be a good parent, sometimes, especially when everyone regards you as their father.”
“You regard yourself as her parent because you’re the father of the cult?” said Fullelove. “the father of the Indigo Family?”
“Yes. But I’m also her blood father. She’s my daughter.”
Fox scoured his face for a likeness. The graying Delaney had once been dark but Jane Doe was fair. “Would you be prepared to take a DNA test?” he asked.
“Is that necessary, Professor?” the visitor asked, turning the full beam of his charm on Fullelove. She blinked and then turned to Fox. From her doe-eyed expression it was obvious she didn’t doubt the man’s sincerity. Fox felt differently.
“Professor, my patient’s making good progress but she’s still very vulnerable,” said Fox. “Without documentation I feel a paternity test is crucial.” He turned back to Delaney. “Even if the test is positive she still has to agree to see you. She has full-blown retrograde amnesia with no recollection of her past life so it’s extremely unlikely she’ll know who you are.”
Delaney’s jaw clenched again, but the smile didn’t waver. “Give me any test you think necessary. Just let me see my daughter.”
Chapter 28
After taking a saliva swab from Delaney’s mouth, Fox escorted the visitor back to reception. On the way, he made a detour past the room in which Jane Doe had sensed the two suicides on the first day. It was still unoccupied so he opened the door and led Delaney inside. “This is the kind of room Jane Doe’s in now.”
“I don’t doubt the standard of care here, Dr. Fox. I just want to see my daughter.” As Delaney stepped through the doorway and looked around the room, Fox watched him closely. Delaney peered into the adjoining private bathroom and, as his hands brushed the walls, Fox thought he saw Delaney momentarily narrow his eyes. Then the moment passed. If the man possessed the same death
-echo synaesthesia as the women he claimed as his daughter, then it didn’t affect him in the same way. He certainly didn’t seem frightened of it. Fox waited a moment longer then escorted him back to reception.
After taking Delaney’s cell phone number and arranging to call when the results of the paternity test came through in a few hours, Fox returned to his office. As he sat at his desk he tried to forget about Jane Doe and concentrate on the other case files piled up in front of him. Assuming the results came back positive, he would alert Jane Doe that her father had arrived and, depending on what she decided to do, she could soon be out of his life. No longer his patient. No longer his concern.
Simple.
Except it wasn’t simple. Jane Doe was unlike any other patient he had ever treated; he couldn’t just let her go. He still had too many unanswered questions. Not just about her symptoms and death-echo synaesthesia but also about Delaney, his cult and the details of what had caused Jane Doe to run away.
Sitting at his computer, Fox Googled one of the terms Delaney had used to describe synaesthesia: mothú. He discovered that it was an Irish Celtic noun meaning ‘sense’. What else had he called it? The third eye. Fox had heard the expression before, through his karate sensei, and understood vaguely that it was an Eastern term for second sight or the sixth sense. The definition he found on the web was fuller:
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