by B. V. Lawson
She worried no one in the noisy bar would hear her cries, but a couple of guys heading to the john rushed outside to help her up. She was angry she hadn’t got a good look at the man or the car. At least she’d focused on the car’s engine so she might be able to identify it later.
As much as she hoped it was a random attack, she couldn’t shake the chills up and down her spine. Was she followed here, to the bar? Followed, with someone waiting for the right moment to kidnap her? Feeling like she was five years old, she pulled the cellphone out of the zipper bag anchored to her waist and called her father.
PART THREE
All must submit to their appointed doom,
Fate and misfortune will too quickly come.
Let me no more with powerful charms be press’d
I am forbid by fate to tell the rest.
—From the song “Seek Not to Know,” poem by John Dryden
music by Henry Purcell
37
Tuesday, 28 October
Reed Upperman had his head propped in one hand when Drayco walked into the lab. If he was hung over from last night’s barhopping, he didn’t show it, unlike Gary. His face registered a slide show of emotions—embarrassment, guilt, curiosity, fear. He raised his head a few inches. “Beer’s truth serum to Gary. He shouldn’t have told you.”
“The police don’t take lying very well. Makes you look guilty.”
“By the time they’re through grilling me, won’t have to worry whether my dissertation is back on or not. Bye-bye teaching career.”
Reed limped over to the wall and lifted his arm as if to rip the synesthesia project chart off. Drayco said, “If you need another subject, I’ve got a few evenings open.”
Reed’s hand paused in mid-air, and he slowly swung around. “I could use a sound-color-texture synesthete. It’s a less common type.” Reed limped back to a chair and eased himself into it. “Sounds as if you don’t think I’m going to be arrested soon.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Dr. Gilbow told me the murder cases were closed. And the FBI thinks Shannon was behind it all.”
Drayco wanted to say yes, more than at any other time in the case, after Sarg had filled him in with details on Tara’s attack. When Sarg called him from Quantico this morning, he’d passed along the news Onweller was shrugging the attack off as a random incident. Judging from his former partner’s tone of voice, his arteries must be squeezing hard to keep his blood from boiling out.
Drayco replied to Reed, “I’m tying up some loose ends.”
Reed pulled a form out of a drawer and handed it to Drayco. “You’ll need to fill this out first.”
Drayco pulled up a chair and grabbed a pen. He filled in the bio and contact details, signed the legal mumbo-jumbo and handed the form back. “Have you discussed your bisexuality with your wife?”
Reed grabbed a lychee from the bowl on his desk and popped it in his mouth. Juice ran down his chin, smelling like a cross between roses and grapes. “Our marriage has been foundering for years. The standard got-married-too-young scenario. Then came the kids, so we’ve stuck it out. And I’m not sure if I’m bi or gay. Either way, if my wife gets wind of it, she’ll initiate a divorce and try to keep me from seeing the kids.”
“I know a good attorney. He owes me a favor or two.” Drayco pointed to a printout next to Reed’s computer. “Is that the info I called you about earlier?”
Reed picked it up and offered it to him. “After you wanted to know of other recent synesthesia projects, I checked ProQuest and found a couple of studies, one two years ago, the other three.”
Drayco scanned the printout. “Cambridge College in Boston, and Temple University in Philly.” He pointed to names under each. “Are these the participants?”
Reed nodded. “I called the two guys behind the studies. They were grad students at that time, of course. They’re profs now.”
“And they gave you the names of the students involved in their projects, just like that?”
“I’d never do it, even for a colleague. And not only because of HIPAA regs. But one of the study authors has tenure, and the other didn’t care. I did tell them it was for the FBI, so maybe that did the trick. Not sure what that says about psychology or psychologists in general.”
Drayco pointed to Reed’s computer. “You have Web connectivity on that?”
“Naturally. Why?”
“Mind if I borrow it?”
Reed moved over to another chair and let Drayco park himself in front of the keyboard. Parkhurst money notwithstanding, the seat Reed vacated was as comfortable as a concrete bench. Drayco called up a couple of databases he had access to. After finding a hit, he printed the relevant pages and next logged in to NewsLibrary and printed out a few more pages.
Reed rescued the papers from the printer in the back of the room and brought them to Drayco. He waited for a few moments as Drayco scanned the documents, then asked, “So … what did you find?”
“I double-checked the students’ names against Boston and Philadelphia police and newspaper reports dating to the time of the studies.”
“Something good? Or I guess I should say, bad?”
“I would call murder bad, yes. One student from each of the two synesthesia projects was murdered in what was called a ‘ritualistic’ fashion involving a knife similar to the one used on Cailan and Shannon. Do you have alibis for those two dates?” Drayco let him read the accounts.
Reed grimaced. “The first one, three years ago, I was in the hospital with my wife as she gave birth to our second child.” He hesitated. “The second date, I’d have to look up.”
“I’m not sure that will be necessary.”
“You don’t think I’m guilty?”
Drayco smiled at him briefly. “I never did.”
Reed scratched his head. “And I’m the one who wants to be a police psychologist. So, how’d you rule me out? Maybe I can learn something, for future reference.”
“You fit the standard profile. Meaning you are too perfect. Then there’s your Legg-Calve-Perthes disease, leaving you with a limp. And your glasses—fairly thick, somewhere around minus 30D?”
“Close. Try minus 40D.”
“Glasses that thick are prescribed for severe myopics. Myopics have to avoid rough physical activity that could cause retinal detachment. Plus, night vision is a problem. How would you have carried Cailan and Shannon into Kenilworth?”
“An accomplice?”
Drayco didn’t want to give out details about Tara’s ordeal and hearing heavy footsteps in the alley. Not limping steps, like Reed’s. And Reed’s probable accomplice, Gary, stood around five feet ten and might weigh one-sixty dripping wet. “All right, I’ll give you the accomplice part.”
Behind those thick glasses, Reed’s eyes widened. “They’ll think that, won’t they? Oh, God.”
Drayco tapped his finger on his newly filled out form lying on the lab tabletop. “Put me in the computer. I think I’ll be free next week.”
Reed glanced at the form, then up at Drayco, and for the first time this morning, his face registered hope.
38
“You must be psychic,” weren’t the words Drayco expected from Andrew Gilbow when he cornered the man in his office. The psychologist added, “I was picking up the phone to call you.”
“Then this is your lucky day.”
“Walk with me,” was more of a “heel” command, as Gilbow headed toward the door and didn’t look back to see if Drayco followed.
They passed a small group of students who smiled and greeted Gilbow, although he headed off their questions. He guided Drayco out of the psych building, along a gray flagstone path, and into the gated open-air courtyard of an Italianate building. The sign on the gate read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL, and the entry into the building from the courtyard was by keycard. No student hang-out this, but an administration fortress.
Gilbow gestured toward one of the tables for Drayco to sit and pulled out a piece of pap
er from his pocket, which he handed over. “I received this yesterday.”
It was familiar and different at the same time. Somewhat similar to the music codes Cailan and Shannon received, but written as a one-page song with words underneath the staves. The text read, “Thou shall see the glory / death is swallowed up in victory.”
Drayco used a handkerchief to flip the note over and check the back. It was blank. “Was this mailed or slipped under the door?”
Gilbow pulled the folded-up envelope out of his pocket and pushed it across the table. The envelope was the same type as the girls received. White, nine-by-twelve, a District postmark, no return address.
Drayco read the address. “This came to your home, not office.”
Gilbow said. “And no, I haven’t received any more. That’s the first and I hope the last. I’m inclined to think it’s a prank.”
“The ‘pranksters’ must know of the other notes, because it’s too coincidental.”
“It’s probably nothing. I was more stressed the day I opened the official letter telling me whether I’d gotten tenure or not.”
Drayco knew Gilbow was given an accelerated tenure track and the “official” part was a mere formality. But he let Gilbow have his brief moment of insincere humility. “Have you noticed anything else unusual? That makes this seem more than a prank?”
Gilbow hesitated, then uttered a little laugh. “As you witnessed, I’m often accosted by students to chat, argue a grade, discuss a paper. But the other day I had the strangest feeling I was followed. More your line of work. Unless it was you doing the tailing.”
“If I’m doing the tailing and you notice, I’m not doing it right. Did you mention this to Jerry Onweller?”
Gilbow shook his head. “Besides, everything’s wrapped up on that case, isn’t it? Which would make this,” he poked a finger at the letter on the table, “most definitely a prank. It does beg the question of why you came to see me.”
Drayco took a deep breath and got a lungful of cedar-mulch air. No manure compost at Parkhurst. “Onweller is wrong. Shannon Krugh is not a murderer, nor did she commit suicide. New evidence has come to light suggesting their deaths might not be the first two.”
“Onweller said nothing about that.”
“As I mentioned, it’s new information. I’m disobeying Onweller’s orders by even discussing this with you.”
Gilbow rested his elbows on the small table, putting him a foot away from Drayco’s face, which he scanned over the rim of his glasses. “When I first met you at that trial, I saw a rare spark. You conveyed integrity through your body language, and that was the moment I was certain we would lose the case.”
Gilbow surprised Drayco again, as he said, “Jerry Onweller can be pigheaded. I tried to tell him Shannon Krugh couldn’t be responsible, but he wouldn’t listen. If he’s pushed you off the case, he’s a bigger fool than I imagined.”
The psychology professor continued to study Drayco as he would a lab rat. “You have your flaws. There’s too much boy scout in you, living in a legal black-and-white world. In order to succeed in life, you have to see the world as it is—not shades of gray, but silver. Silver that leads to gold. Frankly, I think you’re afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“Of crossing that line in the sand. Being pushed to do something you fear will pull you away from your moral code.”
Drayco drummed his fingers on the table, realized he was doing it, and stopped. “Moral codes are emotional fingerprints. Unique to each of the billions of people on this planet. Unlike fingerprints, they change, morph into something different, over seconds, days, years. It wasn’t fear that led me to leave the Bureau.”
“Wasn’t it? Not personal fear, no. You’re the white-knight kind. More a fear you won’t be able to do the right thing at a crucial moment.”
From behind Drayco, a nearly colorless voice like crinkled tinfoil said, “Just the man I was looking for. I heard they scheduled you on the Today Show later this month, Andrew. Couldn’t be more thrilled. You will, of course, put in the usual plugs for Parkhurst.” The voice laughed. Drayco turned to gauge the new arrival, who pulled out a tiny paper pillow filled with tobacco from a can marked peppermint chewing tobacco and popped it into his mouth.
“Is this one of your students, Andrew? A grad student?”
“This is Dr. Scott Drayco, George, the FBI consultant Jerry Onweller hired.” Gilbow nodded at Drayco, “And this is George Thackeray, President of Parkhurst College.”
“Well, Dr. Drayco, it’s good to finally meet you. I’m so pleased with the way Jerry handled this whole mess. I’m sure you agree.”
“No, I don’t agree. He was wrong and so are you.”
Gilbow’s shocked expression was nothing compared to the look on Thackeray’s face as he replied, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”
“Trying to sweep the murders of two girls under the rug in hopes of avoiding a scandal and appeasing wealthy donors and parents, for one. It was wrong not to have warned all the other students, particularly those involved with Reed Upperman’s dissertation project. Shannon Krugh paid the price for it.”
Thackeray gripped the tobacco tin in his hand. “Jerry Onweller told me your services were terminated. Which means you’re not here in an official capacity and therefore trespassing on my campus. I’m within my rights to call security and have you thrown off.”
Gilbow spoke in slow, soothing tones. “Come now, George, you’ve got a very busy schedule today. Isn’t that meeting with the trustees coming up in an hour or so? Let me handle this. You go concentrate on your presentation.”
Thackeray glared at Drayco and thrust the Snus can into his pants pocket. “All right, Andrew. I trust your discretion. But if he gives you any trouble … ”
“Of course.” Gilbow smiled at Thackeray. “And I promise to mention Parkhurst twice on the Today Show. More if they’ll let me get away with it.”
Thackeray swiped his keycard and stomped into the building.
The professor tilted his head. “If you wanted to use Thackeray as bait to agitate the waters around Onweller, you succeeded. So what now?”
“I think a trip to the Eastern Shore is in order.”
“You’re dropping this case for real?”
“Shannon Krugh grew up on the shore, and her parents have a place in Maxateague. I want to talk with them.”
“Is that wise? Mental illness is often inherited. Miss Krugh’s parents might not be reliable.”
“Or they can shed more light on her condition. I’m willing to take the chance.”
Gilbow squinted at a crow squawking at them from a railing. “You said more deaths might be connected to Cailan and Miss Krugh. Did those take place on the coast?”
“Boston and Philadelphia. I’d like to work that angle, but I’m more interested in preventing further deaths in the here and now.”
“I haven’t worked a serial killer case since Donald Wayne Grear a decade ago. You mentioned Reed’s project as a focal point?”
“In three out of four murders, the murderer and victim know each other. And these murders contain hallmarks of ritualistic killing for a purpose.”
“A Satanism cult? That would indicate a younger white male, one with low self-esteem who feels alienated and powerless and wants magical power over his destiny.”
“Satanist cults these days are more likely to choose religious victims than ones with synesthesia.”
“Unless they believe the synesthesia is a gateway for Satan, I suppose. You must be thinking Miss Krugh or her parents were involved in something along those lines. That would be a most interesting interview. I’d like to go with you, Drayco. I offer you my services and I’ll throw them in gratis since Cailan was my goddaughter. When are you driving over?”
“Driving? That takes five hours in good traffic. Flying is much faster.”
Gilbow turned a shade paler. “Flying?”
“I’ll rent a plane and fly over to Salisbury or
Accomack. An hour and fifteen each way, depending upon winds. I can be there and back in half a day.”
“Well, uh, yes, I see that would be faster. A small plane, I take it?”
“A Cessna 172. One of the FBI pilots got me hooked on flying years ago. Don’t tell me the vaunted psychologist has aviophobia?”
Gilbow cleared his throat. “I’m sure it will be fine. If my schedule allows it. There is the Today Show to prepare for.”
“Naturally.” Drayco picked up the letter and envelope. “Can I keep these?”
“Certainly.”
“And you’ll let me know if you receive any others or spot someone tailing you?”
“And if Jerry Onweller gives you too much trouble, I’ll return the favor and speak with him on your behalf.”
Drayco wasn’t keen on the idea of Gilbow or anyone else running interference for him with Onweller. He waved the hand holding the letter and said, “Keep me in the loop with these.” He left the courtyard through the gate and obliged Thackeray by throwing himself off campus.
39
The smoldering shell of the building was a mosaic of blackened brick, charred wood and twisted metal, like a sculpture created by an artist on meth. Drayco dodged the fire trucks and ATF vehicles and waved to ATF agent Carlos Desenza, as a familiar twang called from behind.
Sarg said, “You know somebody in every squad and alphabet soup department, don’t you? Makes a guy feel cheated on.”
“I never tip back Sam Adams with anyone else, I swear. As toasty as this smoldering heap is right now, a cold Sammy is sounding pretty good.”
“It’ll be eons before I get away.”
“How many warehouse fires does this make?”
“Four. Senator Bankton would hit the roof if he still had one. And naturally, he expects us to drop everything else to take care of his little boo-boo.”