Nest

by Terry Goodkind

  AJ let out a deep sigh and finally looked up. “It will take a bit of explaining.” The look of iron returned to her eyes. It was a look that Kate did not take lightly. “Like I told you, this is strictly confidential. I’m not kidding, Kate. This has to stay between you and me.”

  Kate didn’t know that she wanted to be bound by such terms without knowing the details, especially since it involved the death of her brother, but she decided not to voice her objections for the moment.

  “I’m listening.”

  AJ turned a little to the side and leafed through the satchel resting on the bench beside her. She finally pulled out a thick brown envelope. “I’d like you to look at some pictures.”

  Kate thought it an awfully strange change of subject, but she decided to see where the woman was going. “All right.”

  Detective Janek pulled out a deck of photos, drawing the rubber band off the stack and back onto her wrist. She picked a single picture off the top and placed it on the table without taking her gaze from Kate, as if laying down a tarot card. With great care she slid the photo closer.

  “I’d like you to look at each of these men and tell me whatever comes to mind—no matter what it might be. I need you to be honest. Don’t be afraid to say whatever you think.”

  Kate frowned at the strange instructions and then looked down at the first photo sitting before her. It was a head-and-shoulders shot of a middle-aged man with a narrow chin. His dark hair was messed up. It was somewhat like the mug shots Kate had seen on TV, but against a plain background and without any numbers or identification.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.” Kate looked up. “I don’t recognize him. I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”

  Without comment, AJ took back the photo and placed it at the bottom of the deck. The second photo she slid across the table, facing toward Kate, was of a heavyset black man. He had a few days’ growth of stubble. His nose was flat and wide, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

  “He looks bored,” Kate said as she looked up from the photo. Other than the clear intensity, the detective’s face was unreadable. “Is that what you want to know?”

  “I want you to tell me truthfully whatever thoughts come to mind. Nothing more. This isn’t a trick. Don’t guess. Just tell me what you see.”

  Kate wondered if maybe they were photos of men that AJ had reason to believe might be responsible for John’s death, and she wanted to know if Kate recognized any of them. With that thought, she gave the woman a nod to go on.

  The next dozen or so were unremarkable. When AJ slid the next one across the table, Kate paused and looked closer.

  “Tell me what you see, Kate.”

  Kate’s mouth twisted a bit as she squinted down at the man. “He looks like a jerk. You know, like one of those men who would try to charm his way into your pants and then later on you find out he’s married. Or that he took money out of your purse.” Kate sighed. “Maybe I’m tired and I’m just rambling. I don’t really know why I said that. Is that really what you want to hear?”

  AJ withdrew the photo. “I want you to tell me what comes to mind. If that’s what you think when you look at this man’s picture, then that’s what I want to know.”

  The next five photos were similarly unfamiliar and unremarkable. Kate didn’t recognize any of them. There didn’t seem to be anything noteworthy about any of the men, except that one of them looked drunk and a few looked sleazy. She wished she knew what the detective was getting at or what she wanted Kate to see.

  It was late and she was exhausted from the long day, to say nothing of the emotionally draining ordeal of finding out that John had been murdered. There were so many things she was going to need to take care of. She needed to make funeral arrangements. Her boss was going to need to know what had happened in Dallas. Her thoughts were scattering in different directions all at once, making mental notes, making to-do lists.

  When AJ slid the next photo across the table and Kate looked into the eyes of the man in the picture, she stopped breathing.

  The strength seemed to drain out of her in a frigid rush and she nearly dropped her cup.

  Her skin flashed icy cold.

  “Tell me what you see, Kate.”

  Kate finally glanced up. AJ was leaning in, staring right into her eyes.

  “I, I … I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” One fingernail tapped the photo in front of Kate. “Tell me what you see.”

  Kate squeezed her trembling fingers tighter around the warm cup in an effort to steady herself. Her mouth felt dry. Her heart raced. She felt a drop of sweat run down the icy skin between her breasts.

  She didn’t understand what was happening. As she stared into the man’s eyes, she could feel the fine hairs at the nape of her neck lifting. She’d never had such a reaction before, especially to a photo of a man she had never seen before.

  She was about to say she didn’t recognize him when she realized that she didn’t know what he looked like. She hadn’t looked at his face.

  She had only looked into his eyes.

  Unable to understand her reaction to a stranger, Kate shoved the photo back across the table as if it were something dangerous, something evil, and then sat back against the booth as she tried to slow her breathing and her heart rate.

  “Who is he?” she asked, trying to steady her shaky voice and make it sound normal. She turned away from the detective’s dark eyes to look out the windows into the blackness.

  AJ waited until Kate looked back at her before answering.

  “His name is Edward Lester Herzog.”

  “I … I don’t recognize his name, either.”

  The detective’s fixed gaze was unnerving. “He abducted, raped, and murdered three young women over the course of a year. He dismembered the bodies and left the pieces in Dumpsters all over south Chicago. Except the heads. We don’t know what he did with the heads. We had to ID them from DNA.”

  Kate swallowed hard and then took a sip of coffee as an excuse to retreat from the detective’s unflinching gaze. “Who are the men in the other photos? Are they killers, too?”

  “They’re nobodies. A few are street cons. Petty thieves—nothing big. Nothing violent. A couple are photos of normal guys. One is my neighbor. His boy plays with my son.”

  The way AJ sat quietly observing her made Kate restless.

  “I’ve never seen anyone like that last man before,” she finally explained, needing to fill the awful silence. “I’ve never seen a photo of a killer.”

  AJ cocked her head. “I showed you the photo before I told you who he was or what he had done. Your reaction to the photo came before I told you he was a killer.”

  Kate fussed with the top button on her blouse, unable to answer.

  “When I look at that photo, do you know what I see?” AJ asked.

  Kate shook her head, not trusting her voice right then.

  “I see a doughy guy in his early thirties who works at an electronics store selling televisions. I see a nerd who can wire surround sound in his sleep. I see a guy who plays online games half the night, likes fish tacos, and wouldn’t have a clue how to change a flat tire.

  “When Eddie sold televisions he always collected the name and contact information of the customers. Sometimes the information was needed for delivery, but the salespeople collected the data from every buyer—even when they were taking the purchase with them. It was store policy so they could send out advertising flyers and emails.

  “It’s surprising how freely people give out such private information. They answer without giving it a second thought.

  “That was how Eddie picked his victims.

  “When he asked the young women for their contact information, he also asked in the same flat tone if the TV they were buying was for their husband. It flowed right in with the questions about their phone number and address and credit card. It sounded just as boringly official. Each of t
hose three women offhandedly told him no, they each happened to be getting the TV for themselves, for their first apartment.

  “They weren’t afraid to tell him anything because he looked like a wuss. They probably figured that if they had to they could have beaten the crap out of the dorky sales guy.

  “That’s all I see when I look at this photo of Eddie Herzog, nothing more. That’s all those three young women saw. But you saw something none of them saw.

  “Talk to me, Kate. What did you see when you looked at that photo of Edward Lester Herzog?”

  Kate wet her lips and swallowed. “I don’t know.” She struggled to put the swirl of dark emotion into words. “It was his eyes. Something about his eyes.” Words had never seemed so utterly inadequate. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a reaction like that before.”

  “Have you ever seen a photo of a murderer before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “On TV, of course. On the news. And I suppose in stories on the internet, or newspapers when I’m waiting at an airport.”

  AJ shook her head. “That’s different. Have you ever seen a man like that in person or have you ever seen a photo, printed from a negative, like this one, of a killer?”

  Kate’s brow twitched. “What do you mean, it’s different? A picture is a picture. What difference could it make if I saw a picture on the news or if I saw a photo on my kitchen table?”

  AJ ran a thumb under the edge of the open collar of her white shirt. “I wish I had a good answer.” She thought a moment, searching for an example. “Try to imagine getting a text saying ‘I saw you leaving work today. You have a beautiful smile.’ ”

  “If I didn’t know who it came from that would be rather strange and I’d ignore it.”

  “Sure. But now imagine you’re walking down the street after dark on the way to the parking garage and a man stepped out of an alley right front of you. He’s dressed in layers of filthy, rotting clothes. He has tangled, greasy gray hair and a beard. He smells of alcohol and it’s obvious he hasn’t bathed in months. He only has a few teeth. Then he leans toward you, blocking your way. He looks into your eyes while he’s grinning with a wild look in his wide eyes. Then he says, ‘I saw you leaving work today. You have a beautiful smile.’ ”

  “Now, that would scare the hell out of me.”

  “Why? It’s the same words. What’s different?”

  Kate thought it was a bizarre comparison. “Context. The words may be the same, but the context is completely different.”

  AJ’s expression tightened with intensity. “I think it might be something a little like that. The text removes many layers from the words. It takes away countless clues and context.”

  “But this is different. It’s a photo of the same person whether it’s on the internet or in a photo printed from film.”

  AJ sighed. “All I can tell you is that I know for certain that it matters. I’ve come to suspect that maybe an image loses something going through the conversions and steps to put it on TV, in a newspaper, or online. Some kind of tiny clues are lost the farther removed you are from the actual person. The transmission of digital bits of data somehow loses some vital essence of a person that a photo on film is able to capture.

  “If you saw Eddie Herzog on TV, or in a newspaper, or in a story online, you wouldn’t have had the same reaction as you just did looking at this photo.

  “All the images I showed you were shot on film and developed directly from the negative onto photo paper.”

  Kate shook her head in frustration. “I just don’t see what difference that could make.”

  Elbows resting on the table, AJ opened her hands. “All I can tell you for certain is that there must be something more direct, more pure when the image is on film. Or at least pure enough to capture and preserve in the film that elusive essence that you would have seen in Eddie Herzog’s eyes had you encountered him in person. I don’t know for sure why it works that way, I just know that it does.

  “My own suspicion is that had you seen Eddie Herzog in person your reaction would have been even stronger. Still, the photo was able to convey enough of what you would have seen in real life for you to recognize that quality.”

  “People in some primitive societies don’t like their photo taken because they think it captures their soul,” Kate said before she realized she was saying it.

  AJ nodded. “I believe that a photo on film preserves some quality that you can see in a person’s eyes.”

  Kate changed the subject to what she really wanted to know. “What were you doing at John’s house? How did you know him? Why did you leave your card with him?”

  AJ slouched back in the bench. “Do you know how we found out that Edward Lester Herzog had killed those three women?”

  “No, how?”

  “Your brother told me.”

  “John?” Kate blinked in surprise. “How would John know?”

  “From this photo,” she said as she held it up. She put it back in the middle of the rest of the photos, pulled the rubber band off her wrist, and slipped it back around the stack. “I showed John a few dozen photos, like I showed you just now. When he saw that same photo you just looked at—the very same photo of Edward Lester Herzog that upset you—he became hysterical.”

  Kate knew what the woman was talking about. John could see things in people’s eyes. Ever since they had been little John could look into people’s eyes and tell if someone was mean, or if they intended him harm. Kate never understood it, or really took it seriously, even though on several occasions John’s fears had proven prophetic. Of those times when it had, she’d chalked it up to coincidence and John’s general fearful nature.

  What she couldn’t understand was her own reaction.

  A hundred questions were flying through Kate’s mind. One in particular floated to the top.

  “What did John call that man—that Edward Lester Herzog—when you showed him this photo?”

  “John called him ‘the devil.’ ”

  Goose bumps ran up Kate’s arms.

  That was John’s name for the kind of man he feared most.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Kate took a sip of coffee, trying to get a grip on what it all meant. Despite the late hour, she knew the coffee wasn’t what was going to keep her awake. Her brother’s murder, and that photo, were more than enough to do it.

  “What were the police doing showing photos of murderers to my brother?”

  AJ’s gaze turned away at the cutting tone in Kate’s voice.

  “The police weren’t. I was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The police department is a big bureaucracy. This business”—AJ waggled her stack of photos—“is not politically correct. They don’t like anything that even smacks of psychics.”

  “You think this is some kind of psychic ability?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t think that at all. But I do know that for a whole list of reasons the lieutenant would have my badge if he knew about this.”

  “How many detectives are in on your special procedures?”

  AJ slipped the photos back into the envelope and then into her satchel on the seat beside her. “I’m the only one.”

  Kate wondered what would make AJ act on her own when she knew it could get her fired. On top of that, Kate felt stupid for not knowing about so many important things that were going on in her brother’s life. She couldn’t imagine why she’d had no inkling of it from John. She had never known him to keep secrets from her.

  “How long has this been going on? How did you get John involved in this? How did you come to ask John to do this in the first place? Why were you—”

  AJ held up a hand to ward off the sudden barrage of questions.

  “Like I said, it’s a long story.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  AJ smiled. “You’d make a good detective.”

  Just as she did at her job, Kate ignored
the diversion, not allowing herself to be led off track. “That wasn’t what I asked you. How did you ever start showing photos to my brother in order to identify murderers?”

  Unspoken, Kate asked herself how John was able to identify murderers. Equally troubling, how was she?

  “It’s complicated. It didn’t start out that way.”

  “So how did it start out?” Kate pressed.

  AJ pushed her satchel a little to the side to give herself more room as she leaned in. “One of the women on the staff at the Clarkson Center where John worked was robbed one day as she arrived in the back-alley parking lot. When I got there to investigate, one of the forensic team was snapping photos of the surroundings—the parking lot, the place where the woman had parked, the entrance to the center, things like that.

  “The woman who had been robbed was pretty shaken and had gone home for the day. Before I could even start interviewing the staff, I got a call to go to a murder scene, so I didn’t get back to question the victim until the next day when she returned to work. By then I had the crime-scene photos with me. She told me that she hadn’t seen the guy who stuck the gun in her back and couldn’t really tell me anything useful about him.”

  “If she didn’t see him, how did she know it was a gun?”

  AJ rubbed a thumb up and down the side of her coffee cup as she stared back into the memory. “She said that she knew he had a gun by the way he pushed the weapon at her and the feel of it against her ribs. He told her that he’d shoot her if she did anything to resist. He told her not to move. She didn’t. He told her not to turn around. She didn’t. He grabbed her purse and ran.

  “She was too terrified to turn around and look. Instead, she ran inside. She never saw what he looked like. Until we could come up with some evidence, a description of the guy, or a witness, I knew the case was going nowhere.”

  “What were you doing investigating a purse snatching?” Kate asked. “You’re a homicide detective. Homicide detectives don’t investigate that kind of thing.”

  “You’re right,” AJ said. “But about two months before, there was a strikingly similar robbery. A woman parking in an alley parking lot behind her place of work not too far from the Clarkson Center was apparently approached by an assailant, much the same as this woman where John worked. There was no one else around. The guy took her purse. We found it several blocks away in a Dumpster. The woman’s wallet was missing.