by Lisa Gardner
“I wasn’t really looking,” Phil confessed. “But we have plenty of photos of the house. Easy enough to look again. I have another thought regarding the fire.”
“Which is?”
“Evie shot the computer. Over half a dozen times, right? Seems to me the computer was what she wanted to eliminate. And did. So why risk returning to set a fire?”
“You think she already covered her tracks. The destroyed laptop.”
“I think we’ve established she’s partial to firearms.”
D.D. couldn’t argue with that. She stared at the gutted home again. “Again, from the top. What do we know? Sixteen years ago, Evie’s father was shot and killed in his own home.”
“Evie now says she didn’t do it. But her story is still subject to debate,” Phil provided.
“Could it have been suicide?” D.D. postulated. “That would certainly be something the mother might feel compelled to cover up. Evie didn’t report seeing anything other than her father’s body and the shotgun, however.”
“Again, if she’s telling the truth.” Phil looked at her. “Even if you don’t have spatter evidence from Evie, you gotta have crime scene photos of the body. Have the criminalists rework the angle of the blast. That’ll tell you where the shooter was standing and whether or not Hopkins could’ve shot himself.”
“Good point. Okay, so one shooting death sixteen years ago that was probably covered up in some manner. Fast-forward to yesterday, when Evie’s husband just happens to also meet death by firearm.”
“Conrad Carter,” Phil intoned. “The kind of guy everyone liked but no one seemed to know. Except maybe your CI, Flora Dane, who claims to have met him in a bar with Jacob Ness.”
Phil’s tone implied he still had his doubts. D.D. shrugged. With Flora, anything was possible. On the other hand, D.D. had never known the woman to intentionally lie. Omit truth, yes, but deliberately lie . . .
D.D. picked up their story line: “No history of domestic disturbance calls or tension between Conrad and Evie. But according to Evie’s fellow teacher, some signs of recent stress in Evie’s life.”
Phil nodded. “Which brings us to Evie Carter, five months pregnant and tied to one accidental shooting that happened when she was a juvenile. Clean record, however, since then.”
“They bought the house together four years ago. Both have day jobs during the week, home renovation projects on the weekends. Ordinary,” D.D. said at last, frowning. “By all accounts, a normal if not boring young couple building a life, starting a family. Until last night.”
“Three rounds into the husband. Twelve into the computer. Eight minutes in between.”
“That time gap is gonna kill us at trial.”
“What about your theory Evie used the eight minutes to retrieve something off the computer before destroying it? Which she then must have hidden somewhere in the house, or it would’ve been recovered from her person during processing.”
“And the house was then torched to eliminate whatever she recovered?”
Phil shrugged. “That would imply someone else had to know she hid something. We’re still processing phone records for her and him. It’s possible something will come up.”
“A phone call right after that shooting?”
“Would be pretty damning. And certainly, eight-minute gap or not, we have a tight timeline of the evening. Neighbors called in the first sound of shots fired. Uniformed officers were standing on the front porch for the second. Can’t argue with that.”
D.D. sighed. “I wish Conrad’s laptop was still intact. Seems like the key to this puzzle was on that laptop.”
“We know Evie has access to a computer at work. We’ll grab that next. Amazing what the browser history can reveal about a person.”
“How to burn down a house and still have time to get away?” D.D. intoned dryly.
“Exactly. And we still do have one last item of consideration: if there was . . . is . . . a connection between Conrad Carter and Jacob Ness . . .”
D.D. followed his train of thought perfectly. “Lots of perpetrators use the internet.”
Phil sighed heavily. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but . . . your crazy CI? She may be able to help us yet.”
CHAPTER 12
FLORA
THE INSIDE OF KEITH EDGAR’S brownstone is as surprising as the man himself. An open floor plan that yawns way back. Miles of dark wood flooring beneath a stark-white tray ceiling. A slate-covered fireplace that rises like a granite column in the middle of the distinctly modern space. The fireplace boasts gas flames, which dance across highly polished stones. In front of that sits a low-slung turquoise sofa, bookended by orange chairs. Some kind of shag rug covered in bright splashes of color gets the hard job of tying it all together, while above the fireplace, a massive flat-screen TV belches out the evening news, including an update on the fire at the Carters’ house. I already caught some details on my phone. Yet more questions about a shooting, a couple, a man, I have yet to understand.
I remain rooted in the entryway of the brownstone, my back to a wall. Now that I’m in the house, actually face-to-face with Keith, I’m not sure what to do.
Keith springs to life first. He darts forward, grabs a remote from the glass coffee table, and turns off the TV. “Sorry, just catching up on the news. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He glances at his watch, notes the hour. “A glass of wine?”
To judge by the furniture, I would’ve pegged him for a dry martini. And lots of hours spent viewing Mad Men. In between his time on the true-crime boards.
“Have a seat,” Keith tries now. He gestures to one of the orange chairs. “Umm, welcome, thanks for coming. Is this because of the last letter I sent? I didn’t actually think you’d respond. I mean, it’s not like the other notes worked. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He smiles, blushes slightly, and for a moment looks as self-conscious as I feel. I can’t decide if this guy is for real or if he’s already the most accomplished psychopath I’ve ever met.
“Is this your place?” I ask at last, moving toward the chair.
He nods.
“Wife? Kids?”
He shakes his head.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a computer analyst. Most of the time I work from home. And don’t look anything like this.” Again, the charming tinge of color to his cheeks as he gestures to his upscale wardrobe. “But I happened to have a meeting with a client today. You’re lucky that I’d just returned home. Or I’m lucky. Something like that.”
“I’ll take that glass of water now.”
He turns immediately, striding past the fireplace and heading to the rear of the house, which must contain the kitchen. I take the moment to compose myself, reassess the space. Front door behind me. Most likely patio doors straight back. An open-bannister staircase to the left. A door at the base of the stairs. Coat closet, most likely. Another door directly across from that. Downstairs powder room.
Otherwise, a very open, expansive space, decorated like a page out of a West Elm catalogue. But in my second survey, I catch what I missed the first time around. No photos. No wall art. Nothing of any personal nature at all.
According to Keith Edgar, he not only owns this house, but also works out of it. And yet this space might as well be a showroom. Perfectly appointed and completely devoid of personality.
We all wear masks. And the more we have to hide, the more accomplished the veneer.
Keith returns with a tall glass of water. I take it from him carefully, not standing too close, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Then I do take a seat. My inventory has restored my sense of paranoia. I have all my survivor’s instincts kicking in now.
Meaning I’m relaxed for the first time since I knocked on the door.
“Why true crime?” I ask him. I hold my water glass
but don’t sip it. I notice the glass coffee table has a perfectly clear top. Not a single spec of dust or water ring. I wonder if he cleans it obsessively, or pays someone to do it for him.
“I’ve always been fascinated by puzzles.” He takes the orange chair across from me, leaving the table between us, as if he understands I need the barrier. He leans slightly forward, arms resting loosely on each leg. He’s still smiling, clearly delighted by my unexpected presence in his house. I decide then and there that if he takes a selfie, I will kick him in the balls.
“Doesn’t explain true crime.”
“I particularly enjoy puzzles that haven’t been solved. True crime one-oh-one. You start with Jack the Ripper, then the Black Dahlia, and next thing you know, you’re reading everything about every notorious homicide, because the only way to get fresh insight into the unsolved murders is to learn from the killers who did get arrested. Why did they do what they did? And how can they be caught?”
“What’s the nature of evil?” I ask dryly.
He shrugs slightly. “Most people debate whether evil is born or made. Nature versus nurture. Based on my research, I think of it more as a spectrum. All of the above, but with some predators leaning more one way or another. For example, Ted Bundy—”
“By all means, Ted Bundy.”
That quick grin, proving he knows just how much he resembles one of the nation’s most feared super-predators. “I think he’s an example of evil that’s born. Bundy claimed that he was affected by his unconventional upbringing—being raised by his grandparents as his mother’s younger brother, versus being acknowledged as her illegitimate child. But I think we can all agree that as traumas go, that doesn’t quite rise to the level of spending your adult life hunting and killing young women—particularly given evidence he was playing with knives by the time he was three. Him, Dahmer, they were always going to be killers. Just a matter of when.”
I say nothing.
He clasps his hands, continues quickly. “Then you have Edmund Kemper the third. Raised by an abusive, alcoholic mother who was severely critical of him. Forced to live in the basement because she didn’t want him near his sisters. Then sent as a teenager to live with his grandparents, whom he hated.”
I can’t help myself: “He was sent to live with his grandparents because he’d already murdered the family cats.”
I earn a quick nod of approval. Whatever game we’re playing, I’m at least living up to expectations. Or was just stupid enough to take the bait.
“But here’s the deal with Kemper,” Keith says now, totally serious. “He shot and killed his grandparents when he was fifteen. That got him sent away to a facility for youthful offenders where he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. So, sure, you could argue brain chemistry, born bad—”
“He shot his grandmother just to see what it felt like.”
“Exactly.” Another earnest nod. “And upon getting released, he murdered six young women, even liked to drive by police stations with their bodies stuffed in the trunk of his car. But this is what makes Kemper so fascinating: He was also incredibly intelligent and reflective. Smart enough, he realized one day that the person he really wanted to kill was his mother. So he did. He went to her house, murdered her—”
“Stuck her larynx down the garbage disposal so he’d never have to listen to her again.”
“And then he turned himself in. That was it. His mother had tormented him most of his life. He’d finally addressed the issue. Then he was done. Compare that to Bundy, who broke out of prison, what—two, three times? Swore each time he’d clean up his act, only to devolve into larger and more horrific crime sprees. Bundy was born evil. Kemper had some of the necessary starting ingredients, don’t get me wrong, but his upbringing at the hands of his mother was the deciding factor. So again, there’s not one answer to the question of what’s the nature of evil, just as there’s no one answer that defines anything about human behavior. Evil is a spectrum. And different predators fall in different places along the scale.”
“No one wants to be a monster,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have questions,” he says abruptly. He’s not smiling anymore. His expression is serious. He steeples his hands, rests his fingertips against his chin. “You didn’t come to talk. If you were going to do that, you would’ve contacted me in advance, made arrangements to meet the group. Asked about the speaker’s fee.”
“Cashed the check?”
Another nod. “This isn’t about what you have to offer us. It’s about what we can offer you.”
I don’t answer right away. I study the glass of water. The way the condensation has beaded up, heated by the flames from the gas fireplace.
“Why don’t you have any personal photos in this room?”
“This isn’t just my home, it’s also a professional space. I don’t care to give that much away to clients.”
“Your reading has made you that paranoid?”
His turn to fall silent. I know then what I should’ve suspected from the beginning.
“How old were you?” I ask.
“Six. And it wasn’t me who was victimized, but my older cousin in New York. They never caught who killed him; it’s one of those open cases. But the details of his murder match four other unsolved homicides from the same time period. My aunt and uncle . . . They’ve never quite recovered. You grow up seeing the impact such a crime has on a person, a family, a community, it leaves a mark.”
“You work his case?”
“I have for the past twenty years. I’m no closer to solving it than the police are.”
“A string of related murders that simply ended?” I raise a brow.
“Exactly. Predators don’t stop on their own. But sometimes, they get arrested for other crimes. Or change jurisdiction. In this day and age of nationwide law enforcement databases, it’s harder for that trick to work. But international travel . . .”
“A killer with means.”
“My cousin was strangled with a silk tie. There was evidence of sexual intercourse, but not necessarily assault. He’d told some friends he’d recently met an older, wealthy gentleman. He was excited about the potential for the relationship.”
“You think he was seduced, then murdered?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last.
“I was too young to understand the nuances of his death. Later, when I was fifteen, I happened to look it up. Imagine my surprise to find my cousin’s murder linked to a series of strangulations on various websites. But it was the true-crime sites, groups like the one I run now, that captured my attention. They’d given it serious thought and in many cases done some real work. We’re not all just armchair detectives. Some of our members are retired police, medical professionals, even a coroner.”
“And your skills?”
“I’m a computer nerd. Trust me, you want to do any kind of meaningful research these days, and you’re going to need a geek.”
“Why Jacob Ness?”
“Local case. Received a lot of coverage when you were recovered.” He pauses slightly and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if he should’ve used such clinical terms. Then he shrugs. It is what is, and we both know it.
“But Jacob’s crime is known,” I say. “Well documented. Where’s the riddle?”
Keith cocks his head to the side. “Do you really call him Jacob?”
“I just did.”
“When you were together?”
“Well, ‘Rat Bastard’ had a tendency to earn me negative consequences.”
“You still think about him.”
“You’re the expert, you tell me.”
He shakes his head. “I only know the perpetrators. I don’t know . . .”
“Me? Other survivors? The ones who, unlike your cousi
n, got away?” My words are harsh. Unnecessarily so. I can’t seem to help myself. I still can’t figure out if this guy is for real. Successful computer analyst by day, brilliant true-crime solver by night. Or something darker, more sinister. Does he study predators because he wants to stop them, or because like always calls to like?
Across from me, Keith has carefully reset his features. He taps his steepled fingertips against his chin, once, twice. Then: “I think Jacob Ness remains an unsolved riddle. I think we know about a crime—his abduction of you. But the sophistication of his operation, the box, the sensory deprivation, the brainwashing techniques—”
“I don’t need a recap.”
“You couldn’t have been his first victim. These guys, by definition, they escalate. They build to the kind of premeditated, well-planned, sustainable operation that was your abduction.”
“The FBI looked into it. I’m told they couldn’t find evidence of other crimes.”
Keith regards me intently. “That’s not correct, strictly speaking. They found other evidence. Just not enough to build additional cases.”
I can’t speak. I study my water glass again. I get the distinction he’s making. After all my years with Samuel, I know how the FBI thinks. Of course they would make a distinction, and Samuel would split those hairs in delivering that news to me. We aren’t looking at additional cases at this time. Not because there wasn’t any evidence. Just not enough.
I can’t look at Keith. “How many?” My voice is quiet.
“The group . . . We have been looking at six unsolved missing persons cases. All young women. None of them ever seen again. All during the time Jacob had his truck route in the South. We’ve been trying to see if we can establish a firm connection. For three of the women, we have been able to place Jacob in the same town as them at the time of their disappearance. The police, of course, want more.”
I inhale. Exhale. Six women. I’m waiting for the news to surprise me, but it doesn’t. I’ve always known I couldn’t have been Jacob’s first. He talked about at least assaulting others. But had he actually kidnapped them? Eventually killed them? I hadn’t allowed myself to consider it. That maybe there had been others in the coffin-sized box before me.
