When she arrived home, Tara had just gotten back from her internship. She was sitting at the dining table with textbooks spread in front of her, but she wasn’t working on anything. Just staring into space. Yardley had found that her daughter could be lost in thought for hours, and she remembered a story from college that Socrates was once lost in thought in the middle of a battle as a young man—standing perfectly still in contemplation as death raged all around him.
Tara slowly blinked as Yardley came closer.
“Where were you just now?” Yardley asked, kicking off her heels.
“Debating something. How was work?”
Yardley shrugged as she went to the fridge to begin dinner. “Same as always.” She paused a moment, then shut the fridge and looked at Tara. At the fierce intelligence that always burned just behind her eyes. Yardley went and sat down next to her. “You have a lot of knowledge of advanced chemistry, don’t you?”
Tara shrugged. “Yeah, but only in relation to physical chemistry. I thought it was interesting for a while.”
“If I wanted to kill somebody and conceal the cause of death from the medical examiner, what do you think would be the best way to do that?”
Tara grinned. “What an odd question to ask your teenage daughter.”
Yardley looked at the title of her textbook. “Reimann’s Hypothesis and Dirichlet L-series Conjectures . . . I don’t think it’s a big leap to assume you may have some insight into it.”
Tara leaned back in her seat and thought a moment. “Obviously it couldn’t be anything that left any type of physical evidence, so the only route is poison. I assume you have a forensic toxicologist who ran assays?”
“A dozen of them.”
“So the way it works is you’d have to test for a particular class on the periodic table, and then you’d have to screen for specific molecules of the suspected class, like arsenic or deadly nightshade. But all those are detectable. The only one I can think of where there’s no validated assays for detection is ricin.”
“Ricin?”
Tara nodded. “The tests you’d need to perform to confirm ricin poisoning are really specific. You can’t even test it in fluids. You have to do polymerase chain reactions with DNA to confirm it’s there. And it’s so rare your toxicologists wouldn’t even think to screen for it, and even if they did, they still might not pick it up if enough molecules aren’t there.”
Yardley had dealt with a couple of poisonings before and had come across a bit of research that suggested if a person wanted to kill using poison, ingestion was not the best method, as traces of the poison would be found in the stomach or intestines. Injection was cleaner and less detectable, and the areas of the body that were best for injection, that had the least chance of being noticed in an autopsy, were the tongue and eyes.
She kissed her daughter, took out her phone, and then hurried to her home office to make some calls.
23
Baldwin got out of the shower and dressed. It was late, but he’d finally made the call he owed to Scarlett. It had gone about as poorly as he expected. He’d tried to explain to her all the reasons he wasn’t cut out to be a father—his job, the fact that he hadn’t exactly had good role models growing up, his temperament that led him to frequently need solitude. Even as he’d offered to pay for her abortion, convincing himself he was doing the right thing, he’d winced at what a cliché he sounded like. That she’d screamed at him and hung up wasn’t a surprise. He wished it could just go back to how it was and then thought how childish it was to wish for things to happen. His mother had once told him, “If wishes were horses, even beggars would ride.” He hadn’t understood it at the time but now knew she meant if wishes had any power, no one would be destitute.
He looked at himself in the mirror before going out to his living room. The Executioner files were spread out on the table and spilled over onto the floor. He took out the photograph of Harmony and looked at it a moment before going to the kitchen and getting some Scotch Tape. Then he went back to the bathroom and taped it to his mirror, in the upper right corner, where he was sure to see it every time he was in there.
He sighed and wondered what the hell he was doing. Then his phone rang. It was Yardley.
“Hey,” he said.
“I think it’s ricin, Cason.”
“Who is this?”
“Cason—”
“Easy, I’m kidding. What do you think is ricin?”
“I think he used ricin to kill Kathy Pharr and tried to kill Angie with it but didn’t succeed for some reason.”
Baldwin turned around and leaned against his sink. “The toxicologist spent a week—”
“He wouldn’t have tested for ricin. It’s a really specific test that takes a long time, and there probably has to be evidence that it was used before they test for it. Call them and ask. And I called the ME and asked if they checked for injection sites in the tongue and eyes.”
“You didn’t think they did?”
“They did, but not well enough. Use a thin enough gauge of needle, and it’s almost impossible to detect in those sites.”
Baldwin let out a deep breath, thinking about the stacks of paperwork he was about to commit himself to. “Okay, I’ll place some calls and get the labs at Quantico to go over everything themselves.”
“Thank you. I appreciate this, Cason.”
He hesitated a second. “How you holding up? You’re getting close to your last day.”
“I’m fine. Just please let me know as soon as you have anything.”
“I will.”
They hung up. Briefly, he wondered what life would’ve been like with Yardley. He’d had a chance with her long ago, and looking back on it now, he could see why it hadn’t worked out. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him and this job. Would the job destroy any relationship he could hope to have with a child, too? He didn’t know, but he had always hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
He took a deep breath, then dialed his contact at Quantico and the Trace Evidence Laboratory in Washington.
24
It was nightfall later in the week when Baldwin showed up at Yardley’s house. She let him in. Tara was sitting at the table doing homework, and Baldwin said, “What’s up, squirt?”
“I’m going to be taller than you soon, Cason. Can I call you squirt?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll have to arrest you.”
She grinned, not looking up from her equations. “I happen to have a connection at the US Attorney’s Office who wouldn’t stand for that.”
Yardley said, “Out here.”
She led Baldwin out to the balcony, where two tiki torches illuminated the table. It was crammed with documents.
“I looked through Kathy’s phone records you sent me. There were calls to a number I couldn’t place, until I contacted the phone company after sending a subpoena. It was Dr. Zachary’s cell number. And take a look at this.” She handed him a printout. A phone number was circled with pen. “That’s Kathy Pharr’s personal cell number on his phone records. They were calling each other.”
“You’re kidding?”
She shook her head. “April thirteenth is the day she died. Three calls the previous day. He placed at least half a dozen calls to her that month alone. Angie told me she thought he was having an affair, but she didn’t say with who. I think Michael Zachary was having an affair with Kathy Pharr.”
“Hmm,” he said, sitting down at the table.
“That’s it?”
He blew out a breath between pressed lips. “Ran a deep background on Tucker. His grandfather owned a property out here that he scooped up when he got back from the Pacific after the war. Tucker lived with him after his father died. Guess the address.”
Yardley’s heart dropped. “Crimson Lake Road.”
He nodded. “Tucker’s mom was MIA when he was still a kid. Child Services thinks she OD’d somewhere on the East Coast, and the dad died from a stroke. Tucker was raised by his gra
ndfather from the time he was eight. I looked up the grandfather’s history, Marvin Pharr. You name it, he had it on his record. Sexual assaults, aggravated assaults, robbery, burglary, larceny, narcotics . . . it was like a greatest hits of the felony code. And keep in mind we’re talking about the sixties and seventies here, when forensic science practically didn’t exist. So for every one of those convictions he probably committed another ten crimes he wasn’t caught for. Can’t imagine what Tucker went through being raised by someone like that.”
Yardley bit her thumbnail. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling it’s not him.”
“Have you seen the profile Daniel drew up?”
“He sent it to me; I haven’t looked at it yet.”
Baldwin brought it up on his phone and handed it to her.
Sarte’s profiles were, to his credit, immensely detailed and came with caveats warning the field agents to remember that profiling was an art and not a science and to keep their minds open when pursuing suspects.
He had written that the Crimson Lake Executioner was likely a male in his forties, college educated or at least with above-average intelligence, and married, perhaps even with children. Sarte postulated that he had committed other murders earlier in life but had stopped, possibly due to incarceration for some unrelated offense or because he wished to focus on raising his children. Something that was far more common in serial murderers than most law enforcement realized.
The truly dangerous offenders, the ones that kept Yardley up at night, were the patient ones. The ones who could go ten years without killing and then, when circumstances were more favorable, begin again. It frightened her because it meant that killing wasn’t some overpowering need that had to be fulfilled; it was something enjoyable that they chose to do, and they would only strike when the circumstances were perfect. They were the rarest type of killer and the hardest to catch.
The rest of the profile was the standard conjecture Yardley anticipated: Caucasian, early-childhood trauma involving violence, alcoholic. Yardley only skimmed that section.
One thing Sarte had written that stood out to her was what he’d told her previously: that he believed the Executioner had medical training. Either a physician, physician’s assistant, or nurse.
“Daniel has this guy as educated, at least a college grad but probably medically educated,” Baldwin said as Yardley handed the phone back. “Tucker dropped out in the fifth grade and is nearly illiterate. Not the type of guy who would’ve studied art history. I guess he could’ve randomly come across Sarpong’s paintings somewhere and become obsessed with them, but I doubt he even has CPR training, much less medical knowledge.”
“Where are we on the ricin?”
“Test takes a while, but my guys say that’s a good bet.”
“The ME said it’s too late to look for an injection site on Angela River. Unless they go over that area with an injection sensor within a few hours, it’s undetectable.”
“What about Pharr? She died, so the puncture wouldn’t have healed. Can we exhume the body and look?”
“They said it’s too late. She’d be too deteriorated to check for injection sites.”
Baldwin shook his head. “No way Tucker is this sophisticated. Zachary makes much more sense.”
“Or they could be working together. Zachary would know exactly how much ricin to administer to kill Angie, so that likely wasn’t him. If they were working together, that’s a mistake someone who’s scientifically illiterate, like Tucker, would make.”
“Maybe. Seems like an odd pairing.”
“Serial murderers that kill in pairs always have a dominant, intelligent leader and a passive, less intelligent follower. Always.” She paused. “Jude Chance told me someone conjectured that there might be two of them. Guess it’s not quite as ridiculous as I first thought.”
“Well, let’s assume that they are working together. They first killed Kathy Pharr, which is explainable, I guess. Zachary’s having an affair, doesn’t want it to come to light because it could ruin his career and relationship, yada yada, so they chose her as the first victim. But then Angela is the second. Zachary’s smart enough to know that the boyfriend she lives with would be the first person we’d look at. Particularly since he’s a doctor and it’s a case where a drug is being administered to cause organ failure in both victims.”
“That’s why it would be wise to work with someone. He would just have to make sure there was no link between him and Tucker.”
Baldwin nodded. “Okay, they off Pharr, and Tucker screws up Angie. A kind of ‘you kill my woman, I kill yours’ thing. But why Harmony? Tucker’s not the brightest bulb, but he would have to know that if his wife and daughter were murdered, he’d be the only person we’d be looking at.”
Yardley began pacing. “I need a warrant to search their homes.”
“Hey, warrants are your department. Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it.”
“The fact that Zachary called Kathy Pharr three times on the day before her death and the second victim is his girlfriend is good, but maybe not probable cause good, and I want to be certain before we tip our hand. The defense would admit the affair to explain the phone calls and say Tucker is the most likely suspect if he found out about the affair. I need more to get a warrant for Zachary.”
He rose. “I’ll get on it.” He didn’t move for a second. “I know you and Angela have gotten buddy-buddy. You know you can’t tell her Zachary’s under investigation, right?”
“Of course. Just find me more, Cason.”
“I’ll let you know.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the mountains in the distance. “If you need anything, like someone to talk to, you know I’m always here for you, right?”
“I know. Thank you. But I’m fine.”
He nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I got anything. Oh, Child Services responded to our subpoena. The man Harmony helped put away is still inside and won’t be released for another two years. Zachary and Tucker are our best bets right now.”
After he left, Yardley leaned against her wood railing and looked out over the desert. Darkness was falling quickly, but it seemed to be a starless night.
Anxiety gnawed at her. It gnawed at her because there was one way to dig into Zachary’s life without him knowing—and she hated herself for having thought of it.
25
Yardley texted River and asked her if Tara and some friends could come over to swim. She didn’t yet know how she was going to use the opportunity to look for evidence against Zachary—maybe she’d get there early to pick Tara up, distract River, and . . . she’d figure something out. It was the first lie she’d told River.
Just past noon, Tara called her and said, “Angie left.”
“What?”
“It’s what you were waiting for, isn’t it? I mean, you asked me to bring my friends swimming, so I figured it was something to do with their house. Unless you have a man over at our house, which I doubt.”
Yardley was quiet a moment. When she looked at her daughter, she saw Tara the little girl who would run around their apartment trying to stick toys in the dryer or dishwasher to see what would happen. She forgot sometimes that Tara the young woman had an almost supernatural perception, like a laser beam that could bore into people’s minds.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,” was all Yardley said before hanging up.
Yardley showed up at River’s home around one in the afternoon. She heard laughter from the backyard. She walked through the mansion and saw Tara, Stacey, and two other girls in the pool. Music played on hidden speakers, and food and drinks lay on deck chairs.
“Hey, Mom. Hop in, the water’s nice.”
“I’m fine, baby, thank you. Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”
“You mean you wanted to see if we were going to destroy the place or invite over a bunch of boys, right?” Tara teased.
Yardley went back into the house and slid the glass door closed. She chec
ked her watch: River had been gone for forty-five minutes, and Yardley had no clue when she would be back. Yardley closed her eyes a moment as an uneasy pressure tightened her chest. She didn’t want to do this, but somehow she knew she would anyway.
She started in the bedroom.
The master bedroom was elegantly decorated and appeared more so now in the daylight. The bed frame was black and the sheets white silk.
She went into the walk-in closet. The clothes were mostly Zachary’s. River took up maybe an eighth of the space. Yardley ran her hand over her clothes and spread them to look behind. She did the same with Zachary’s clothing, then checked the dresser.
Satisfied that there was nothing in the bedroom, she went to Zachary’s study down the hall: fine rugs over hardwood floors, an antique globe in front of a chestnut bookcase that took up an entire wall, and the smell of pine.
She scanned his books and saw nothing but nonfiction titles related to science and medicine, a few reference volumes, and a small collection of books on psychiatry. One of the titles was The Dealing with Trauma Workbook. Yardley opened it. About half of it was filled in with pencil, what looked like a woman’s handwriting. On one page, the reader was asked to fill in a brief description of what the senses were taking in during the traumatic event they were dealing with:
There was darkness. I remember the darkness most because it was darker than I’d ever experienced before. Like I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep it was so dark. I would hear things but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just in my mind. I still wake up thinking of that darkness. I feel like such a damn child, but I have to have a night-light on even now. I can’t wake up in darkness because I can’t breathe when I do. I guess it’s like what someone would feel like waking up at the bottom of the ocean.
Yardley closed the book, heavy guilt descending over her for reading River’s most intimate thoughts about the most traumatic event in her life.
River had put on a brave front for her, acting as though the kidnapping didn’t affect her, and it saddened Yardley that River didn’t think she could trust her with the pain. Maybe one day she would share it with her. Yardley hoped so. But that would never happen if Zachary turned out to be who Yardley thought he was. If he was the Executioner and had used Tucker to kidnap and try to kill her, the impact on River would be wholly and irreparably damaging. Yardley knew what she would feel better than anyone else ever could.
Crimson Lake Road (Desert Plains) Page 10
