“A hesitation swing,” I say.
“More or less, yes,” says Books. “He told himself he had to kill you, but every time he swung, he pulled back. Because deep down, he couldn’t kill you. He cared about you too much.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “I have to say, a lot of things went through my mind while he was hitting me with that bat. But ‘he must really care about me’ wasn’t one of those things.”
But Books is right. That’s why Graham used a baseball bat and not a gun or a knife. He was still deciding, up to the end, whether he could actually kill her.
“So…what happens now?” she asks.
Books nods. “You’ll spend a day or two in the hospital. We’ll keep watch over you. When they discharge you, we should place you in protective custody. Move you somewhere.”
Mary places a hand on her chest. “You think he’ll come back?”
“We have to consider the possibility. But don’t worry. He won’t know where you are. We’re just being extra cautious. And we’ll have someone guarding you.”
“Who? You mean, like, FBI agents?”
“Or federal marshals. Professionals.”
Mary’s head drops, deflated. “I don’t want to hide. I can’t hide.”
“Just until we catch him,” I say.
“You could be in danger,” says Books. “He may change his mind and decide he doesn’t want you alive. Or he may just want you, period, and try to take you with him.”
Mary shakes her head and takes a deep breath. Then she looks right at me.
“I’ll do it if you go with me,” she says.
101
SOMETHING IS wrong. Something is wrong here.
I’m in the hospital cafeteria, reading through my copy of the Graham Sessions once more, trying to scratch an indefinable itch. Denny and Sophie, who have joined us in Pennsylvania, are sitting with me, looking through their own copies. It’s not much, but right now it’s all we have in terms of clues.
“Why did he start doing these Graham Sessions just last month?” I ask. “Just last August. He started his murder spree in September of two thousand eleven, but he didn’t start recording these transcripts until eleven months later?”
Denny throws a toothpick into his mouth and chews on it. “Who knows? He decided that his brilliance should be memorialized.”
I shake my head. “He’s too methodical. He would have planned these Graham Sessions right along with his killing spree. I don’t think he does much of anything on a whim. We know that from his actions and from what he brags about in this diary of his—discipline, preparation, execution.”
Sophie says, “So the question is, what triggered this decision? What happened in August of this year, two thousand twelve, that was different from when he began the killing spree in September two thousand eleven?”
“We don’t know of anything traumatic in his personal life,” says Denny. “Graham’s parents died a decade ago. He didn’t have any siblings. No wife or children. No girlfriend that we know of—at least until Mary, of course. No loved ones, no relationships. Not even a pet.”
I think back to last August. Nothing particular stands out about his methods of killing during that time period. For my part, I was just conducting my research and sending e-mails to Dickinson and arguing with the Peoria Police Department in Arizona—
“Wait,” I say, jumping in my chair, spilling coffee from Denny’s Styrofoam cup. “Wait a second. August—that was when my dispute with the police in Arizona went public. That’s when the Peoria newspaper ran that article about how I was claiming Marta’s death was a homicide. And they made a point of mentioning that I worked for the FBI.”
“He might have read that,” says Denny.
“Of course he read it,” I say. “He kept tabs on everything. Absolutely. So he reads that and he’s thinking that the FBI is going to start breathing down his neck.”
In truth, my own agency had cast me out at that point, had rejected my theories until Books came in and helped persuade the director. But Graham wouldn’t have known that. For all he knew, the FBI was about to start a nationwide investigation.
“It was the first time that Graham felt threatened,” I say.
“And he responded by writing a diary?” asks Sophie. “Why? Just in case he got caught, he wanted to explain to the world what he did?”
I make a face. That doesn’t sound right. Nowadays, a serial killer like him would be glorified in the media. Even if we caught him, he’d have every newsmagazine and cable channel in the country wanting to give him a sounding board, wanting to run a special with an ominous title like The Mind of a Predator.
“You know what I think?” I tap the pages of the transcripts in front of me. “I think this is misdirection. I think there’s a lie in these pages somewhere. Something to throw us off, just in case we got too close. Why not? If the FBI were on your tail, why not leave behind a note that feeds them the wrong information?”
“So the question is, where is the lie in those transcripts?” Denny asks.
“That’s a very interesting question.” Books walks up to our table. “Something you can ponder from your secluded location with Mary Laney.”
The temperature seems to drop in the cafeteria. Sophie and Denny excuse themselves. Books doesn’t take a seat, so I decide to get up and stand across the table from him.
“You leave tomorrow,” says Books. “Denny’s going with you, by the way.”
“Okay, great. I’ll keep doing my research and I’ll send you e-mails or give you a call—”
“E-mails will be fine,” he says. He won’t even look at me. He rubs the top of the chair with both hands, then pats it presumptively. “Anyway, good luck and be—”
“Oh, Books, come on. I know I broke protocol out there but it’s not like I shot somebody, or even personally insulted you. I was trying to help somebody. You’re acting like I spit in your face.”
Still not making eye contact with me, Books shakes his head in bemusement. “I’m just done with you, Emmy. In every way. Go ahead and send an e-mail if you think of anything—I’m not going to stop you from doing your research—but I don’t consider you part of this investigation anymore, and I don’t consider you part of anything else having to do with me. Honestly, I don’t ever want to speak to you or see you again.”
I draw back. I didn’t realize how badly I had embarrassed him. And how raw that nerve was already.
“Is that clear enough, Emmy? Do we understand each other?”
I wave my hand. “Fine, okay, sure.”
Books nods and walks away.
“Books,” I say. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”
He stops but doesn’t turn back. “It’s not worth anything,” he says. “Not anymore.”
102
WHEN I see Mary Laney the next evening, for the first time she is wearing her own clothes, not a hospital gown. And she seems the better for it, however beaten and bruised her face may be, now complete with a gigantic splint covering her nose.
“All set?” I ask. “They’re picking us up in a few minutes.”
“I’d feel better if I didn’t look like the Elephant Man.”
At least she has a sense of humor about this.
I leave the room. Down at the end of the hallway, Denny Sasser is talking to another man.
“Oh, Emmy,” he says, pointing to the other guy. “Want you to meet Jim Demetrio. Jim, this is Emmy Dockery.”
Jim Demetrio is just a bit taller than me, which makes him about five ten, a middle-aged man with a stocky frame. He’s wearing a polo shirt and a baseball cap.
“So this is the infamous Emmy Dockery,” he says. “The one who cracked the case.”
I shake his hand. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“The one who discovered there was a case in the first place, then. Sure, sure.” He smiles at me. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”
“Jim’s retired FBI,” says Denny. “He worked in the Pi
ttsburgh field office until about a year and a half ago. One of the best profilers of serial killers I know. But he decided to turn to the private sector to make a killing doing security consulting.”
Nice for him. I’m still wondering why I’m shaking his hand.
“He’s been volunteering for the canvass.”
“Oh, great, thanks very much,” I say. There are several square miles of thick woods in Elk County near Winston Graham’s ranch, and we are tracking every inch of it, looking for burial sites, hidden weapons caches, anything. We’ll take volunteers if we can get them.
“My pleasure,” says Demetrio. “Nice to get my hands dirty again.”
“Jim’s letting us use his place in Oregon,” says Denny.
Ah, okay. They’re sending Mary Laney to a cabin on the coast of Oregon, a town called Cannon Beach. Apparently, it’s Demetrio’s place.
“It’s perfect,” says Demetrio. “I wired it for security myself. Perched on top of a hill, impossible to access except by a paved driveway with a gate. Your witness will be completely secure.” He draws a horizontal line through the air. “Completely.”
“Well, thank you very much,” I say.
“Can I ask?” he says, leaning into me. “How’d you do it? What made you put this together?”
I shrug. I don’t really have time for this. But I guess this guy’s loaning us his cabin, and he’s volunteering to boot. A little professional goodwill may be in order.
“The data,” I answer. “The patterns of the crimes. Individually, they were brilliantly disguised. But collectively, they showed a pattern.”
“Brilliant,” he repeats. “You think he’s brilliant?”
“I think he’s a monster. But a very smart one.”
Demetrio’s eyes narrow. “Probably best you not think of him as a monster. He’s a human being with his own reasons, however misguided you may think those reasons—”
“He’s a monster,” I say again.
Demetrio blanches at my rebuke. “If you say so.”
I look over at Denny. “She’s ready to go.”
“Oh, then I should leave,” Demetrio says, retreating to the elevator and punching the button. “Good seeing you, old friend. Listen, I have some business up that way in a couple of days. Maybe I’ll stop by?”
“Sure,” says Denny. “Thanks again, Jimmy.”
Demetrio looks at me for a long moment. “What will this monster do next, Emmy? What’s your prediction?”
I wipe my right hand on my jeans as the elevator door chimes.
“My prediction is we’re going to put him in the ground,” I say.
A smirk crosses Demetrio’s face. “Never underestimate him,” he says, before he disappears into the elevator.
103
WHEN WE land at Portland’s airport, we are welcomed by an FBI escort and a steady downfall of rain. Mary, Denny, and I deplane and hurry into one of the cars, and the driver—an FBI agent from the Pittsburgh field office named Getty—speeds us away.
Mary looks out the rain-slicked window. “Are we positive nobody knows where we are?” she asks me.
I look over at her. “We’re being very careful about that. Only the four agents guarding us, you and I, and Agent Bookman know our whereabouts.”
“That’s it? Nobody else?”
“Nobody else. Try to relax. You’re not good at sitting still, are you?”
“Oh, God no,” she says. “My dad used to say I never stopped moving, never stopped having some task. I was like a busy bee, he said. He’d make a bzz-bzz-bzz sound when he’d walk past me.”
Our vehicle pulls up to a ticket booth on our way out of the airport. Mary turns away from the window and ducks her head down. She tries to be casual about it, but there’s no mistaking her fear.
It’s an odd contrast to see her cower like this, because she is physically impressive, a bit taller than me and muscle-toned, like a competitive biker or runner. (Exercise, she told me, helped her beat alcoholism, became a replacement buzz.) Her hair is light brown and straight, cut simply and falling just below her ears. I have no sense of how attractive she is given her current state, the tremendous bruising and discoloration, the large splint over her nose. The bandages holding the splint in place look like a landing strip across the center of her face.
The rain pelts the car as we maneuver onto the open road. I’m hoping she’ll settle in, maybe even get some sleep.
“Nobody else knows where we are?” she asks again. “Just the four guards and Agent Bookman and you and I?”
“That’s it, Mary. I promise.”
“He wouldn’t come after me, anyway. Right?” She looks over at me.
“I can’t imagine he would,” I say. “We’re just being very cautious.”
An SUV passes us on the left and Mary ducks down again, shielding her face. This time, she catches me noticing her. “Sorry,” she says.
“You’re making yourself crazy.” I put my hand on her arm. “Nobody knows you’re here. I promise.”
We drive into Cannon Beach, Oregon, under cover of nightfall, as planned, moving along a narrow street not fifty yards from the Pacific Ocean. I roll down the window and take in the salty, misty air. This is no vacation, but for just a moment it feels like one. We pass some resorts, then assorted shops and restaurants and tourist souvenir stores, all of them closed up and dark at three in the morning.
Mary grows edgier as we near our destination. She slides down in the car so that nobody can see her from outside—not that there’s anybody outside this time of night. But it’s easy for me to be rational. I’m not the one with a target on my back.
Then we turn right down a road, away from the ocean and the well-lit storefronts, and drive down a narrow, winding lane until we reach a car awaiting us, with two men leaning against the vehicle. They right themselves to attention when they see us. These men, I presume, are the U.S. marshals from Portland.
Mary puts out her hand and I take it, interlocking my fingers with hers. “We’re going to be safe here,” I say.
Suddenly, a gate that I didn’t even notice swings inward. The marshals get into their car, and we follow them up a steep, twisty paved drive until we reach the cabin.
Both cars pull up on the gravel parking area to the west and shine their lights on the house, various insects dancing in and out of the light beams. The cabin is all cherrywood, a wide ranch. There is a small yard surrounding it, but then, on all sides, there is darkness, a void, empty space—a drop-off, I know, though I can’t see it this time of night. We are perched high on a hill. It’s just like Jim Demetrio said: to reach this cabin, you’d either have to drive up the driveway into the waiting arms of federal agents or scale the side of a mountain.
The U.S. marshals leave their car and search the cabin before we enter. In our front seat, Denny and the guy driving the car, Special Agent Norm Getty, wait patiently.
“The house has updated security,” says Getty. “There’s a front door and a back door, each with a deadbolt. Each door chimes when it’s opened, and if the alarm is set and goes off, the noise can be heard across the Pacific.” He points at the house. “There are security cameras and motion sensors surrounding the house, another camera down by the front gate, and we can see all of it from here.” He looks back at us and shows us an iPad, a video monitor with a screen split four ways to show the different cameras.
“It’s completely secure,” he tells us.
“Let’s get out,” I say to Mary. “It’s okay.”
I slide out on Mary’s side, still holding her hand, taking in the mild, damp air, the smell of the ocean carried on a light breeze. We are, indeed, high up on a hill, but it feels more like an island than a mountain. The property on which we are standing is maybe a quarter acre, maybe less, most of it occupied by the cabin or the gravel parking lot. The grass surrounding the cabin is minimal, and then the drop on each side, all fenced in. I approach the fence to the east and look down into nothingness.
“There�
��s nothing down there, on any side, except thick branches and wild foliage,” says Agent Getty. “He’d have to scale a mountain and overcome insurmountable natural obstacles. And even if he got that far, he’d have to get over this five-foot fence, which has barbed wire. It’s impossible, ladies. Impossible. The only way to this cabin is up that driveway, through us, through cameras and motion sensors that will alert us to his presence long before he reaches you.”
Mary nods her head. “It does seem safe,” she concedes.
I squeeze her hand. “Absolutely,” I say, hoping to convince both of us.
104
THE CABIN is roomy and updated inside. There is a large living room with hardwood floors, a half bath off that room, a decent-size kitchen with a laminated countertop, and two bedrooms in the back with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom between them.
The room I’m in has two twin beds, for Jim Demetrio’s two daughters, I assume. I don’t know anything about his life, but the framed photos on the bureau show Jim at a younger age, with his wife and two preteen girls, waving to the camera on a boat somewhere and, in another shot, the four of them dressed formally at some event. I’m sleeping in a room that belongs to someone else, which always makes me uneasy, unwelcome.
We all meet back in the living room, which is decorated like a hunting lodge, a deer’s head mounted on the wall, a bearskin rug covering the center of the room, antlers on the countertop from which coffee cups hang by their handles.
“This should work,” says Denny. The other federal officers—Getty and the two U.S. marshals—work out their plan for the night and going forward. Two agents will be stationed in their vehicle in the gravel parking lot, one of them sleeping and one of them awake. The other vehicle will be located at the base of the driveway, again with the partners trading off sleep. Each team will have an iPad that will have all of the security cameras and motion sensors accessible.
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