The Soul Catcher

by Alex Kava

  “Why are you being so understanding? I thought you were still pissed at me, too.”

  “I’m pissed with Garrison. Not you,” Maggie said without looking over at Racine. Instead, she sorted through the photos of Ginny Brier. Something about the close-ups bothered her. What was it?

  “I meant the DeLong case.”

  Maggie stopped at a close-cropped shot of Ginny Brier’s face, but she could feel Racine’s eyes on her. So the DeLong case was still bothering her, too.

  “You were pretty upset with me.” Racine wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she was feeling she needed some absolution. “I made a mistake and some evidence got leaked. Is that why you’re still so pissed at me?”

  This time Maggie glanced at her. “It almost cost us the conviction.” She went back to the shot of Ginny Brier’s face, the eyes staring directly out at her. Something was different about this photo, about her eyes. What the hell was it?

  “But it didn’t cost us the conviction,” Racine insisted. “It all worked out.” She wasn’t finished. “Sometimes I wonder…” she hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why you got so pissed at me.”

  Now Maggie looked at her, meeting her eyes and waiting for Racine to get whatever it was she needed off her chest, although she had a pretty good idea what it was. “What exactly are you talking about?”

  “Are you still pissed at me because I made a mistake and leaked evidence? Or are you still pissed at me because I made a pass at you?”

  “Both were unprofessional,” Maggie said without hesitation and without any emotion. “I have little patience for colleagues who are unprofessional.” She went back to the photos, but she could feel the detective still watching, still waiting. “That’s it, Racine. There really isn’t anything more to it. Now, can we get on with this case?” She handed her the photo. “What’s different about this one?”

  Racine shifted her stance, but Maggie could tell the woman wasn’t quite comfortable about moving on. “Different how?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Maggie said, rubbing at her own eyes and feeling the effects of too much Scotch from the night before. “Maybe I need to see the other crime scene photos. Do we have those handy?”

  But Racine didn’t make an attempt to search. “Do you still think I’m unprofessional? I mean with this case?”

  Maggie stopped and turned to face the detective. They were eye level, almost the same height. The normally cocky detective waited for an answer with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the photo on the table’s surface. She held Maggie’s eyes in that same tough stare she probably thought she had perfected, but there was something—a slight vulnerability in her eyes as they blinked, darted to one side then quickly returned, as if it took a conscious and silent reminder not to flinch.

  “I haven’t had any complaints,” Maggie finally said. Then she relinquished a smile and added, “Yet.”

  Racine rolled her eyes, but Maggie could see the relief.

  “Tell me what you know about Ben Garrison,” Maggie said, hoping to get back to work, despite the nagging sensation she had about Ginny Brier’s dead eyes, staring out from Garrison’s illicit photos.

  “You mean other than that he’s an arrogant, lying bastard?”

  “It sounds like you worked with him before.”

  “Years ago, he sometimes moonlighted for second shift as a crime scene photographer when I was with Vice,” Racine said. “He’s always been an arrogant bastard, even before he became a big-shot photojournalist.”

  “Any famous shots I may have seen?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of Time. The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”

  “Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”

  Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”

  “And what have you heard?”

  “I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”

  “What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”

  “Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”

  “I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she was in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”

  The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”

  “Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”

  Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up, Maggie knew she was right. Racine added, “He’s starting to forget a lot of stuff lately.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “Early symptoms, but yeah.”

  She looked away again, but not before Maggie caught a glimpse of vulnerability in the tough, wise-cracking detective’s eyes. Then she began sorting through Garrison’s stuff as if looking for something and asked, “What do we do about Everett? Everett and his little gang of boys?”

  “Are the photos enough for an arrest warrant?”

  “For this Brandon kid, I’d say definitely. We have these photos and an eyewitness that puts him with Ginny Brier in the hours before her murder.”

  “If we can get a DNA sample, I bet we’ve got a match to the semen.”

  “We’ll need to have the warrant served at the compound,” Racine said. “We might not have any idea what we’re walking into out there.”

  “Call Cunningham. He’ll know what to do. It’ll probably require an HRT unit.” As soon as she said it, Maggie thought of Delaney. “Hopefully this won’t get messy. How long do you think it’ll take to get a warrant?”

  “For the possible murder suspect of a senator’s daughter?” Racine smiled. “I think we should have one before the end of the day.”

  “I need to make a quick trip down to Richmond, but I’ll be back.”

  “Ganza said he needed to talk to you. He left a message earlier.”

  “Any idea what about?” But Maggie was already headed for the door.

  “Not sure. Something about an old police report and a possible DNA sample?”

 
; Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time. Besides, maybe it was a different case. “I’ll call him from the road.”

  “Wait a minute.” Racine stopped her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “To try to talk some sense into a very stubborn woman.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Gwen slid into the window seat while Tully shoved their bags into the overhead compartment. During the cab ride to Logan International Airport, they had managed to fill the awkward silences with niceties about the weather and some details about the crime scene. So far they had avoided talking about last night and what Nick Morrelli’s phone call had interrupted. She caught herself thinking that it might be best if they pretended it had never happened. Then she realized how stupid that probably was for a psychologist to even consider. Okay, so she wasn’t good at practicing what she preached.

  He took the seat next to her, fumbling with his seat belt and watching the other passengers file onto the plane. It looked like it wouldn’t be a full flight. With no one to occupy the aisle seat there would be more opportunity for them to talk. Oh, wonderful!

  Tully mentioned that he hadn’t gotten back to the hotel until almost sunrise. Maybe he would want to sleep. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened between them last night.

  She knew it wasn’t unusual for two people who had just gone through a crisis to be drawn together in a way they ordinarily would never consider. And yesterday’s attempt on her life could certainly be considered a crisis. Of course that was exactly what had happened.

  The flight attendants began the preflight procedure, and Tully watched as though he was captivated and had never flown before, an obvious giveaway that he, too, was uncomfortable. Now Gwen wished she had bought a paperback at the airport bookstore. At this rate, the sixty-minute flight would be excruciatingly long.

  Once they were in the air, Tully brought his briefcase out from under the seat. With it in his lap, he suddenly seemed more comfortable, a sort of this-is-strictly-business security blanket.

  “I talked to O’Dell,” he said while he flipped through a mess of papers, shoving pens, a day-planner and a clump of paper clips out of the way.

  Gwen immediately wondered if he actually used the day-planner. Then she caught herself wondering what Maggie would think when she found out about last night, and about Gwen breaking her own golden rule of not getting involved with a man she worked with. But nothing had happened. They hadn’t had time to get…involved.

  Tully brought out some copies of crime scene photos and was pointing out similarities. “O’Dell said that photographer, the one who sold the crime scene photos to the Enquirer, has photos of Reverend Everett’s boys mauling women in Boston Common yesterday.”

  “You’re kidding. Yesterday?” Now he had her attention. “How did he just happen to be in Boston?”

  “Supposedly, he overheard something about an initiation rite when he was shooting photos at the District’s prayer rally. O’Dell said last night’s victim is one of the women, and that it should be easy to identify the young men, too. Several of the boys show up in photos with Everett at the prayer rally, so there’s our connection.”

  “This is starting to sound too easy. If Everett’s boys are involved in the murders, why would Everett allow them to be photographed?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know they were.”

  “How did Maggie manage to get these photos from Garrison?”

  Tully shook his head, and Gwen could see a slight smile. “Not sure, and I don’t even want to know.”

  Gwen laughed. “So I gather you already know my good friend quite well.”

  “Let me just say that sometimes she’s a little more willing than I am to skip over procedure.”

  “You’re a by-the-book kind of guy?”

  “Yeah, I try to be. Something wrong with that?”

  “I didn’t say there was.”

  He looked over at her as if he expected more of an explanation, then he said, “It sounded like you wanted to attach a but to that.”

  “No, not at all. I was just wondering how last night played into your rules-and-procedure book.”

  He actually turned a slight shade of red and quickly looked away. Gwen followed his lead and looked in the other direction, out the window. Oh, smooth move, Patterson, she scolded herself. Who would ever guess she had a doctorate in psychology.

  “I suppose we should talk about last night,” he finally said.

  “We don’t need to talk about it,” she found herself saying, all the while thinking that yes, they did. What was wrong with her? “I just don’t want it to get in the way of us working together.”

  God, how pathetic. Where did she come up with this stuff? She should stop and yet she found herself continuing. “It was simply the crisis.”

  He was looking at her, waiting. She didn’t think she had to explain it to him, but obviously she would. “A crisis can often make people act in a way they might not normally act.”

  “We weren’t in the middle of a crisis then.”

  “No, of course not. It doesn’t have to be during the crisis. It’s the effect of the crisis.”

  He went back to his computer and punched at a couple of keys to close a file he had just opened. Without looking up at her, he said, “Sounds like you’d rather we pretend it didn’t happen.”

  She glanced at him, looking for some sign of what he wanted. But with the computer screen to distract him, he kept his eyes ahead, now watching the flight attendant’s serving cart coming down the aisle as if he couldn’t wait for his beverage and package of pretzels.

  “Look, Tully, I have to admit—” She stopped herself, something only now occurring to her. “Should I be calling you R.J.? And what does R.J. stand for?”

  He grimaced. Another wrong thing to say. Oh, she was definitely good at this.

  “All my friends call me Tully.”

  She waited, then realized that was all she was getting. So much for intimacy. Last night had been about sex and nothing more. Why did that suddenly surprise her? Wasn’t that all it had been to her? Thank God for Morrelli’s interruption.

  “What were you going to admit?” he asked, looking over at her. “You started to say that you had to admit something?”

  “Just that I had to admit I wasn’t quite sure what to call you. That’s all,” she said, while some inner voice told her what a good liar she was.

  But how could she admit that last night had been surprising and incredible and then say, So let’s forget it, okay? She had managed to keep her life uncomplicated for years now. Seemed a shame to throw all that away for one surprisingly pleasant encounter.

  “So we chalk it up to the crisis of the moment,” Tully said with a casual shrug, not able to hide just a hint of…a hint of what? Disappointment? Sarcasm?

  “Yes. I think it’s best that we do that,” she told him.

  She imagined Freud would have a perfect word for what she was doing, for what she was telling herself, for how she was handling this situation. Although she couldn’t quite imagine Freud actually saying the word “bullshit” out loud.

  CHAPTER 61

  This time Maggie remembered to exit I-95 before she reached the turnpike. She ended up on Jefferson Davis Highway, and as she crossed the James River she realized she would probably need to do some backtracking to get to her mother’s. Two trips in two days—she should be able to do this without a hitch. After all, she had spent her adolescent years here until she left for good to go to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. Yet this city had never felt like home. At that point in her life, no place on earth would have felt like home. No place, that is, without her father.

  After his death, Maggie had never understood why her mother insisted they move from Green Bay to Richmond. Why wouldn’t they want to stay in their home surrounded by people who knew and loved them, comforted by the memories? Unless, of course, there had been an affair and gossip, rumors…No, it had to be a lie. She wouldn’t allow the
thought, wouldn’t dignify it with…Except why had they moved? Had her mother ever given her a reason?

  Kathleen O’Dell had plopped them down in the middle of a strange and unfamiliar place, a place she had never visited nor even heard of before. And her mother’s only explanation…What? What had it been? Something about a fresh start, a new beginning. Right. A fresh start after every failed suicide attempt. So many of them Maggie had stopped counting.

  But here she was again, trying to rescue her mother once more.

  She pulled up in front of her mother’s apartment building, driving around the huge white paneled truck that took up five prime parking spaces. Several men were loading the truck with furniture while a small gray-haired man propped open the apartment building’s security door. So much for security.

  It wasn’t until Maggie walked up the front sidewalk and past the truck that she recognized the flowered love seat the men were shoving into the back. Immediately, she glanced up at her mother’s second-floor apartment and noticed all the curtains gone from the windows. The stab of panic caught her off guard.

  “Excuse me.” She stopped the small gray-haired man who seemed to be supervising the move. “I recognize some of these items. What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. O’Dell is selling out.”

  “You mean moving out?”

  “Well, I’m sure she’s moving someplace else, but no, I meant selling out.”

  The confusion must have shown on her face, because he went on to explain, “I’m Frank Bartle.” He dug into his jacket pocket and handed her a business card. “Al and Frank’s Antiques and Secondhand Treasures. We’re down on Kirby. If you see something here you like, we’ll have it ready to sell next week.”

  “But I don’t understand why she would sell everything. I guess I should go up and ask her myself, rather than bother you.”

  “’Fraid you won’t be able to do that.”

  “I promise I won’t get in your men’s way.” She smiled and started for the door.