How the hell was he going to tell Darren? For the last two days, he had been prepared, but he had hoped…God, he had hoped.
He fell back into a chair. Shaking his head, he tried to decide his next move.
“Detective,” Dr. Schafer’s voice called to him. “Detective Brophy.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Brophy stood. “I’m going to have to cut our meeting short. You heard?”
Dr. Schafer nodded. “I heard Agent Dunn.”
“I have to…”
“Detective Brophy, I’ll help you if you let me,” Dr. Schafer declared, expressing his frustration of being ignored.
Abruptly, Brophy turned. He asked sharply, “Excuse me, Dr. Schafer, but just what the hell do you think you can do?”
“I know what he has in mind, his plan.” Dr. Schafer held up his file. “You need to read over it. I will also tell you this: that unless he is found next to the girl, dead, I doubt very seriously that he killed her and dumped the body. He has planned this for years…and then just to discard her easily? I doubt it.”
Brophy halted his progress toward the door. Something in his mind clicked. “What did you say?”
“I said that unless his dead body is found next to hers, the female victim isn’t this Cameron Quinn. Think, Detective, how long he has planned this. Even if he has killed her, he would never leave her. He would keep her next to him. He feels she is a part of him. He wouldn't discard her, but I can assure you, he could set a stage to let you believe he did,” Dr. Schafer said defiantly, daring Brophy to question him. “You have investigated his crimes. I can guess that some of his actions were erratic, but they all served a purpose.”
Brophy sat down, this time beside the doctor. His mind thought back to his investigation and how frustrating it had been. Nothing had come together, but looking back, in his own way, perhaps the killer did have a purpose behind every move he made.
“I can assure you, if it is his car, and there is a dead body in it, you won’t be able to identify the body by any means except by what he has left set up for you. Maybe not at all. He will try to lead you to believe it is the girl. It is the way he thinks. I know because I know him and the different sides of this killer.” Dr. Schafer stared Brophy in the eyes. “I told you, I didn’t come all this way to be patted on the back and sent home.”
Chapter Seventeen
Brophy’s priority had become delving into the psyche of Gregory Mobley. He spent the next few days with Dr. Schafer. Gradually, Gregory Mobley’s mental state unfolded before him, and along with it, an understanding.
Schafer had been correct in his assessment of the body found at the scene of the burnt-out car. The body was burnt beyond recognition. The jaw had been crushed. Dental records would be of no use. They found the sweater Cameron had been wearing, with her blood on it, not far from the car; her tag had been discovered in the trunk on the victim.
Dunn didn’t disagree, but for now they couldn’t identify the victim. Without confirmation, the consensus was to release to the press that the victim was believed to be Cameron Quinn. To the world outside these walls, Cameron Quinn was dead. To Brophy, it was a ploy meant to put the killer at ease…letting him believe he had succeeded in his deceit.
Dr. Schafer helped in revealing his insight into the mind of a serial killer. “It’s my belief that my patient that I knew as Raymond Duffy needed my help in controlling his different personas. He used me to do so. It is my fear that this control is only a façade. He won’t be able to maintain it.”
“There is something that has bothered me. The first two murders here in Boston. He made a quick strike and left nothing behind. The third…he set up Zack Quinn. It was like…”
“Two different people,” Dr. Schafer finished Brophy’s train of thought. “It is what I have contended with in this case. The man is unstable and extremely dangerous. To be honest, I’m surprised he hasn’t had another psychotic episode before now, but I suppose living with Cameron suppressed his other personalities. Something triggered this behavior, though. Of that I’m certain.”
Brophy nodded. “The girl was planning on moving out.”
“That would have done it,” Dr. Schafer acknowledged. “It would have awakened his other personas. Fear, worry, guilt, hatred, anger…all emotions conflicting inside him. When I first met Raymond Duffy…your Gregory Mobley…he had experienced a psychotic break. He was a John Doe in our local hospital’s psych ward.
“He had been found roaming around the suburbs of Norfolk, Virginia, naked. I assumed before I met him he was an ODU college student. It’s not that unusual for a young male at that age to exhibit signs of schizophrenia for the first time. That was before I met him.”
“It changed how?”
“The moment I examined him. My preliminary report included the patient complaints—headaches, depression, and a distortion of time. He was young and in good health. He said his family was dead. So he had no known emotional support. His self-presentation was pleasant when he woke, but there was an underlying confidence issue. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. Hints of a damaged personality and evidence of physical abuse. My assumption—as a child.”
“Physical abuse? What kind?”
“Raymond Duffy had been castrated.”
Brophy grimaced. The mention of the act hurt, but the knowledge of abuse would correlate with a fragmented personality.
“We didn’t pull up any history of abuse on Gregory Mobley. The information we had on him was that he was born in Upstate New York. His mother died when he was a baby, his father when he was thirteen. For a couple of years, eighth and ninth, he went to Hull High School. He lived with an aunt. Our information said he became too much for her and he left to go live with distant relatives in Virginia. There was no mention of Mobley being castrated.”
“I wouldn’t suspect there would have been,” Dr. Schafer said. “It is what I’ve been trying to tell you. One of his personae is a computer genius. I have seen Raymond Duffy accomplish anything he wanted over the Internet. It is why I never put his files into my computer. He had a way of finding any information on himself online.”
“You really believe he is that good? I’ve known computer geeks before, but nobody who could do what you are suggesting.”
“Study these files. Go over the facts of your case. Where are the missing files? Have you not come across something you couldn’t explain?”
Brophy nodded, thinking of Luciano and his missing money. Could Mobley have destroyed Luciano by stealing his money and undercutting his every move?
Dr. Schafer continued, “I have surmised that Raymond Duffy is a dominant and aggressive persona. From what I have read about your Greg Mobley, he is shy, withdrawn, and submissive. I believe I saw a glimpse of that personality, but I would have never considered him a danger to anyone else. Raymond Duffy is another matter. His is a distinct protective personality; protective is the polar opposite.”
“How did you come up with this MPD diagnosis?”
Dr. Schafer picked up a large file. He pulled it out. It was filled with handwritten notes. “I oversaw his treatment for over a year. I never addressed a different personality, as I believe it would have been detrimental to the treatment. My concern was his present problems and conflicts. In my opinion, intense psychotherapy was needed.
“Over time, he would leave me these notes. When you have time, read them. They are written in different handwriting, different grammar—some as a young child…others as an extremely intelligent scholar. It was only at the end of his treatment that I began to pick up a hint of an extremely damaged personality. I sensed something dark in his make-up.”
Dr. Schafer flicked through the letters. He found one and pulled it out. “See this one? He talks of his mother. Be warned, it’s graphic. I believe it was this Raymond who wrote that one to shock me. He describes horrible abuse. His father would abuse him…even rape his mother in front of him…”
“Raped his mother? I thought his mother died when he wa
s an infant.”
“Exactly, but read the letters. I believe that his father brought women home to be his mother. When his father died in the auto accident, a woman died alongside him. Raymond called her his mother.”
“From our records, Gregory Mobley’s father died in a car accident alongside an unidentified woman.”
“It’s a pattern. He’s repeating a pattern. He’s grasping at the past. I would theorize that the unidentified woman, his mother, protected him as well as she could, even while enduring probable horrendous abuse herself. It was the only time in his life he felt loved. He wants that again and is trying to recreate it.”
“But, Doc, how could he have gone to school? I talked to a couple of his teachers when he was at Hull. Quiet, with few friends, but a good student.”
“How long was he there for? A couple of years? I’m certain school work would have been no issue with him, but to maintain a normalcy would be difficult. I doubt he was social. I wonder if he had a breakdown at some point and that’s why his aunt sent him away. She couldn’t deal with whatever personality emerged at that point.”
“That I couldn’t answer. His aunt died in a house fire a few years ago…”
Brophy’s voice trailed off. His mind raced with a new thought that perhaps Mobley had set it. It seemed to have been around the time of his return. Brophy made a mental note to himself to look into it further.
“He is a complicated individual, Detective. I was tricked myself. I never suspected he would be capable of such evil in the beginning. It wasn’t until around a year into therapy that I began to feel as if I was manipulated. I didn’t quite understand what he was doing, but since then I believe that Raymond realized that he was in a psychotic break. He desperately needed help. I believe he used me to teach him how to control his other personalities. Then he walked out of my facility.
“In all my thirty-three years, I have never had a patient break out of the lockdown unit, much less walk out. But when he decided he was well, he waited until I went home one night and then simply walked out the door.”
“Something to do with computers I imagine.”
“Hacked into our server and disarmed the alarms.” Schafer nodded. “Even after he left, he would pop up on my computer without warning and leave me a random message. At first, it was to let me know he was okay, but after the Williamsons’ murders…they became menacing, then threatening. So much so, I retired and left the country. I do not own a computer now.”
Brophy stared at Schafer in disbelief. “I’ve met Gregory Mobley. Hell, I’ve interviewed him. This…this is the man who struck fear into your heart?”
“If you can ask that question and know that is the man who has murdered at least seven, possibly eight, people we know of, then, Detective Brophy, I believe you have your answer.”
Brophy thought back to when he first met the suspect. Mobley seemed genuinely concerned about the situation. He had an obvious dislike for Zach Quinn. Instead of insinuating Zach’s guilt, he had informed Brophy that Zach wasn’t smart enough to have committed the crime.
Mobley was cooperative. Brophy hadn’t detected deceit, yet there had been something…
Brophy dug into Schafer’s files. He read the letters Mobley wrote while at Mansfield facility under the name Raymond Duffy. Brophy began to see inside the mind of a madman and it scared him.
* * * *
Cameron came in and out of consciousness. She had long ago lost track of time. There were no windows in the room. The pain had subsided somewhat, although her whole body throbbed. Her back felt like it had been cut into ribbons.
She tried to move. Pain shot through her. Grimacing, she glanced around the room. She had no idea about the movements of her captor. After the whipping he inflicted, he had left her strapped to the wall for what seemed an eternity. Her arms ached; her right arm had felt as though it had been pulled out of its socket.
She didn’t hear his approach, but suddenly her arms were released from her shackles. She fell down on the cold ground. Her heart stopped. He was back.
“Get up,” he commanded.
She hadn’t the energy to fight. She crawled to her feet the best she could, with her arm hanging limp. Roughly, he pushed her, scraping her back.
She screamed as pain seared throughout her body once more. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed her again. This time, she contained her screams.
He laughed. She turned her head and his eyes caught her. Eyes she didn’t know…evil eyes that penetrated hers. She saw within them how much he enjoyed this…the power he had over her.
“You won’t disobey me, now. Will you?”
He waited for her answer. In that moment, she understood her only answer that would not result in pain blistering her back. She nodded slightly. He seemed pleased.
“Walk,” he commanded.
He halted in front of a heavy wooden door. He took a key from his belt and unlocked a dead bolt. He opened the door wide. He sneered, “Go on. Get in.”
She wanted to run far away from the door, but her legs wouldn’t react. Terrified of what lay ahead, she stood frozen. He jerked her arm. She couldn’t contain her scream. With one push, he threw her into a room, a large dark room.
An instant later, a light flicked on above her, brightly lighting the room. Her heart sank. The room, she knew without question, was her prison. A cot faced the far wall. A shower head came out of the wall with a drain underneath. A toilet sat to the side.
No privacy. Everything was laid out in the open, but the room was warm, only bare of anything personal, except for a long chain hook into the concrete wall. Oh, my God! He’s going to keep me chained!
Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. He jerked her back up by her elbow and pulled up the back of her shirt to look at the damage he had done. The blood had dried against the shreds of fabric.
He ripped it off. She felt warmth oozing down her back. She was bleeding. Suddenly, he released his hold and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a shining blade. She cringed in horror as he swung it at her. In one swift motion, he sliced her shirt up its back and yanked. She felt as if her skin had been peeled off. He watched stoically.
He turned on the shower and let it run. He took his blade once more to her back. She could feel the cold blade against her skin. He slid it under her bra and cut it off. Instinctively, she reached up to hold the bra in place. He seemed quite uninterested in viewing her body. He had a mission. In a swift motion, he threw her under the water.
“You have to keep your wounds clean to heal. That is, if you want to heal,” he said.
From what seemed a distance, she heard him talking. The shock of the water against her made her feel dizzy. She saw his lips moving, could hear sounds, but couldn’t comprehend. She felt nausea. She saw everything around her spin. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell back.
When she awoke, warmth surrounded her. A blanket had been placed loosely over her as she lay on her stomach. She had been dreaming. It was screams that had brought her back out of unconsciousness, but they weren’t hers. She tried to regain her senses. She moved her leg. It was heavy, caught on something. She reached down. She was shackled to the wall.
She sighed; she couldn’t move. She heard screaming again—a girl, she guessed, from the inflection. Ghastly cries for help. Laughter came next, and echoed within the walls of her prison. She tried to move, but again pain engulfed her. She cried. Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. The realization that this was no dream overcame her. She was trapped in a never-ending nightmare.
* * * *
Cameron heard him approach once again and unconsciously shrank back against the dry wall along the bed’s edge. She had heard the stairs creak above her as he thumped down the stairs. The key clicked the lock and opened the door. She lay still, hoping against all hope he would ignore her.
He had come down to her prison in an inconsistent manner. This was not the Greg she had known, but it had become obvious she had never kno
wn him.
Time was elusive. She had no idea how much time had elapsed. At times, she felt as if she wasn’t going to make it. The pain throbbed from her back, her arm and down her legs. She had gone without food for an extended period. Then he appeared as if a small child.
His manner had changed. He was gentle and cared for her. He medicated her back with cream that eased the throbbing. Her arm regained feeling, but the use of it was limited.
This Greg fed her, cared for her, and clothed her in old flannel pajamas. Old-fashioned pajamas, ones she thought she remembered her mother wearing: two pieces, a V neck top with elastic waistband pants. It didn’t matter. They kept her warm.
Eager to please her, this Greg tried to comfort Cameron. He sat next to her on the small cot, crowding her as if he couldn’t get close enough to her. Cameron wanted to screech for him not to touch her, but her gut feeling told her to swallow her scream if she wanted to live.
He laid down beside her, touching her, but not in a sexual way—much like a young child would do to cuddle with his mother. She realized he didn’t want her mad at him, but wanted to be loved by her. After all he had done, he wanted a mother.
She whimpered in pain when he edged closer.
“Don’t,” she cried. She couldn’t control her instinct to recoil from him.
Immediately, she saw the hurt in his eyes. Gone were the enraged eyes—replaced by the eyes of a terrified child.
“Momma. It’s me, Greggie. He’s gone,” the voice pleaded, the voice of a ten-year-old child coming from a grown man. “I’m keeping watch. You sleep. I’ll take care of you.”
Cameron huddled against the bare wall. A fear lived within her. A young child’s voice poured from a grown man—exuded from a grown man—but she was well aware that a brutal, murderous being lived within that body. Her eyes quickly turned back to Greg bending down by her bedside. She had to control the panic that was growing within her.
“Momma, Momma,” he cried. “Are you okay? Be still. You’re hurt.”
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