by Chelsea Cain
Archie shook his head. “We’ve pulled every unsolved rape over the last twenty years. No good fits.”
They came to an intersection. If Archie had been alone, he would have walked against the light, but because Anne was there, he pushed the pedestrian button and waited.
“Look out of state. If you can’t find anything, it means that the rapes weren’t reported, which is useful in itself.”
Archie considered this. “He has power over women.”
“Or used to,” Anne commented.
“He loses his power; he compensates with violence.”
Anne nodded several times, her jaw working. “I’m thinking a steady evolution of sexual assaults, followed by some sort of stresser at work or home. He’s probably had violent sexual fantasies since he was a child, but he was able to quell them with porn and the early rapes. Then he decides to take it further. Plans it. Carries it off. And he gets away with it.”
“So he does it again.” Archie sighed. The light changed, finally, and they walked across to the other side of the street and started heading back south. It wasn’t much of a walk. But it felt good to move.
“Yes. And gets away with it again. So now the societal boundaries that he’s always been uncomfortable with are seriously eroding. I think that part of him, that first time, fully expected to get caught. Maybe he even wanted to get caught, to be punished for his deviant fantasies. But he wasn’t. So now he’s thinking that the law doesn’t apply to him. He’s feeling special.”
“And the bleach? Is it a purification ritual, or is he studiously destroying forensic evidence?”
He could see Anne bite her lip. “I don’t know. It doesn’t fit. If he cares about them enough to kill them, why is he bathing them in corrosive chemicals? But it’s overkill as a cleansing agent. And I think our guy is meticulous enough to avoid overkill. He would know exactly how much, and not use any more.”
“He dumped a body the day before Valentine’s Day,” Archie said.
“It’s not a coincidence.”
“The murders are intimate for him,” Archie said softly. “He’s choosing them.”
“This guy’s smart,” Anne said. “He’s educated. He’s got a job. He’s transporting the bodies, so he has access to a vehicle. And probably to a boat. Based on his victim window, I’d say he works banker’s hours. White, male. He would look unremarkable. Functional. Presentable. If it is an evolution, he’s well into his thirties, possibly forties. He’s detail-oriented and manipulative. He’s taking an enormous risk snatching these girls off public streets. He’s confident, arrogant even. And he’s got a ruse. He’s got a ruse to get these girls to go with him.”
“Like Bundy’s cast?”
“Or Bianchi playing cop, or car trouble, or he says he’s a modeling scout, or says that the parents have been in an accident and offers to take the girl to the hospital.” She shook her head dismissively. “But it’s better than that. It’s brilliant. Because whatever he’s using, he got Kristy to go with him, after two girls had already been murdered.”
Archie thought of plump, brown-haired Kristy Mathers dragging her broken bike across the street, just blocks from home. Where was the bike? If he’d grabbed her, why take the bike? And if he did take the bike, then his car had to be big enough to get it in quickly. “If she went with him voluntarily, she had to know him.”
“If we accept that premise, yes, she had to know him.” They were standing in the bank parking lot. “This is me,” Anne said, putting her hand on the roof of a rented burgundy Mustang.
“I’m going to interview the teachers and staff again tomorrow,” Archie said. “Just the men who fit the profile.” His headache was getting bad. It was like having a permanent hangover.
“You going home tonight, or are you going to sleep in your chair?”
Archie glanced at his watch and was startled to see that it was 11:00 P.M. “I just need another couple hours to finish up,” he said.
She clicked the car door unlocked and threw her purse in on the passenger seat and then turned back to Archie. “If you ever want to talk,” she said with a helpless shrug, “I am a psychiatrist.”
“Who specializes in the criminally insane.” He smiled wanly. “I’m going to try not to read into that.”
He noticed then, under the harsh security lights of the parking lot, how much she had aged over the last few years. There were lines around her eyes, and a few fine strings of gray in her hair. She still looked better than he did.
“Did she fit it at all?” she said.
Archie knew whom she meant. “She manipulated the profile, Anne. You know that.”
Anne smiled darkly. “I was convinced the killer was a man. That he was working alone. I didn’t even consider the possibility of a female. Yet you suspected her. Despite the bad profile. The way she infiltrated her way into the investigation, it’s textbook psychopathic behavior. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
“She fed me exactly enough that I would need to go to her, and not enough that I would be careful. It was a trap. I went there because she played me. Not because of my investigative prowess.”
“She knew you wanted to solve that case more than anything. Psychopaths are excellent at reading people.”
You have no idea, thought Archie.
“In any case,” Anne said, sighing, “I’m at the Heathman. If you change your mind. About talking.”
“Anne?”
She spun back. “Yes?”
“Thanks for the offer.”
She stood there for another moment in her leopard-print boots, as if she wanted to say something more. Something like “Sorry your life went to shit,” or “I know what you’re thinking about doing,” or “Let me know if you want a referral to a nice quiet institution.” Or maybe she was just thinking about getting back to the hotel so she could call her children. It didn’t really matter. Archie waited for her to drive off and then he went back into his office, snapped the tape recorder back on, closed his eyes, and listened to Fred Doud talk about Kristy Mathers’s terrible corpse.
CHAPTER 19
Archie woke from a groggy, unsatisfying sleep, to find Henry standing over him. The office light was on. Archie was still sitting in his desk chair.
“You spent the night,” Henry said.
Archie blinked, disoriented. “What time is it?”
“Five.” Henry set a paper cup of coffee from the break room on Archie’s desk.
Archie’s ribs were sore. His head throbbed; even his teeth hurt. He rolled his neck to one side until he heard it pop. Henry was dressed in black pants and a crisp black T-shirt. He smelled like aftershave. Archie picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was strong, and he winced reflexively as it went down. “You’re here early,” Archie said.
“I got a call from Martin,” Henry said, sitting in the chair across from Archie’s desk. “He’s been vetting the custodians. They work for a company called Amcorp that contracts with the district. The school board laid off all their janitors last year during the budget crisis. Then brought in Amcorp because it was cheaper. They’re supposed to have criminal-background checks on file.”
“But?”
“They’ve got them for some, motor vehicle checks for some,” Henry said. “They’re all over the place. Shoddy. Martin’s been running names. One came back bad. Public exposure.”
“What school does he work at?” Archie asked.
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Jefferson in the mornings, Cleveland in the afternoons. He’s also worked at Lincoln.”
It was a lot of access. But there were a lot of people with a lot of access. “Anyone talk to him yet?” Archie asked.
“Claire. After the first girl turned up dead. He said he was working. A few of the kids reported seeing him around after school. The contractor said he was clean.”
Archie had read the reports. The team had interviewed 973 people since the first girl had disappeared. Claire had interviewed 314 of them herself. Maybe she had cleared
the custodian too quickly. “But he was at Cleveland when Lee disappeared?”
“Right,” Henry said.
Archie placed his hands on his desk and stood. “What are we still doing here?”
“Car’s out front.” Henry looked down at Archie’s wrinkled shirt. “You need to go home and change?”
Archie shook his head. “No time.” He grabbed his coffee and his jacket and let Henry walk out of the office first, so he could slip three pills in his mouth. He didn’t like to take the Vicodin on an empty stomach, but he didn’t see any breakfast in his immediate future.
Martin, Josh, and Claire were already at their desks in the squad room. There were tips to track down, patrols to coordinate, alibis to check and double-check. School would be starting in a few hours, and their killer was still out there. A clock hung on the wall, left over from the bank. A slogan printed on its face read TIME TO BANK WITH FRIENDS. Next to it someone had posted a sign scrawled on a piece of copy paper. REMEMBER: TIME IS OUR ENEMY.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Archie asked Henry as they exited the bank and walked into the parking lot. Dawn was just breaking and the air was cold and gray.
“Went by your place,” Henry said. “Where else would you be?” He got in the driver’s side of the car and Archie walked around and got in the passenger side. Henry hadn’t started the car yet. He was just sitting there.
“How many are you taking?” Henry asked. His hands were on the steering wheel and his eyes were on the windshield.
“Not as many as I’d like.”
“I thought you were going to cut back,” Henry said softly.
Archie laughed, remembering his worst days, a haze of codeine so thick, he’d thought he might drown in it. “I have.”
Henry tightened his fists on the wheel until they went white. Archie could see the scarlet rising on his neck. Henry worked his jaw for a moment, his blue eyes hard. “Don’t assume that our friendship will prevent me from getting you back on medical leave if I start to think that you’re too high to work.” He turned and looked, for the first time, at Archie. “I’ve already done way more than I’m comfortable with for you.”
Archie nodded at his friend. “I know,” he said.
Henry raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” Archie said again.
“This thing with Gretchen,” Henry said between gritted teeth. “These weekly meetings. It’s fucked up, my friend. I don’t give a shit how many corpses she unearths for us. At some point”—he looked Archie right in the eye—“you have got to let it go.”
Archie froze, afraid to show any reaction; afraid that Henry might see how much he cared. Henry was worried enough about Archie. Archie couldn’t let Henry see how important those weekly meetings had become to him. Archie needed Gretchen. At least until he figured out what she wanted from him. “I need more time,” he said carefully. “I’ve got it under control.”
Henry pulled his sunglasses out of the pocket of his leather jacket, snapped them on, and started the car. He sighed and shook his head. “You better fucking well have.”
The custodian was named Evan Kent. Archie and Henry found him painting over graffiti on the north wall of the main building at Jefferson. The paint was a bad match and the fire engine red rectangle stood out on the faded bricks. The wall had been painted over many times through the years and was covered with dozens of uneven blocks of varying shades that formed a sort of ad hoc abstract painting. Kent looked to be in his mid-thirties, and he was fit, with dark hair and an attentively trimmed goatee. His blue coveralls were spotless.
It was still an hour before classes started, and the campus was quiet. An impromptu memorial had formed at the chain-link fence at the front of the school. Bouquets were twisted into the fence, ribbons hung limp, stuffed animals sat abandoned. Photographs of Kristy were glued onto cardboard signs and decorated with glittery stickers and puffy paint. WE LOVE YOU. U R ALWAYS R ANGEL. GOD BLESS. The eastern skyline was bubblegum pink and the first birds of spring sat dark and plump on the telephone lines, their chattering a distant music. A patrol car was parked on each side of the school, and private security guards stood at each entrance. The lights on the patrol cars were on, to increase their presence, making the school look even more like a crime scene. Just another day of public education.
“I was taking a piss,” Kent said as Archie and Henry approached.
“Excuse me?” Henry said.
Kent continued to paint. The paint-heavy brush made a slapping sound against the bricks. Archie noticed a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on Kent’s forearm. It was new, the color brilliant. “The indecent exposure rap? I was taking a piss after a show got out downtown,” Kent explained. “Maybe not my brightest moment. But I had to pee. I paid the fine.”
“You left it off the job application,” Archie said.
“I needed the job,” Kent said. He stepped back and examined the job he’d done. There was no trace of what had been written, only the smell of fresh paint and a new glistening bloodred rectangle. “I’ve got a philosophy degree, so employment opportunities are not exactly plentiful. And I’m diabetic. Without insurance, I’m spending eighty bucks a week on insulin and needles.”
“Boo-hoo,” said Henry.
Kent’s posture stiffened defensively and he looked at Henry. “Hey, man, health insurance is a real problem in this country.”
Archie stepped slightly forward. “Where were you between five and seven on February second and March seventh?” he asked Kent.
Kent turned to Archie, his shoulders dropping. “Working. I do afternoons at Cleveland. I’m generally on until six.”
“Then what?” Archie asked.
Kent shrugged. “I go home. Or to band practice. Or to a bar.”
“You drink?” Henry said. “I thought you said you were a diabetic.”
“I am. And I do,” Kent said. “That’s why I need the insulin. Look, the day the kid from Jefferson disappeared, my Dart broke down. I had to call my roommate, and he came and gave me a jump. Ask him.” He gave Archie his roommate’s name and cell phone number and Archie wrote the information down in his notebook. “And why don’t you do something about all the fucking media trespassing on school grounds? They’re wigging out the kids. And they don’t get their facts straight.”
Archie and Henry exchanged glances. How did Kent know which facts were straight?
Kent’s face reddened and he jammed a toe into the grass. Then asked, “You going to tell Amcorp about my record?”
“That would be the coplike thing to do,” Henry said.
Kent smirked. “Where were the cops when those girls were taken off the street by some psycho?”
Henry turned to Archie and said loudly enough for Kent to hear, “You like him for it?”
Archie made a show of examining Kent while the custodian stood shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Archie’s stare. “He’s handsome,” Archie conceded. “I could see girls going with him. His age is in the profile range.”
Kent’s cheeks colored.
Henry widened his eyes incredulously. “You think he’s handsome?”
“Not as handsome as you,” Archie reassured him.
“I have work to do,” Kent said, picking up his bucket of paint and his brush.
“One thing,” Archie said to him.
“Yeah?” Kent said.
“The graffiti. What did it say?”
Kent looked at each of them a minute. “‘We’re all going to die,’” he said finally. He stared at the ground and shook his head. Then laughed and looked back up, his dark eyes flashing. “With a goddamn smiley face.”
CHAPTER 20
Susan sat at the Great Writer’s blue desk near the window, watching the pedestrian lunchtime traffic go in and out of the Whole Foods that was catty-corner to her building. The first story was written and sent. She hated this part. She hated waiting for the affirmation from Ian, but she craved it. She hit REFRESH on her E-mail display. Nothing. She was fille
d with a sudden overwhelming certainty that he hated it. He abhorred her pathetic attempt at literary journalism. She had blown her one shot to write something big. They would probably fire her. She couldn’t even bring herself to reread it—sure that she would see every typo, every passive voice, every lame excuse for a sentence. She hit REFRESH again. Nothing. Catching the time on the monitor, she scrambled to the Great Writer’s velvet sofa, curled up, and turned on the midday news. Archie Sheridan’s face filled the screen and a crawl announced that this was a special report. He looked tired. Or was the word weary ? But he had shaved and brushed his dark hair and his lined, hangdog face held a certain authority. She longed to feel that in control.
She watched Archie grimly confirm the death of Kristy Mathers, and then the screen switched back to a pair of daytime local news anchors who bantered in trepidation about the human monster at large and then segued right into a special report on the sudden dearth of rain in the Willamette Valley. The press conference had been at ten o’clock, which meant that it had been over for almost two hours. She wondered what Archie Sheridan was doing now.
The phone rang, and Susan nearly tripped trying to get to it before the third ring, when the voice mail would pick up. She saw the caller ID and knew immediately who it was.
“I love it,” Ian said without introduction.
Susan felt the morning’s tension bleed from her shoulders in an instant. “Really?”
“It’s great. That juxtaposition of walking in the dead girl’s steps at Cleveland and then finding Kristy Mathers’s body—it’s exactly what we wanted, babe. There’s not much about Sheridan in here. You’ve hooked us: Now I want Sheridan dismembered, so we can see his beating heart.”
“That’s for next week,” Susan said happily, pouring herself a cup of cold coffee and putting it in the microwave. “Leave the assholes wanting more, right?”
“The assholes?”
