by Brenda Novak
She stiffened again. “You’ve identified that … that arm? It was her?”
“DNA will have to confirm it, and that takes time. But some of the guys who were with her recognized the unusual purple fingernail polish.”
Evelyn closed her eyes. “I guess it’s better to know.” Except Danielle’s murder confirmed that both victims were employees of Hanover House.
“It’s a step in the right direction.”
“Did you get the contact information for those HH employees I e-mailed you?”
“I did. But what about the others? The ones you left blank?”
“If there’s no contact information it’s because we don’t have anyone on our roster by that name.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Shit. Now I’ll have to track those guys down some other way, if I can.” There was a brief pause in which he yawned or scratched his face or something. “I just wish there were more hours in the day.”
“You sound exhausted.”
“So do you. You ready to leave work?”
“Not quite.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Call my trooper post when you pack up? I want to know when you leave and when you get home.”
“Okay, but … it might be a while.”
“Why? After the past couple of nights, you shouldn’t be putting in such long hours. You need to conserve your strength. I’m afraid this is going to turn out to be more of a marathon than a sprint.”
She didn’t want to hear that; she wanted it to be over now. “I’m just waiting for the cleaning crew.”
“Why do you need to do that?”
“They’re the only ones with a key to Dr. Fitzpatrick’s office.”
There was a slight pause. Then he said, “Why do you need to get into his office?”
“I’d like to take a look around.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Evelyn. What if he were to catch you? Or find out about it later?”
“Fitzpatrick is up to something, Amarok. I have to get to the bottom of it—to save my job, my career, my sanity. Maybe even my life.”
“You could be taking an unnecessary risk.”
“He’s diligent about locking his office for a reason. The rest of us usually don’t bother. Our offices are inside a prison, for God’s sake. Which tells me he doesn’t want me or one of the other doctors poking around in there.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Since the janitors are the only ones with a key, besides him, I’m hoping to put some tape or gum on the door so it won’t lock again when they leave.”
“Your relationship with Fitzpatrick seems to have deteriorated.”
“We’ve been at each other’s throats all week, and the situation grew a great deal more … tense today.” She told him about Hugo getting stabbed, the forged transfer order and the accusation she’d launched that Fitzpatrick was behind the murders.
“Holy hell, Evelyn. Don’t provoke him. I don’t trust that bastard.”
“Maybe the accusation will rattle him enough that he’ll panic and make a mistake.”
“Or he’ll try to hurt you in some way.”
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe Hugo!”
“I’m keeping an open mind. If psychopaths are as common as you say, there’s no reason Fitzpatrick can’t be one.”
“Not all killers are psychopaths.”
“To do what this killer has done, he’d almost have to be.”
“I agree. But … it’s crazy that I’m even considering taking the word of a convicted killer over the psychiatrist I work with.”
“There’s some basis for it. You mentioned yourself that Fitzpatrick might’ve had Hugo shanked because he was talking. And there is a Tim in Danielle’s book.”
“I saw that. But, as I noted, we have a maintenance man here by the same name.”
“Tim Hancock.”
He’d looked over what she’d sent. “Right. So I’m not sure we can draw any conclusions from that piece of the puzzle.”
“I’ll go visit Mr. Hancock as soon as possible, probably in the morning. See if I can determine if he was ever with Danielle. If not, I’ll be visiting Fitzpatrick next.”
“I wish I could be there to see that. You two are as compatible as oil and water.”
“I told you, I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t anymore, either. But even if Mr. Hancock says he isn’t the Tim in Danielle’s book—that doesn’t mean Fitzpatrick is.”
“What are the chances it could be someone else? We’re not a big community, especially this time of year.”
“The chances aren’t huge, but I can’t imagine any prosecutor being willing to build a case on a first name.”
“That wouldn’t be the entire case. We could line up both Tims and bring out a ruler.”
In spite of everything, the mental image of that nearly made her laugh. “If Dr. Fitzpatrick was one of her partners, he’ll be mortified when he finds out she recorded that information.”
“I wish it could’ve been the length of their noses or something. Then maybe we could measure.”
“A last name would’ve been nice. She put that down for some of the men—like Snowden and Dugall. Why couldn’t she have done it for all?”
“Maybe because this one was such a central figure it felt redundant?”
“Or there would be scandal involved, some reason to keep it more private than the rest.”
“Either scenario points to Fitzpatrick over a janitor.”
“True.”
“Tell me, does Fitzpatrick have much interaction with a CO by the name of Emilio Kush?” he asked.
“We all do,” she replied. “Why? Emilio wasn’t on the list you sent me. I would’ve recognized his name—first or last—immediately.”
“He wasn’t on the part I kept, either. But he was aware of Danielle’s activities.”
The hair stood up on the back of Evelyn’s neck. Emilio Kush was the sergeant who’d gone to Fitzpatrick when she’d asked him to bring Anthony Garza from his cell. “How do you know?”
“He and one other CO—Eddie Petrowski—were in the back room, lining up a train for Danielle and placing bets on whether or not she could make it all the way through.”
Evelyn shook her head in disappointment. “I can’t believe any of my COs would be involved. Especially Emilio Kush. He’s so … by the book.”
“Several of Danielle’s partners gave me the same names. I can’t imagine there could be any mistake.”
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Were they charging to have sex with her?”
“Not when they were with her at the Moosehead. But several of the men I spoke to reported hearing them make statements that suggested they had some type of arrangement with her when it came to HH inmates.”
“Which means … what? They’re only charging the incarcerated?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me.”
“But putting her in a cell with almost any of these guys—that’s dangerous. If she were to get hurt or killed, it’d be their fault. Why would they be so foolhardy?”
“Because prostituting her to the inmates could be very lucrative. Since the inmates can’t get a piece of ass any other way, I’m sure they’d pay a lot—and do whatever they can to raise what they don’t have.”
“So why would Kush be stupid enough to divulge what he did?”
“It was actually Eddie Petrowski who did the talking. He was drunk and couldn’t resist the urge to brag a bit, I suppose. Kush tried to claim he was full of shit, but, as far as I’m concerned, that’s what lends it so much credibility.”
Evelyn pictured Emilio with the pretty woman he’d brought to the Christmas party—his wife. They had three small children. Eddie Petrowski was single and about ten years younger than Kush, maybe thirty. On the surface, they didn’t seem to have a lot in common. Emilio was five-foot-ten or so and stock
y, with dark hair and eyes. Eddie was tall and stringy with red hair and blue eyes. But they’d been almost inseparable since the day they first met when Hanover House opened.
Had Kush proven to be Petrowski’s downfall? Kush had to be the leader. No way could it be Eddie. Eddie just didn’t have that sort of thing in him. “The warden’s brought in a few of his most trustworthy COs to keep an eye on the other officers.”
“I hope he can come up with some answers. I could use a break.”
She glanced at the window. It’d started snowing earlier in the afternoon. Now the wind was picking up, too. “The weather certainly isn’t cooperating.”
“Not entirely. But this storm isn’t supposed to be a bad one. It’s the next one I’m worried about. The one that’s coming over the weekend.”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t let my parents talk me into going home.”
She hadn’t really been thinking when she made that statement, not about the implications about her feelings for him. But when he made no immediate response, she could tell he’d taken it personally that she could be so cavalier about leaving him behind.
“Really?” he said at length. “We don’t have anything here you like?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said.
“Come on. You’re a short-timer. I’ve always known it.” He suddenly acted as if it didn’t matter to him either way, which made her wonder if she’d hurt him. She couldn’t imagine she held that much power with the handsome trooper, but …
“Amarok—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Of course you’ll go back to Boston. That’s where you belong.”
His defenses had gone up again. She’d all but heard them snap into place. She didn’t like that—but she had no right to try to bring them down again. She was a lousy bet, and because she really did care about him she didn’t want to disappoint him. “My family needs me. They ask me all the time to come back. I’ll have to go eventually,” she told him. “Because of that, it’s better not to count on me.”
“So you’ve said,” he responded, his voice flat.
“I’m sorry.”
He changed the subject back to business. “Is the warden still there?”
She wished he was. After what she’d just learned, she wanted to talk to Ferris right away. “No, he’s gone for the night.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by his place after I check on those bones, if it’s before ten.”
“I hope you won’t be out too late. You need to get some sleep as badly as I do.”
“I’ll get home when I can.”
“Okay.” She started to hang up, but he stopped her.
“If you don’t get out of there in the next hour, wait for me to come get you. I’d rather not have you driving in this mess.”
She smiled at the grudging way he’d stated that. He couldn’t help looking after her. That was just the kind of man he was. “If I were normal…”
“You wouldn’t be able to resist me. I know,” he joked, and hung up.
21
I am deeply hurt by your calling me a women hater. I am not. But I am a monster. I am the “Son of Sam.” I am a little brat.
—DAVID BERKOWITZ
Evelyn listened to be sure no one was approaching the administration office. The COs knew she hadn’t left. She checked out when she did. So there was always the chance that someone might come by to get an update on Hugo, to report on Anthony Garza or for a number of other reasons. Sometimes, when she was working late, various COs came by just to talk. She was, after all, a psychiatrist, and their job could be difficult.
But all was quiet. Even the cleaning crew, a team of two—at least in this part of the institution—was gone. Before they left, she’d taken their key. That hadn’t been as hard to do as she’d imagined it would be, since they hung their ring on their cart in the reception area while vacuuming the individual offices. The most difficult part had been sorting through the twenty or so other keys on the same ring, since they all looked alike. She’d had to try one after another, hands shaking and heart racing, until she managed to unlock her own door.
Once she had the master, she’d slipped it into her pocket before replacing the rest.
If they’d caught her, she’d planned to say she’d accidentally locked herself out and was merely trying to get back in. But if something was left askew in Fitzpatrick’s office and he happened to notice it or get suspicious in the morning, he might ask the janitors, and they might remember that she’d had the keys in her possession for a few brief minutes. So it was better, much better, that they had no clue. By the time they realized their key was missing it would probably be tomorrow night. They wouldn’t be able to get into the mental health offices, but Evelyn didn’t see where missing a night or two of janitorial service would be a big deal. They would just have to get a locksmith to change the locks and provide a new master.
Fitzpatrick’s office smelled musty, like he did. There was an ornate coatrack in the back corner, where he hung his heavy wool overcoat, hat and umbrella. A mahogany desk and leather chair held court on the opposite side of the room. His degrees hung on one wall; bookshelves filled the other. But instead of a credenza, like hers, he had a tall filing cabinet.
Evelyn had always assumed he kept files from previous patients in there, or bits and pieces of research. He didn’t need that big of a filing cabinet for his work at HH. They were supposed to use the file room off the reception area. That way, if a member of the team got sick or couldn’t come to work someone else could pick up that doctor’s caseload and would have immediate access to the patients’ most recent assessments and histories.
The psych team didn’t always meet that ideal. They carried various files around instead of putting them away or left them on a desk or in a briefcase because they had yet to finish a report. But Evelyn didn’t think anyone else on the team crowded his or her office with such a big filing cabinet.…
So what was in it?
She tried to find out, but it was locked.
Fortunately, the desk wasn’t. Although she went through it, she didn’t find anything of interest, except a small key. She thought it might open the filing cabinet—but it didn’t.
“Damn!” Where else would Fitzpatrick keep the key? Did he take it home each night? Surely there couldn’t be anything that secret in those drawers. And if there was—the question was why?
Stymied, she went through his garbage, which was the reason she’d wanted to get into his office in the first place. She was hoping to find evidence of the same kind of practicing she and her sister had done on their mother’s signature in high school. Evelyn doubted he’d be dumb enough to leave ten different attempts at “Evelyn Talbot” in his trash can; surely he’d shred that. But she thought she might find the imprint of her signature on his writing pad or blotter, even another sheet of paper. She’d seen that type of thing on forensic shows. A detective would scrape pencil lead across what appeared to be a blank piece of paper to reveal what had been written on the one before it.
She examined everything she could find that wasn’t shredded—and came up with nothing more incriminating than a note to Russ about her “erratic behavior.” She was just reading that when a noise made her freeze. Someone had come into the offices.…
“Dr. Talbot?”
Fear gripped her like a tight fist that would hardly allow her to expand her rib cage enough to breathe as she flattened herself against the wall. Had she been seen through the frosted glass? She’d left the door to her office open to make it look like she’d just stepped out and locked this one. Whoever it was wouldn’t be able to get in.
But the light was on.…
Was it too much to hope her visitor would assume the janitors had forgotten to turn it off?
“Dr. Talbot?”
Glenn Whitcomb. He probably wanted to follow up with her on whether or not he’d been able to learn anything about the transfer order. But she couldn’t let anyone know she�
��d been in Fitzpatrick’s office, even Glenn. She preferred he be able to answer honestly if he was ever questioned about her.
When a knock sounded, she was sure he’d found her—until he moved on past Fitzpatrick’s door and continued to call out.
“What am I doing?” she whispered, and slid down the wall to crawl into the footwell of Fitzpatrick’s desk, where she for sure couldn’t be seen.
She could hear Glenn’s footfalls and the curiosity in his voice as he looked for her. Then he returned and jiggled the doorknob, making her curl into a tighter ball. She really didn’t want to explain her actions; they wouldn’t reflect well on her. This was going too far, even for a friend like Glenn to understand.
“Dr. Talbot? Hello? Doc, you in there?”
Covering her mouth with one hand, she struggled to remain calm and still. He’ll be gone shortly, she promised herself, and, after a few minutes, that seemed to be the case.
She waited a bit longer, to be sure. Then she forced herself to abandon her hiding place. She needed to get out of Fitzpatrick’s office as soon as possible, before Glenn could come back when he didn’t find her elsewhere. But just as she was about to stand up, she spotted a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye.
It was another small key, only this one was taped to the underside of Fitzpatrick’s desk drawer.
* * *
Amarok was worried. He hadn’t heard from Evelyn, and she wasn’t answering at the prison. Surely she hadn’t tried to drive home in the blizzard they were having and gotten stranded somewhere.
He studied every car he passed, but even with his windshield wipers moving on high it wasn’t easy to see.
“Damn it.” He was risking getting stuck himself. He hadn’t had a chance to fix the hydraulic plow on his truck. But he drove out to the prison, anyway. He wasn’t going home without her.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her car in its usual spot, mostly buried by snow despite the parking cover. It didn’t appear that she’d been out of the building. But that didn’t mean she was okay. There was possibly more danger inside than out, given all the shit that was going on.
Fitzpatrick better not have harmed her, Amarok thought as he parked under the portico at the main sally port and hopped out.
