Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  But it wasn’t Vincent’s threat that weighed on him now. It was that simple, dark truth he had kept hidden away for over a year. A simple truth that Vincent’s phone calls and this morning’s events had brought screaming back to the surface.

  Tolan had a blank spot.

  A gap in his memory.

  Was missing time from that night.

  You. You hurt me.

  Abby had been coming out of the bathroom when he confronted her, waving the open box in her face.

  “What the hell is this?”

  He remembered her startled expression when she realized what he was holding. The fading smile. The puzzled frown. “Where did you get that?”

  “Where do you think?” He indicated her purse.

  She just stood there a moment, then shook her head. “You’re kidding me, right? Those aren’t mine.”

  But he wasn’t kidding. And when she realized that, her expression immediately changed. Hurt. Guilt. Fear? He wasn’t sure which.

  “Who is he?” Tolan demanded.

  “There’s no one, Michael. You know I wouldn’t—”

  “—a client of yours? That guitar guy? You take him in for a little darkroom quickie?”

  Abby just stared at him. “Is this what we’ve come to?”

  But Tolan didn’t let up. He asked her again, and then again, growing more and more agitated. And despite her denials, despite her insistence that she would never betray him like that, every uncertainty Tolan had about their marriage, every doubt, every concern, coalesced into a rage so all-consuming that his whole body began to shake.

  He had shouted at her then and, stunned by his behavior, she had given it right back—

  —until he finally crossed the line. Called her a name he knew would cut her to the bone.

  You. Fucking. Whore.

  That was when Abby slapped him. Right across the face. Tears in her eyes.

  Then . . . nothing.

  THAT SLAP WAS the last thing Tolan remembered until a honking horn on the 101 jolted him back to consciousness. He had drifted out of his lane and immediately cut the wheel, righting himself.

  It had taken him a moment to catch his bearings. He was alone, headed south toward Los Angeles.

  What the hell?

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. Two hours had passed. Two hours that seemed like two seconds.

  And as the realization that he had just emerged from some kind of mental fog began to register, he wondered if he should call her.

  What had happened in those last two hours? How had he wound up here?

  He dialed her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. After two rings it went straight to voice mail. And as he waited for the beep, he wondered what he should say to her.

  Then the vision of that blue box filled his head and, despite his confusion, he realized he didn’t want to say anything to her. He was still angry. Still hurt by what she’d done. So he simply left a quick message telling her he was close to L.A. and would call her back in the morning. Then he hung up. Whatever had happened after that slap would eventually come back to him and he’d deal with it then.

  But it hadn’t come back. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not ever.

  Not even after the 3:00 A.M. phone call that changed his life.

  And no one had asked him about it either. Not Lisa. Not Ned, his ex-partner and therapist. Not the police.

  The detectives had questioned him, yes, but never as a suspect. Abby was, after all, the victim of a high-profile serial killer. It was right there in the details. They were more interested to know if Tolan had ever noticed anyone hanging around the house or near Abby’s studio. Or if she had ever complained of unusual or threatening phone calls or encounters with strangers.

  When asked what time he had last seen her, he had used his arrival at the hotel as a marker and merely subtracted three hours.

  He hadn’t told them about what he’d found in her purse. Or the fight. Or his blinding anger. He hadn’t told them because it didn’t matter. They had known from the very beginning who her killer was—and Tolan had believed it too.

  Or had he?

  He had always carried a small measure of doubt about that night. An uneasiness. And maybe that was why he’d had so much trouble sleeping over the last year. Maybe that was the true source of his grief. His guilt.

  Was Vincent right? Justified in his outrage?

  Could he, Michael Tolan, have killed his own wife?

  Impossible. He had been angry that night, yes, angrier than he’d ever been before—an anger so debilitating it had caused some sort of cognitive misfire. But he had never been a violent man. Would never raise a finger against anyone, let alone Abby. He had loved her too much.

  His anger had been a momentary aberration, is all, brought on by the sudden fear that she had betrayed him. And yes, he had shouted at her, had called her a whore—an inexcusable insult considering her past—but to think that he could cut her up so savagely, was so far beyond imagining that he almost laughed.

  Almost.

  Because Tolan knew full well that people often delude themselves about what they’re capable of doing. History has proven time and again that, being the savage animals we are, our instinct for violence often gets the better of us.

  That anyone can cross that line. Anyone.

  And the trigger is usually something mundane. Something simple and unexpected.

  Like an open box of condoms.

  25

  BLACKBURN HATED CIRCUSES, and the scene at the detention unit was quickly turning into one.

  Carmody had already shifted into Advance Man mode, working the phone until a crew of dancing bears arrived, all carrying the dim hope that a killer would behave in a way that was contrary to human logic.

  Blackburn stood in the observation booth adjacent to Psycho Bitch’s room. Someone had taken her out of her restraints—big mistake—and she was curled up in that fetal ball she seemed to love so much, using only a fraction of the real estate on her hospital bed.

  The orderly, Cassie, sat behind the computer, dutifully watching over her.

  Tolan’s wonder boy, Clayton Simm, had yet to make an appearance. Tolan had called him at least twice and gotten his machine.

  So they were in a holding pattern for the moment. And as much as Blackburn hated circuses, he absolutely despised holding patterns.

  He was debating the pros and cons of a frontal lobotomy—could probably get one right down the hall—when the vestibule door opened and a tall, well-toned female in hospital scrubs stepped into the booth.

  Yowza.

  “Cassie, why don’t you take a break?”

  The orderly looked up at her and smiled. “Thanks. I could use a smoke.”

  So could I, Blackburn thought. He didn’t figure there was ever an easy time to quit, but it seemed he’d picked the worst one possible. He thought about that bag of carrots on his desk and wished he had one right now to chew on. Pendergast had been right. It was an oral fixation. He needed something in his mouth—which, when he considered the implication, didn’t say much for his masculinity.

  But the woman in scrubs did. She was hotter than a goddamn firecracker.

  As Cassie left the booth, Scrubs turned to him and offered a hand to shake. “Detective Blackburn, right?”

  “So they tell me,” he said, as he shook it.

  “I’m Lisa Paymer, director of the EDU nursing staff. You probably don’t remember me, but we met when you were here a few months ago.”

  Ahh. He’d thought she looked familiar.

  “I must’ve been preoccupied,” he said, “because you’d be awfully hard to forget.”

  The remark went over with a resounding thud. She wasn’t biting. She wasn’t even swimming in the same pond.

  “We see a lot of uniformed officers around here,” she said stiffly, “but very few detectives. Especially so many all at once. Our patients are getting pretty upset with you people traipsing up and down the . . .”

 
She paused, her gaze now fixed on Psycho Bitch.

  “My God . . .”

  “What?”

  “I read her workup, but this is the first time I’ve seen her. I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Realize what? You know her?”

  She thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “No, but she reminds me of someone.” She shifted her gaze to Blackburn. “Is this all because of her?”

  “Part of it,” Blackburn said. “The rest you’ll have to get from Doc Tolan.”

  “That’s the problem. He isn’t talking.”

  “He doesn’t exactly strike me as the shy type, so he must have a good reason.”

  She looked again at Psycho Bitch. “I can see that. But I’m concerned about him. He said something about crank phone calls. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  Blackburn assessed her. “I take it the two of you have more than a professional relationship?”

  She nodded.

  Well, well, Blackburn thought. The doc wasn’t doing so bad after all. Dipping your pen in the company inkwell is always an iffy proposition—as Blackburn knew too well—but if you’ve gotta break office protocol, you might as well go for the gold.

  “He worries about me,” she said. “So he won’t tell me what’s going on. I’m hoping you will.”

  Uh-oh. No way was Blackburn getting in the middle of that. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her about Vincent.

  “I think this is where I say, sorry, ma’am, police business.”

  “Which means?”

  “That it’s none of yours.”

  She didn’t like that response. There was a momentary flash of anger in her eyes, then she softened. Blackburn got the feeling she did that a lot. Kept her anger bottled up. Controlled. She reminded him of his second wife, who’d always had a kind of Stepford quality about her, until the facade finally cracked. He still had a scar on his scalp as a souvenir.

  “I’ve been a psychiatric nurse for over fifteen years, Detective. I worked at County General, for godsakes, and that’s about the worst of the worst. So I think I can handle whatever bad news you people are hiding.”

  Blackburn shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got nothing to tell you. I’m sure the doc’ll clue you in when the time is right.”

  And speaking of timing, that’s when the door opened again and Tolan stepped into the booth, obviously surprised to see them. He paused in the doorway, his gaze shifting from one to the other.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “I was just leaving,” Lisa said. She glanced in at Psycho Bitch again, then stared pointedly at Tolan. “Don’t forget our lunch date.” She turned to Blackburn. “Nice to see you again.”

  Nice to see you, too, Blackburn thought.

  Then she was gone.

  Tolan watched after her, looking a lot like a naughty kindergartner who had just been scolded by his teacher. Maybe there was a spanking in his future.

  “If you want to hang on to that one,” Blackburn said, “you’d better start communicating with her. And soon.”

  “With all due respect, Detective, you’re probably the last person in the world I’d ask for relationship advice.”

  “Good point,” Blackburn said.

  26

  VINCENT ALMOST HAD to laugh.

  He had been sitting here for quite some time now, watching the activity around the hospital, the arrival of the unmarked police van, the scurry of technicians.

  All because of him, of course.

  All because of his genius.

  How funny that they didn’t even know just how close he was. Close enough to touch.

  It was a scene he’d witnessed dozens of times in his life. Almost routine at this point, but he still enjoyed the spectacle as much as he had after that first kill, so many years ago.

  Little ice cream girl.

  Oddly enough, one of the detectives reminded him of her. The one with the pale yellow hair.

  Unlike the little ice cream girl, however, this one kept it pulled back into a tight ponytail. And there was a sense of intelligence about her. No-nonsense. Always in control.

  He liked that. Liked it a lot.

  But he had always liked watching the police. The concern laced with excitement. The sense of purpose. As if they might catch him this time.

  Oh, they’d catch him, all right.

  Sooner than they expected.

  And before long, Vincent Van Gogh would be retired to the local history books, the newspaper archives, the memories of the family members who had been touched by his artistry. Blessed by his genius.

  Then somewhere, in another town, another state—possibly even another country—Vincent would be reborn. Wiser for the mistakes he’d made. Stronger.

  A greater talent than he had ever hoped to be.

  Who knows what they’d call him then.

  “YOUR GIRLFRIEND SAYS our gal here reminds her of someone. Any idea who that might be?”

  Tolan ignored the question. Seemed lost in his own thoughts as he stood at the computer, keying through the notations on-screen.

  Blackburn tried another one. “So when do I get the bad news, Doc? Are we wasting our time?”

  Tolan looked up. “Hard to say. The tox screen came back negative for drugs or alcohol, so we can rule out any organic disorders.”

  Blackburn again thought about those missing smack tracks and decided that, along with the lobotomy, he might order up some LASIK surgery.

  “If she’s suffering from BRP,” Tolan continued, “the prognosis is good, but we may simply have to wait it out.”

  “You can’t give her a shot or something?”

  “Neuroleptics are a wonderful tool, but unlike most of my colleagues, I usually hold off awhile before I go there.”

  “This isn’t your usual situation.”

  “True,” Tolan said. “But I’m supposed to be hands off, remember? Let’s see how Clayton feels about it. He just called, by the way. He was sound asleep when I—”

  “Spare me the play-by-play. What’s his ETA?”

  “He said he needed about three gallons of coffee and a shower first.”

  “Which means he’ll get here when he gets here, right?”

  “Right,” Tolan said.

  Blackburn sighed again. More waiting. This Simm guy decides to take a leisurely shower and in the meantime, only God knew what Vincent was up to.

  “Hopefully, by the time he arrives,” Blackburn said, “I’ll have some fresh ammunition for you.”

  “What kind of ammunition?”

  He nodded to Psycho Bitch. “Her identity.”

  He told Tolan about the magazine ad. De Mello had already contacted the design company who’d handled the layout. Turned out they’d used customized clip art for the bikini model and Photoshopped the bottle in her hand. The company who sold them the clip was busy trying to locate the photographer who had taken it. De Mello was pretty sure he’d have a name before lunch was over.

  “Excellent,” Tolan said. “Might help us track down her medical hist—”

  A sound from the intercom cut him off. A guttural moan that came from the room beyond the glass.

  Psycho Bitch was stirring now. She began muttering something incomprehensible, then surprised them both by starting to hum.

  “That’s something new,” Blackburn said.

  “Cassie told me she was singing earlier. Some kind of nursery rhyme.”

  They listened a moment, and Blackburn noticed that the doc was frowning now, as if trying to recognize the tune. He started to say something, but Tolan held up a hand, silencing him.

  Then, in a timid, childlike voice, Psycho Bitch began to sing:

  Mama got trouble

  Mama got sin

  Mama got bills to pay again.

  Blackburn saw Tolan visibly stiffen, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.

  Daddy got money

  Daddy got cars

  Mama gonna take him on a trip to Mars.


  “Jesus Christ,” Tolan said.

  “What?”

  Psycho Bitch kept singing, repeating the words, and Tolan suddenly had that same stunned look on his face that he’d had earlier this morning, right after she attacked him.

  “What, Doc? What’s going on?”

  It seemed to take Tolan a full thirty seconds to respond, Psycho Bitch continuing to serenade them.

  Mama got trouble

  Mama got sin

  Mama got bills to pay again.

  “That song,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “What about it?”

  “My wife . . .” He turned, looking straight at Blackburn. “This is impossible. . . .”

  “What, Doc? What?”

  “That’s Abby’s song.”

  27

  SHE USED TO sing it to him in bed.

  She’d trace her fingers along his abdomen, along his “happy trail,” as she called it. Walk them upward toward his stomach and on up to his chest, singing:

  Mama got trouble

  Mama got sin

  Mama got bills to pay again.

  Then she’d bring her hand back down, grabbing hold of him, gently tugging at him, letting him grow against her palm. When he was ready, she’d climb on top and guide him into her.

  Daddy got money

  Daddy got cars

  Mama gonna take him on a trip to Mars.

  He’d stare up into that beautiful face, all of her concentration centered on her task, her hips moving to find just the right spot, the one that made her eyes close and her jaw go slack, a small moan escaping between her lips.

  Mama got trouble

  Mama got sin

  Mama got bills to pay again.

  The first time she sang it to him, he’d asked her where it came from.

  “Me,” she’d said with a small laugh. “My first stab at creativity. Write about what you know. Isn’t that what they tell you?”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

  “It’s a hopscotch song. My friend Tandi and I used to play in the alley behind our apartment house, while our mothers were working.”