by Cathryn Fox
“Did you know his parents well?”
“No. His parents died before he moved to Hull. He lived with his aunt, who has also died. I don’t think he has anyone—family, I mean.”
“What has been his relationship with Cameron Quinn?”
For the first time, Karl hesitated slightly. “I’ve always known Greg was a little strange at times. He’s quirky. I’ll admit that, but let me get this straight, I had no idea that he was capable of murder. Yes, he had an obsession with Cameron. Always did, from the moment he met her.”
“In what way?”
“Not sexual, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Cameron was the first girl who was nice to him, talked to him. Didn’t make fun of him. Here is this pretty, popular girl talking to you, not caring what other people thought or said. I’m sure there were plenty of times she stood up for him. Cameron always had the idea she could change the world. So I believe it was natural that he reacted the way he did to Cameron.”
“But you, all three of you, were strictly platonic friends. Nothing that could have sparked this behavior?”
“Strictly platonic. Although, if it hadn’t been for Greg, I would have probably made a move on Cameron. Wouldn’t have been human living in such close contact with her, if I hadn’t at least thought about it.”
“Why would it have bothered Greg?”
Karl gave a forced laugh. “In high school, neither Greg nor I were what you would have considered popular. We were the nerds. It wasn’t until I was in college that things changed for me. Being smart in college was different than in high school for me. I started working out and well, let’s put it this way—I haven’t had any problems in that department.”
“Your undergrad studies. Where?”
“Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire. Majored in English, top three percent of my class. I graduated Harvard Law last spring, top five percent.”
“Impressive, I’m sure,” Brophy said dryly. “Back to Greg and Cameron.”
“I ran into Cameron after I started at Harvard. It was just about the time of her break-up from old Matthew. She wasn’t going through a good time. She was looking for a roommate because he had left her high and dry as soon as Mommy called. With all his money, he left her with the lease. Unbelievable, but it all worked out.”
“How did Greg get into the picture?”
“Greg and I had always kept in touch. He was coming to Massachusetts College of Art and Design. Honestly, the whole situation seemed heaven-sent.”
“So you have maintained close contact with Greg since junior high?” Brophy eyed Karl carefully. The guy was holding back.
“I suppose so. I mean, maybe I should have picked up on his behavior, but maybe I was too close to the situation. He was always so protective of Cameron.”
“You were saying about your relationship with Cameron? Why didn’t you take it further? You just don’t strike me as the type who stands on moral ground.”
Karl leaned onto the table, as if in an intimate conversation. “The night Dr. Halliday got married, Cameron was in bad shape. We were sitting on the couch. She was depressed. I tried to comfort her. I kissed her and Greg walked in. It was a big scene.”
“Why? Why would that bother him, Mr. Neslund?”
“How am I supposed to know?” He flung his arms down and sat back into his chair. “Maybe…maybe he thought I was no good for her. He said I wouldn’t know what a real relationship was if it hit me in the face. That I was taking advantage of the situation. She didn’t need it. Cameron didn’t need me complicating things. It came to blows. Cameron stormed off. The next morning, without a doubt, Greg had been right. It would have ruined a great friendship.”
Brophy made a note. Then he looked back up at him. “I’m not sure if I get where you’re trying to go with this.”
“I don’t know if I can spell it out any clearer for you, Detective. He looked at her as a sister, or maybe a mother of sorts. Substitute mother. No kid wants to see his mother make out with someone.”
Brophy sighed. He started to say something and then hesitated. He began again. “I’m just a little slow here. You never noticed anything unusual in his behavior, and yet you just came off as a psychiatrist. Have you gone to a psychiatrist?”
“Of course not.”
“What about Greg?”
Karl rolled his tongue over his teeth. His irritation to being grilled showed. He pushed back from the table. “You know, I believe I’ve helped as much as I can.”
Brophy didn’t look up as he wrote. “Sit down, Mr. Neslund. If you want to do this the hard way, I will, but you’re not leaving here without finishing.”
“I know my rights.”
Brophy scratched the back of his neck. “Frankly, Mr. Neslund, I don’t give a shit about your rights. There is a young woman whose life hangs by a thread. A man who has already killed four times. I have literally walked out of an emergency room sickbed to find this sick sonofabitch.”
Karl rose. Brophy pushed up off the table with his hands and stood. “Try me.”
Karl thought for a moment. Then he sat back down.
“So now,” Brophy dropped the notepad down on the table, “the question now stands at not if he went to a psychiatrist, but when and where. Time is ticking, Mr. Neslund.”
Darren walked in the observation room as Brophy finished up his interview. He stared intently at Karl. Darren didn’t like the man. Too arrogant…confident. Contrary to his words, the man didn’t seem the least concerned about Cameron.
His roommate, his friend, was in the hands of a madman, and he sat there talking as if about a television show he saw last night, showing no emotion.
Brophy stood, finishing his portion of the interview. Darren walked out into the hall and waited for Brophy. “Did you get anything?”
Brophy breathed out deeply and shook his head. “A lead to his psychiatrist. Nothing pinpointing where Greg might have taken her, or what he would have done to her.”
Darren grimaced. Then out of the blue, he pushed past Brophy. Brophy grabbed at him, but Darren jerked his arm back free of Brophy. He opened the door and stood face to face with Karl.
“All right, Mr. Neslund. Tell me you don’t know anything. Tell me to my face because I don’t believe a word coming from your fucking mouth.”
“Temper, temper, Kennedy,” Karl said. “Don’t blame me for your incompetence. You took her from our apartment. You promised to keep her safe. She trusted you. Misplaced trust, wouldn’t you say? Why did she leave you, Kennedy? Shouldn’t you take the responsibility? In a way, you will be totally responsible for her death.”
Darren grabbed him by his shirt collar. “Why would you insinuate that she’s dead? Do you know, you sonofabitch?”
“I don’t know, Kennedy. What else would he want with her after everything that happened? You promised to protect her and now look at her. He’s got her. However are you going to live with yourself?”
Karl barely got the last words out, when Darren took hold of him and threw him across the table into the wall. Darren didn’t relent. He leaped over the table himself. His right fist swung back. Brophy caught his arm midair.
Two uniforms converged in the room. One grabbed Darren and pulled him off Karl.
Karl stood, rubbing his arm. He turned to one of the officers. “You saw that, didn’t you? You saw what your esteemed ADA did.”
Brophy commanded the two, “Get him out of here, now.”
“You saw him, right?” Karl demanded of the other officer as he was leaving the room.
“The only thing I saw was you tripping over a chair. Didn’t see anything else. You’re just clumsy. What about you, Sean?”
“It’s what I saw.”
Karl roared back at Darren. “It’s not the last of this, Kennedy. You can rest assured.”
Brophy pushed his arms against Darren, restraining him from attacking the man again. He looked directly at Karl. “I’m only telling you one more time. Get the hell out of here.”<
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Brophy waited until Karl Neslund had been escorted out of the room before he released Darren. Darren picked up the chair and sat down. He said nothing. Brophy was brought back to another time, another life-changing moment. The day his sister died. Broken—Darren looked broken.
“That wasn’t your finest moment there, bro. You need to go home. I will let you know everything that turns up…the second it happens. I’ll get someone to drive you.”
Darren shook his head. “I can’t leave. I need to fix this.”
“Darren, go home. You’re not in any shape to help. Let it go. I promise I will do everything possible to find her. We all are responsible.”
He shook his head. “I should have never left her. Oh, God, it’s my fault. I told her to trust me. I knew she was upset. I just wanted her out of the hospital. I wanted her safe. Now she’s in the hands of a madman.”
A strong, fast-moving storm had struck Boston. The morning began as a calm, bright winter morning, quickly giving way to gloomy dark clouds that had already dumped an inch of snow in less than an hour. The forecast called for a nightmarish commute. The mayor had called for only essential personnel on the roads at least until the brunt of the storm passed.
Dunn had called Brophy down to FBI headquarters at One Central Plaza. The FBI had officially taken over the case; given the headlines on the news this morning—Killer Escapes the FBI—Brophy supposed it wasn’t a bad thing to allow the FBI to take the brunt of this storm. He didn’t have time to dodge questions.
Brophy showed his creds for the third time getting off the elevator at Dunn’s office, which was a feat in itself with two cups of hot coffee in his hand. He had swung by the local Dunkin’ Donuts at the corner. He guessed coffee was considered essential, given the crowd in the shop.
“Hope you like black coffee,” Brophy greeted Dunn as he lightly knocked. “If you don’t, I brought a couple of cream and sugars. Don’t know about you, but I need some caffeine.”
Dunn looked up from behind his desk and nodded. He motioned for Brophy to come in. Behind him, Dunn’s office had a high view of Boston’s skyline, impressive with the wind and snow whipping around the buildings. At the moment, neither man cared much for the view.
Dunn accepted the coffee. “Thanks. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll survive.”
“And Kennedy?”
Brophy shrugged. “He’s putting up a good front. You won’t see the wall fall.”
“Thought I heard he lost it on Karl Neslund yesterday.”
“Wouldn’t call it losing it. Warning Neslund is a better way of putting it. The guy is covering something up. He knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Do you think it’s self-protection or he’s involved?”
“Something about the guy I’ve never liked. He always seems to be two steps in front of us. Yet, he never noticed anything odd about his roommate? He’s a control freak. Doesn’t make sense.”
“My guys talked with him last night and thought the same thing. Think he’s holding back.”
“Only giving information he thought we would find out quick enough with a little more digging. He threw me a bone to keep me off his back. Didn’t turn up anything.”
Dunn pushed back his chair and got up. “I feel like a louse bringing you down in the middle of a snowstorm, Brophy, but wanted to tell you in person…”
“The cooperation between us is at an end,” Brophy said in a matter-of-fact tone. He had expected as much.
“Montgomery laid down the law this morning. If we are going to be taking the heat for the case, then it’s ours. Besides the fact, he’s no longer in Boston. We do expect all the evidence you have gathered and any information that comes in from any of your sources.”
Brophy shrugged. He wasn’t a fool. Dunn wasn’t a louse. The proper channel would have been to go through Centrello. Knowing Dunn, it would have been the first thing he had done. Brophy’s eyebrows rose slightly. He decided it would be a good idea to be upfront.
“What gives, Dunn? You could have done this over the phone. I don’t have time for games.”
Dunn smothered a smile. “You’re blunt, if nothing else,” he said evenly. “You’re right. I have brought you down here for another reason. I figured nothing I was going to say is going to stop you from working on this case.”
“So? Would you expect anything less?”
“No.” Dunn shook his head. “It’s what I would do. I don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to, anyway. Know I prefer to have an open communication line. Over the years, I have found it extremely beneficial to everyone involved, but you understand I have to follow orders.”
Brophy sensed Dunn was trying to tell him something. “What do you have?”
Dunn looked out his window, and then back at Brophy. “I’m confident we have most avenues covered. We have teams in Virginia looking into the killings down there. Our computer experts are looking into a computer trail. It will take time. Mobley used Tor. Have you heard of it?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar.”
“It’s a network that encrypts Internet traffic. It’s used to be anonymous. It routes through computers around the world. Makes it extremely difficult to trace. My guys tell me that this Mobley could be the one they have been searching for for quite a while. The scary part is that if my guys are correct, Mobley is one rich guy. Been trading in drugs. He uses Bitcoins, a digital currency that is difficult, if not impossible, to trace.”
Brophy didn’t mince words. “And this has to do with me…how?”
Dunn frowned. “According to what we have learned so far, this Mobley is a computer genius, but a completely unstable individual…which makes what he has accomplished even more unbelievable.”
“I’ve been on the case. I’ve seen his erratic behavior. What do you need me to do?”
Dunn’s frown disappeared. “You have met Dr. Levy. Extremely proficient. He understands the severity of the case and has a good handle on it.”
“I’ve worked with him.”
Dunn nodded. “Yesterday, while all this was going down, a Dr. Reginald Schafer flew in from Ireland. He received an email from Dr. Levy. He was Mobley’s psychiatrist in Virginia, the one who sent the picture to confirm his identity of Raymond Duffy. He’s spent all day with Levy.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Dr. Schafer flew in from Ireland because he feels Mobley is extremely dangerous. He’s been trying to get our attention for years. My boss feels we have a handle on the situation. He will reach out to Dr. Schafer if needed. He has updated Dr. Levy. Except…”
“Except what?”
“He refuses to go home. He thinks he can help catch the guy. I’m covering a lot of angles, Brophy. I don’t want to lose this one, because this guy knows Mobley inside and out. He’s sat across from him.”
“Then why aren’t you using him?”
Dunn’s hesitation wasn’t lost on Brophy. Dunn picked up a paper on his desk. “It’s Schafer’s diagnosis of Mobley. It’s one that most psychiatrists feel doesn’t exist. Let me read it to you…
“I considered him to have psychotic episodes brought on by a history of childhood abuse. A dissociation. He was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. I’m more of a conservative in that diagnosis. I have never really believed in that disorder. Moreover, in most cases, it is brought on by a therapist themselves expressly by the attention brought on by the novelty, such as giving the patient permission to think in such a manner. But in this case, I would have to agree that Raymond Duffy has MPD.”
“MPD?” Brophy questioned, confused.
“Multiple personality disorder.”
“They politely thanked me for my information and help in identifying your suspect, Detective Brophy. Then they told me to go home. I’m not going.”
For the first time in days, Brophy smiled. He liked the guy’s style. “I’m all ears, Dr. Schafer. Got nowhere else to be today.”
It was the truth. Ce
ntrello gave him a few days off to recover from his accident after the FBI took over the case. He doubted that Centrello really thought he was relaxing. At the moment, he would take any chance of a lead he could get, even if it meant babysitting a potential witness.
Brophy realized two things about Special Agent Jackson Dunn. One…he knew how to read people. Two…he had a way about him that manipulated people into doing his will without them being aware of his motives. The difference with Brophy was that he realized Dunn’s motive and didn’t care.
Brophy understood Dunn hadn’t dismissed Schafer totally. He had what he thought he needed, but on the offhand chance he missed something, he had a backup plan. Or perhaps Dunn thought it was a way to keep Brophy out of his hair.
At the present, Brophy had brought the psychiatrist down to his office and placed him in the conference room.
“Seven years ago, I let a severely disturbed patient walk out of my facility who should have never been allowed to roam the streets freely,” Dr. Reginald Schafer said, straightening out his papers. “I will never forgive myself if I don’t do everything humanly possible to put him back where he belongs.”
Brophy studied the doctor for a moment. A short, thin man—he doubted he was more than five five, five six at the most. Thin gray hair. His glasses hung down on his nose, which didn’t seem to bother the good doctor. His clothes were clean, but rumpled and wrinkled.
“Don’t know where to begin. So much to go over.” Dr. Schafer pressed his lips together, concentrating on his folders he spread out on the table. He looked around the conference room. “This should do…”
Brophy eyed Dr. Schafer, trying to pinpoint his focus. “You know, it might have been easier to have this information on a computer.”
“Oh, no…oh no, Detective Brophy, that would never do. You don’t know him well. I do. That’s why I’m here. It’s why I’m here.”
“I think I know him well enough.”
“If you did, he wouldn’t be on the loose. Would he, Detective Brophy?”
