by Robert Ellis
The idea, the image, the thought and all the darkness that came with it, settled into the room like nerve gas. No one said anything for a long time.
But Matt’s mind was spinning. He looked at Doyle and Rogers, then Westbrook and Brown. He looked at their faces and knew that he had to say something.
“I don’t think it’s Baylor,” he said quietly.
Doyle jerked his head up, aghast. “What?”
“I don’t think that Dr. Baylor is responsible for these murders. I think there’s someone else out there.”
Rogers slammed the table with his fist and got to his feet. “You’re young, Jones. You’ve been a homicide detective for what? Is it two months or is it two and a half? I told you before what I thought about you being here. But this is different. What you’re saying, what you’re thinking, could get you into a lot of trouble.”
Doyle stepped forward, measuring Matt carefully with a brutal expression on his face. “What makes you think it’s not Baylor, Jones? Give me something that would stand up in court.”
“I can’t do that. But from everything I’ve seen, especially tonight with the lab report, these murders wouldn’t seem to relate to what we know Baylor did in LA and New Orleans. All four of those murders were about greed.”
Doyle cocked his head, his voice loud and angry. “But these murders are about greed. Stratton treated his healthy patients for cancer so that he could steal a fortune from the insurance companies. Holloway stole the lives of animals on the endangered species list for his personal pleasure. My God, the two match up like twins.”
“I know who they are and what they did,” Matt said. “There’s no doubt that they’re from the same pool. I’m just saying that this time around I don’t think the motive is greed. I don’t believe that either one of them were the targets.”
“Then who was?” Doyle shot back.
Matt realized that he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t have said anything. Everyone in the conference room was visibly outraged. Doyle’s face had turned beet red, his jugular vein pulsating on the side of his neck. Rogers and Westbrook reminded him of a pair of rattlesnakes all coiled up and ready to strike. But it was the disappointment he saw in Kate Brown’s eyes that really got to him. She was staring at him like he’d just committed treason. He could remember the things Baylor had said to him as they stood on the Holloway’s second-floor landing and gazed at the victims and what had been done to them. He could hear Baylor making his final argument so clearly that the doctor might have been standing right beside him at this very moment.
You’re working with people who have their heads in the sand, Matthew. It’s the corporate way, you know. Special Agent Rogers and Assistant US Attorney Ken Doyle have blinders on and can’t see who and what they’re really dealing with here. They want it to be me. They need it to be me. They get more stuff if it’s me. Bigger headlines and better jobs. That’s why I left my fingerprints. That’s why I sent you that text message tonight.
Doyle shouted at him. “If you don’t believe Stratton and Holloway were the targets, then what’s the goddamn motive, Jones?”
Matt grimaced. “Their wives,” he said.
Doyle’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “Their wives?”
“The killer’s got a problem with Mommy.”
Dr. Westbrook cleared his throat, looked at Matt like he was the world’s biggest loser, and spoke in a low voice that had a certain shake to it. “Detective Jones, did it ever occur to you that Dr. Baylor might have a problem with his mother? Most serial killers have issues with their parents and their childhoods. At this point, it’s a cliché, and I’m surprised by the lack of originality you’ve shown tonight. I think Special Agent Rogers put his finger on something important here. You’re playing with fire, Detective. What you’re saying could derail the investigation and spin it off in an entirely different direction. What you’re thinking could destroy your career.”
Matt tried to control his anger. He was afraid that he might hurt Westbrook. Afraid that he might grab the man by his head and smash it through the glass wall. He turned to Doyle.
“How do you explain the text message Baylor sent me? If he’d just killed these people, why would he call a cop?”
“I have no idea,” Doyle said. “Psychopaths aren’t usually known for being very logical. They do just what you’re doing, Jones. They do all sorts of things that make no sense.”
Matt clenched his teeth, his heart pounding. Baylor had been right. They wanted him to be the killer. They needed him to be the killer. And if they had to, they’d make him the killer. Doyle wanted the headlines and the media attention that went with a nationwide manhunt. Doyle wanted to move up the food chain.
Matt had seen it before and knew that he would see it again. Any piece of evidence that pointed to Dr. Baylor would go into the file. Anything that pointed in another direction or raised doubts would be left out.
It’s the corporate way, you know.
Matt heard Doyle say something but missed it. Then the federal prosecutor grabbed Matt by the shoulder. Matt gave him a long, dark look—a dangerous look—then pushed Doyle’s hand away. When Doyle spoke finally, his tone of voice sounded offensive, like an angry father talking down to his son.
“How do you explain the one piece of hard evidence that we’ve got, Jones? How do explain the fingerprints? Are you so naive that you really did believe Baylor when he told you that he left them on purpose? That he thought it might bring you into the case? Why would his fingerprints bring you into the case? Why would he leave a fingerprint, knowing that it would irrevocably link him directly to the murders of an entire family? Why would he want to lock himself into two crime scenes as horrific as these? How could you not see through his explanation that his presence at the Strattons’ and the Holloways’ was a series of coincidences? I’m not going to be as hard on you as these guys. You’ve missed two nights’ sleep in almost as many days. But when you walk away tonight, please understand two things. Dr. Baylor is a psychopath. And a fingerprint isn’t a feeling. It’s a lead. It’s a fact. It’s something that a prosecutor can go to trial with, and everyone in the courtroom understands exactly what it means, including the jury.”
CHAPTER 27
A sudden wave of doubt shook Matt’s soul as he walked back to his desk and sat down. On top of the argument Doyle had made was an errant memory that surfaced. It was something the medical examiner had said about halfway through the autopsies this afternoon.
The killer knew something about human anatomy.
The gunshots had been carefully placed to avoid a quick death. No major organs had been violated. The arteries in each victim were intact. Baylor was a skilled surgeon who would have known where to fire his weapon so that he could regulate blood loss and keep his victims conscious, but easily managed.
The doubt only lasted for a second or two. When Matt glanced back at the conference room and saw Rogers and Doyle shouting at each other with the door closed, his skepticism vanished.
He could remember something his favorite instructor at the LAPD Police Academy had told him on the firing range one day. Crimes were solved in exactly the same place they were created. That place was the imagination, the human mind. He could recall his instructor saying that a homicide investigation was more like a journey, and that most of the trip would occur in utter darkness. Crimes were solved by someone who could rely on their instincts to lead them through that darkness. Someone who soaked in evidence without bias or rushing to an early judgment. Doyle could make his argument about the value of a fingerprint in the courtroom. But Matt knew that a fingerprint was just a fingerprint until they made the case. In order to solve these murders, they would need to know what the fingerprint really meant.
Matt felt certain now that the doctor had been telling him the truth. In this case, the fingerprint wasn’t an error, but a call for help.
He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have kept his thoughts to himself.
Bu
t even worse, Baylor had been right about something else. The man who had murdered these people was completely depraved. The killer was truly someone special. Matt glanced out the window at the lights to the city, wondering where he might be. The idea that he had no real need to hide, no need to cover his tracks, the idea that the entire task force refused to believe that he even existed, cut to the bone.
An image surfaced—the one he couldn’t get out of his mind. The two boys forced to have sex with their mothers while their families watched. Their sisters and fathers. The image was more horrific than anything he’d dealt with in LA. More devastating. More radioactive. He knew that he would be living with this gruesome reality for the rest of time, and it made him angry.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw Kate Brown getting into her jacket.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Let’s get something to eat and call it a day.”
He was surprised. The disappointment he had seen on her face in the conference room was completely gone. He nodded, packed up his things, and grabbed his jacket. Kate Brown was a tough read.
As they exited the building and headed south on Sixth Street, Matt slung his briefcase over his shoulder and lit a Marlboro. When Brown tapped her first two fingers together, he handed over the cigarette and watched her take a drag.
“Where do you want to go?” he said.
“I know a quiet place off Walnut.”
They walked the next block and a half sharing the cigarette but not speaking. When they reached Walnut, Matt checked the light at the corner and spotted Dr. Westbrook scurrying across the street. He gave Brown a nudge with his elbow and picked up the pace.
“Hey, Westbrook,” he called out. “Wait up.”
Dr. Westbrook turned and didn’t seem very pleased to see them.
“I want to ask you something,” Matt said.
“What is it?” he said in an impatient voice. “I’m meeting someone.”
“I want to know what a profile would look like if we didn’t already know that Dr. Baylor was the one.”
Westbrook glanced at Brown, then gave Matt a long look without saying anything.
Matt took a step closer. “What would the profile look like, Doctor? You must have considered the possibility. With your reputation, I can’t believe that you’d take anything at face value.”
Matt followed Dr. Westbrook’s eyes to all the people walking up and down the sidewalk. They were standing at one of the entrances to Washington Square.
“Let’s go into the park,” Westbrook said in a lower voice.
Matt traded looks with Brown as they followed the profiler into the square. He could tell that Brown was nervous. That this wasn’t the corporate way. That if either Doyle or Rogers found out that Matt was continuing to pursue an alternate line in the murder cases, there would be more trouble.
Westbrook stopped at the first bench, looked around, and seemed okay with the surroundings. Matt checked the shadows and didn’t see anyone within earshot.
“What is it, Dr. Westbrook? If Baylor was out of the picture, what would the profile look like?”
Westbrook glanced at Brown again—tossing something over in his mind—then gave Matt a hard look. “If Baylor was out of the picture, if his fingerprints hadn’t turned up, I’d be looking for a white male in his twenties. A white male still living with his mother, probably abused by her in some fundamental way and for a long period of time. I’d say that he was probably abused from as far back as he can remember. Based on who his victims are, I’d be looking for someone without much money, someone feeding a fantasy of a happier, richer life that’s out of reach and impossible to obtain.”
Pay dirt. And Dr. Westbrook was no idiot. Matt lit another Marlboro.
“So what you’re saying, Doctor, is that if Baylor wasn’t on the map, we’d be looking for a sexually abused white male who’s seeking a way out of his despair by selecting victims and then punishing them for his situation, a private hell, a world he can’t seem to escape.”
Dr. Westbrook was measuring him, his eyes shimmering through his thick glasses. “I didn’t say that, Jones, but you’re quite right. He’s punishing his victims for the hand he was dealt. That’s what makes him so dangerous. So vicious. For him, there’s no end here. There’s no way out.” Dr. Westbrook raised his eyebrows and seemed amused. “But there’s no real need for a profile, is there, Jones? It’s Dr. Baylor. We already know who we’re looking for. We’re all moving down the same track.”
Matt took it in without reacting. “Because of the fingerprint.”
Dr. Westbrook hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Any surprises, Doctor?”
Matt watched Dr. Westbrook’s face change as he thought it over. That odd look was back in his eyes.
“Now that you mention it, Jones, I am surprised.”
“By what?”
“I’m going to make an assumption. The semen found in Mimi Holloway will turn out to be her son’s just like the semen found in Tammy Stratton belonged to her son. We won’t know for a day or two, but let’s just say for the sake of argument that the lab confirms they match.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Okay. But what’s the surprise?”
“Both boys were forced to have sex with their mothers. Now that we know this, there’s no indication that Baylor sexually abused anyone. Other than the one fingerprint found on Kaylee Stratton’s nipple, there’s no evidence of a sexual component here. Kaylee and her mother weren’t raped. You were at the autopsy today. I know that we don’t have the results from the rape kits yet, but what did the medical examiner say about the Holloways?”
Matt shook his head, trying to ward off the memory. “The girls weren’t touched,” he said. “No one was raped or violated in any way.”
Dr. Westbrook zipped up his coat. “You’ll recall that in LA and New Orleans, the sexual component was even stronger than the actual motive. No semen was ever found, but evidence of rape was loud and clear. Kaylee Stratton was seventeen. Victoria Holloway was nineteen. Both of them shared the same look and style as his first four victims. Young and normal from wealthy families with a parent who went out of their way to screw everybody. It just seems odd to me that Baylor left the girls alone.”
Matt took another hit on that Marlboro as the idea settled in. Dr. Westbrook pulled his coat tighter and turned to leave.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “I won’t mention our conversation to Rogers or Doyle. It’s probably best for all concerned if we pretend it never happened.”
Matt shrugged. He didn’t care either way. He watched Dr. Westbrook walk off and vanish into the crowd moving up and down Walnut Street. When he turned back to Kate Brown, she motioned for his cigarette and took another deep pull.
Trouble ahead. Matt could feel it in the darkness, the raw air.
CHAPTER 28
“He believed you,” Brown said. “I had my eyes on him. Westbrook isn’t sure what to think. You’re pushing his buttons.”
“In the conference room it looked like you were disappointed in me.”
She shook her head. A smile leaked out, then faded.
“Shocked is more like it, Jones. You’re here two days and you just told everybody that they’re wrong. They’re chasing the wrong man. Oh my God, you know what I mean?”
She took a sip of wine and shook her head, still gazing at him. The quiet restaurant off Walnut had been packed and didn’t work out. When they tried another place on Chestnut, they were told a table wouldn’t open up before 11:00 p.m. That’s when Brown suggested that they buy a pizza and go back to her place.
Matt was more than curious and had agreed. It turned out that Brown lived two blocks away from the Philadelphia Art Museum on the corner of Twenty-Third and Mount Vernon Street—a large red-brick Georgian townhouse that the previous owner had completely restored. High ceilings, ornate moldings from the 1880s, and hardwood floors. The rooms were big and deep and uncluttered, the walls painted in warm
colors, with most of the art unframed. Matt’s first thought as he walked through the double set of front doors was that Brown’s home was exceedingly comfortable.
He took a sip of wine and watched her throw another log on the fire, then sit down beside him on a large Oriental carpet. Her hesitation was back again. She’d start to get close, then back away just as she had in the parking lot at the hospital. Something was going on in her head, but Matt wasn’t really paying attention to it. The wine was starting to get to him. They had opened a second bottle, and he could feel the weight of the pizza in his stomach after losing another night’s sleep.
She turned and looked at him. “What if it’s true?” she said in an uneasy voice. “What if you’re right, and there’s someone else out there?”
“What did you think of Westbrook’s profile?”
“It made me think of that guy who walked into Sandy Hook Elementary School and shot all those kids.”
“Adam Lanza,” Matt said. “Newtown, Connecticut.”
Brown nodded. “He shot his mother while she slept in bed. He shot her in the face, Jones. Then he got into his car, drove over to the elementary school, and slaughtered twenty-six innocent teachers and kids with a Bushmaster assault rifle.”
“I remember. When he was finished, he killed himself the way they always do. They’re cowards. It’s in their nature.”
“Do you know what a bullet from a rifle like that does to the human body?”
Unfortunately, Matt knew exactly what a round from a Bushmaster did when it struck the human body. The Bushmaster was a redesign of the commercially available AR-15, which fired a .222 Remington cartridge. The upgrade was an attempt by the gun designer to meet the standards set by the US Army for the battlefield. In order to pass the test, a round had to be able to penetrate a steel helmet from five hundred yards away. The Bushmaster fired an amped-up .223 round that traveled at almost three times the speed of sound and easily met the army’s standards for a military assault weapon. The round didn’t put neat holes into people’s bodies. Instead, it ripped and tore and broke everything up as it exploded through them.
