by Brenda Novak
If he was innocent, what the detective had done was unconscionable. “Fortunately, the human spirit is quite resilient.”
“I believe I’ve proven that.”
“What you’ve accomplished, if serial killer is not part of your résumé, is admirable.”
“I’m no killer, Dr. Talbot. What killer would take care of his own mentally handicapped sister?”
None that she knew of. But she’d dealt with enough psychopaths to understand that the smartest ones created a compelling cover. “Most claim to be innocent regardless of what they do or don’t do that’s commendable. Anyway, I was wondering if you might be interested in participating in some of our studies.”
“Today?”
“Why wait any longer? It’s been more than a week since you arrived.”
“No. Thank you,” he added, as if he was determined to be polite under any circumstances.
She lifted her eyebrows. “You’re not eager to get out of your cell?”
“I’m not feeling up to it.”
“It would put you back in a clinical setting,” she said, tempting him.
“I prefer to be the scientist, not the subject.”
“Scientist or subject, the studies should be intellectually stimulating. Why not relieve the boredom? You might be able to offer a perspective different from our own.” She held her breath, hoping her appeal to his vanity might prove successful.
Forgetting that his chair was bolted to the floor, he tried to scoot it forward only to mutter a curse when he realized he couldn’t change anything. “What kind of studies?”
“We have one going on right now that’s designed to determine whether those who exhibit psychopathic traits can more easily beat a polygraph than a control group can. We also have one that measures empathy via magnetic resonance imaging. I’d like to include you in both.”
He folded his arms as well as he could while wearing handcuffs. “I don’t know. You have no idea how upsetting what I’ve been through is. I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. The police were out to get me. That’s all I can figure.”
She was far more prone to believe that now. But she was also reluctant to give away what she’d learned about the evidence used to convict him. “You’d like being part of the studies. And we could celebrate with a glass of wine at the end of the day. Have you ever tried Salmonberry?”
“No.”
She never provided any of the inmates with alcohol, but Jennifer had mentioned that Bishop considered himself a bit of a foodie, and he probably hadn’t had a glass of wine since he was arrested. Given the length of his trial, that was months and months ago. “It’s a dry Alaskan wilderness wine made from wild salmonberries handpicked on Kodiak Island. I predict you’ll love it.”
“That’s my best offer?” he said glumly. “A single glass of wine?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s more than the others get.”
A thought seemed to strike him, causing him to perk up. “You’re not afraid that I might skew your findings?”
“Why would I be afraid of that?”
“Because I’m not a psychopath. Give me the PCL-R. You’ll see.”
He sounded so confident, confident enough to make her question her own intuition. Maybe she was wrong about him. “Okay, I’ll do that as soon as we have the chance, in the next couple of days.” She’d been planning to, anyway. She thought it might be the only thing that could help shore up what she felt in her gut or throw her to the other side. “Right now I have something else I’d like you to do.”
“You want more from me?”
“Yes, and this favor might not be as easy as the others to grant. Jan’s sister is still in town. She’s asked to speak to you.”
He got up. “What’s the point of that? I’ve told you. I don’t know where her sister’s body is. How could I know? I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill anyone!”
“I’ve conveyed your response to Jennifer. She’d like to meet with you anyway, if you’re willing.”
“I’m not willing! She’ll just accuse me.”
“You told me you cared about Jan.”
His eyes narrowed as if she’d caught him on something. “I did care. A great deal.”
“Then prove it. Meet with Jennifer for the sake of Jan’s memory. Have some compassion for her suffering sister.”
The way he looked at her made her wonder what he was thinking. He was so careful not to let his thoughts register on his face. She’d never met anyone so guarded, so disconnected from his or her own body language.
Maybe that was what frightened her about Bishop. If they let him go, she doubted they’d ever catch him again, even if he was guilty.
“Fine,” he said, and took his seat.
* * *
Jennifer was shaking when Evelyn showed her in.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, giving the younger woman’s back a reassuring rub. “There’s no way he can hurt you.”
Resting her hands on her rounded belly, she sat slowly behind Evelyn’s small utility table.
Evelyn hadn’t known what to expect from this encounter—some level of emotionality, she supposed. But there were no tears or recriminations. Just silence. The two stared at each other, almost without blinking, for at least three minutes. Evelyn was about to ask Jennifer what she had to say when Bishop finally spoke.
“I’m sorry about your sister.”
“No, you’re not,” Jennifer responded.
He shrugged. “If you won’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do. I didn’t hurt her.”
“That’s a lie,” Jennifer insisted. “I don’t care what you or anyone else says, I know you did it. I was there at the trial. I saw the way you looked at me. You’d almost begin to salivate when I walked into the room because you were reliving what you’d done to her, imagining the way you’d touched her or hurt her, maybe even the way you killed her.”
Evelyn saw a leap of emotion in Bishop’s eyes, but, masking it almost immediately, he shifted his gaze to her. “I don’t see where this will get us anywhere.”
It already had. It’d given Evelyn a glimpse of what Jennifer had seen in court. But it had also made Evelyn more afraid than ever that Bishop would be released. There was a level of excitement inside him when Jennifer talked about Jan that was so palpable even Evelyn could feel it. “Compassion, remember?” she said, hoping to keep him engaged so she could witness more of his reaction to Jan’s identical twin.
“Where’s your compassion for me?” he demanded. “For a man whose whole life has been ruined? An innocent man unjustly accused and imprisoned?”
Evelyn returned his level stare. “Stop playing games, Dr. Bishop. You’re not innocent; you’re just clever. But you can’t fool me.”
His pouting demeanor twisted into an evil, sort of gleeful expression. “I’ll never give you what you want!” he snapped.
The change that came over him was so sudden and so opposite to anything he’d shown her before, Evelyn felt stunned. The whole episode reminded her of something from a horror movie where the main character was possessed and his head had just started spinning.
She and Jennifer had caught sight of the demon hiding inside.…
“Get me out of here!” he yelled.
Evelyn was shaking as badly as Jennifer by the time the guards removed him from the far side of the room. By “what you want” he’d meant the location of Jan’s body. That was an admission; Evelyn was convinced of it. He’d just been careful to couch what he’d said, to say the words in such a way that he could claim he meant otherwise if she ever repeated them—or played the video of this meeting in court. All of her interactions with the prisoners were recorded.
That he felt confident enough to do what he’d just done was absolutely chilling. He believed he was so convincing, so good at acting the innocent, he could take on even her—and win.
Maybe he was aware of the evidence scandal. Maybe he knew he had a good chance of getting out—and she wouldn’t be able to stop it.
“We got nothing from that,” Jennifer said. “That was a big waste of time. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve put you to. But at least I had my say.”
Evelyn drew a steadying breath. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t a waste of time. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you came up here.”
Jennifer seemed surprised. “You are?”
“Yes. I needed to see exactly what I just saw.”
The question was … would it make any difference?
9
Evelyn left four messages for the detective on Bishop’s case before he finally called her back, and by that time it was her lunch hour.
“This is Detective Gustavson.”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded beleaguered. She waved for Penny, who was in her office going over some paperwork with her, to step out and give her some privacy. “Thanks for returning my calls,” she said.
“Figured you’d just keep after me if I didn’t.”
The door clicked as her assistant shut it on the way out. “That’s true. I’m nothing if not persistent.”
“What can I do for you?”
“As I told you in my messages, I run Hanover House—or at least the mental health unit—”
“I’m aware of you and your work, Dr. Talbot,” he broke in, his voice brusque.
She felt awkward, hated to intrude at what had to be a bad time, but this was important. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I … I have to know. Did you plant that evidence? Will Bishop be getting out?”
There was a long pause.
“Detective Gustavson, please. Be honest with me.”
After another extended silence, she got her answer: “Yes.”
That word sounded wrenched from him, but there it was. He’d cheated. He’d plucked the “fruit of the poisonous tree,” as such illegally obtained evidence was sometimes referred to in criminal justice circles.
Shit. Evelyn covered her face. “Why?”
“Because I had no choice. He’s guilty. Guilty as sin, Dr. Talbot. He may not have been up there with you long enough for you to recognize that, but I know it. And I knew it then. You should’ve seen how he challenged me when I first called him in for questioning, how he smiled at me. I had no doubt he’d go on killing until I stopped him. Problem was … he’s too smart, too good at making sure he lures his victims in without alarming anyone. I couldn’t get anything solid on him. So I … I figured out a way to get the job done.”
“The end justified the means, in other words.”
“Do you think he plays fair? Do you think the women whose brains he cut into before raping, torturing and murdering them thought that was fair?”
“I’m not judging you,” she said, hoping to diffuse the surfeit of emotion that came bursting through the line. Obviously, Gustavson was defensive. No doubt he’d already been criticized from all sides—his superiors, the press, the community, perhaps even his own family. “Maybe … maybe under the circumstances, I would’ve been tempted to do the same,” she told him. If she was certain, how could she not be tempted? She couldn’t be hypocritical enough to pretend otherwise, given her determination to stop such predators. She wished someone would see to it that Jasper was put behind bars whether it was through legally obtained evidence or not.
And yet … due process of law was there for a reason.
“The mistake I made wasn’t planting the evidence.” Although Gustavson was calmer now, it sounded as if he was almost in tears. “It was wrestling with my conscience over it and sharing that struggle with someone I loved and trusted, someone who turned on me in the end. My ex may be trying to make it sound as if I did what I did to enhance my career. But that’s not true. What kind of man would do something like that for the sake of ambition? I did it for the community. To get him off the streets. To stop him before he could hurt anyone else. I swear it. He was too smart, and I was desperate. That’s all.”
Whether that was true or not, Gustavson seemed earnest enough that she believed him. Probably because she also felt Bishop was guilty. That he would continue to kill. “Then I’m sorry for what you’re going through. It’ll be a long, rough ride. And now … now Bishop will get out. You realize that.”
“Yes.”
“Have you admitted the truth to anyone else?” If he hadn’t, maybe the investigation would peter out and nothing would change, but Gustavson dashed all hope of that.
“Of course. I had no choice. Lindsey set me up, turned over a conversation she recorded on her cell phone.”
“No!” Evelyn gasped.
“Yes. Can you believe that? No good deed goes unpunished, as they say. I tell you I was doing the world a favor. I put my reputation and my career on the line to stop a killer. Now I’m the one who’ll be hurt by it, and he’ll walk free—after murdering eight women, probably more. I just turned in my resignation and am cleaning out my desk, so the investigation won’t take long. Be prepared to send him home.”
“Do you know Beth?” she asked before he could hang up.
“His sister? I’ve met the poor thing. She was there when we were doing the search, huddling in the corner, frightened half to death. And she came to the trial.”
“What do you make of a serial killer taking care of someone like that? It’s a bit of a contradiction, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s no contradiction,” he scoffed. “If I had my guess, he’s the one who turned her into the imbecile she is.”
Evelyn felt her jaw drop. “Are you serious?”
“We’re talking about a man who performed lobotomies on his victims. I’m guessing he started on her. Used her to practice, for God’s sake!”
The thought of someone’s brother doing such a terrible thing made Evelyn sick. And yet … what Gustavson said resonated with what she’d seen of Bishop so far—made sense of a piece of the puzzle that hadn’t fit before.
“I wouldn’t put it past a psychopath of Bishop’s caliber,” she admitted.
“Then you’re one of the few who truly understand what he is.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“Just stay out of the way. You’re doing good work, but all the bleeding hearts out there who care more about the rights of criminals than victims would love to take you down with me. The last thing you need is to get mixed up in this mess.”
What he said was true. She’d been lucky to escape last year’s media scandal. But he wasn’t the only one who believed Bishop would go out and reoffend.
That meant she was already mixed up in it.
* * *
Amarok had no trouble finding the exclusive development where Jasper’s parents lived, but he wasn’t sure how to get through the iron gates of the tall fence that enclosed it. After coming so far, he was reluctant to use the intercom on the small brick edifice between the exit and entrance. If the Moores could turn him away that easily, he was fairly certain they would.
He parked and waited, hoping someone else would approach and punch in the correct code so he could pull in behind him or her. But it was a quiet afternoon with little activity in the neighborhood. He sat there for fifteen minutes before he spotted another vehicle. And that vehicle wasn’t going in the entrance; it was coming out the exit.
In case this would be his best chance, he waited just long enough for that car to get out of the way. Then he punched the gas pedal of his cheap rental and rocketed through the exit, barely making it before the gate closed.
When brake lights flashed on the Mercedes that’d inadvertently let him through, he imagined a moment of panic on the driver’s part. “‘Dear me,’” Amarok mocked. “‘I fear I’ve let a piece of common trash through the gate!’”
He didn’t wait to see what that driver would do; he sped past a series of fountains and man-made lakes into the sprawling neighborhood. He was determined to reach the Moores’ doorstep before anyone could stop him, wanted to confront Jasper’s parents face-to-face rather than let them hide behind some intercom or fence.
The homes in this small but elite neighborhood were spread out for privacy and sat on large lots. The lots had to be large because the houses themselves were enormous. Had he come earlier, he was certain he would’ve had no trouble following a lawn service, housekeeper or handyman through the gate. These weren’t the type of people who mowed their own lawns, cleaned their own houses or mended their own fences.
Amarok found Stanley and Maureen Moore’s sprawling stucco mansion at the end of a cul-de-sac on grounds worthy of a museum. Of course, growing things in San Diego was a lot easier than in Alaska this time of year. This mild-weathered, completely domesticated area was the exact opposite of the wild, rugged place where he lived.
Some people—most people—loved San Diego. But he wasn’t overly impressed. He preferred Alaska.
After parking across the street, where he could drive away without having to back down some windy drive lined with pagoda lights, he left his jacket in the car—it was too warm to wear it—and grabbed the file he’d brought with him.
The entrance to the Moores’ house was more elaborate than any Amarok had ever seen—except, perhaps, on television. The overhang had to be thirty feet high. The light that extended down from it looked like a giant piece of contemporary art.
He couldn’t admire Jasper’s parents’ wealth, however, not when they’d used it to rob Evelyn and Jasper’s other victims of the justice they deserved.
With a glance over his shoulder to be sure that the Mercedes hadn’t found him, if the driver had even tried, he rang the doorbell and heard a long melodic chime. “What the hell’s wrong with a simple ding-dong?” he muttered. Then he held his breath, hoping he’d find someone at home.
After thirty seconds or so, footsteps approached from the other side. The heavy wooden door swung open and a petite, attractive woman wearing a turtleneck with a fitted tweed jacket and tan slacks peered out at him. “Yes?”
Elaborate diamond rings adorned her fingers. A strand of pearls hung from her neck and matching pearl earrings dangled from her ears. “My name is Sergeant Benjamin Murphy.” He flashed his badge. “Are you Maureen Moore?”
“I am.…”
