by Brenda Novak
He could’ve guessed from her resemblance to the picture he had of Jasper—Jasper’s senior portrait that had run in the high school yearbook even though Jasper had already been on the lam at that point. Amarok had studied that photograph often over the past year, wondering how Jasper might’ve changed in the years since, what he must look like today. Since his last attack, Evelyn’s private investigator had had the same photo “aged” using a new computer program that helped with police work, but Amarok was afraid to rely too heavily on the result, simply because there was a chance it wasn’t correct. “I flew here all the way from Alaska to speak with you.”
“Alaska?” Her carefully manicured eyebrows drew together. “Oh God. Don’t tell me you have any connection to Evelyn Talbot or that ghastly prison she’s created.”
“Actually, I do.”
Subtle lines at the corners of Maureen’s eyes and above her top lip revealed her age. She had to be sixty. But, from a distance, he would’ve guessed she was much younger. He figured that was what having a good physical trainer, dye job and Botox could do for a person.
“Hanover House is located on the outskirts of Hilltop, where I live,” he explained. “But I don’t work there. I happen to be the local law enforcement.” He left out the fact that he was personally involved with Evelyn. He didn’t see where that was pertinent to the conversation.
“Don’t tell me something’s happened to Evelyn—”
“You mean like what happened to her twenty-one years ago, when your son tried to murder her? Or what happened to her eighteen months ago, when he made a second attempt on her life?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Jasper didn’t kidnap her again. She made that up as a-a publicity stunt to get the police and the media once again interested in her case. She was about to move to Alaska, so that was her last chance to launch another search before she left the area. Or it was one of the psychopaths she’s worked with. She’s studied so many, who can really say?”
“You honestly believe it wasn’t Jasper.”
“How did you get in here?” She glanced around him, but he knew she couldn’t see his vehicle.
“I came in the exit,” he replied.
“You what?”
“I didn’t have the code. But I felt it was important to show you what I’ve found.” He lifted the manila envelope he’d brought with him.
Instead of showing interest, she blanched. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Hiding from the truth won’t change it, Mrs. Moore.”
“My husband’s not here. He–he won’t like that I’m talking to you. You’ll have to come back later.”
She started to close the door, but he stopped it with one hand. “Please,” he said. “Try to look past your love for your son and imagine the grief your son’s victims and their families must feel.”
“It’s not like I don’t have sympathy for them,” she said. “What Jasper did before, it … it breaks my heart. But he was high on acid when he killed those girls. He didn’t know what he was doing. He thought they were zombies!”
That was what he’d told his parents? How he’d convinced them to help him and stand by him all these years? “What about Evelyn? He imprisoned her for three days while he was attending school—and baseball practice. Tortured her whenever he could slip away. Slit her throat!”
“She got those injuries trying to escape. He only acted as he did because she threatened to tell and he panicked. He was afraid—afraid of going to prison for life for something he didn’t even mean to do. Surely you can understand the terror of a seventeen-year-old boy who was smart enough to know he’d be tried as an adult.”
“I understand how much you want to believe what he told you,” Amarok said softly. “And I understand how tightly you’ve had to cling to the excuses he provided—to justify your own actions. You seem like a decent, caring individual.”
“I am!”
“Then why are you helping him? That makes you partly responsible! And more women are dying, Mrs. Moore—at the hand of your son.”
“No!”
“Yes. Surely you must wonder, in some small part of your mind, what if? Maybe it’s time you looked at the evidence with an open mind. That’s all I’m asking. Then I’ll go.”
Her chest lifted as she drew a deep breath. “Stan won’t be happy,” she muttered, obviously torn.
“Then we’ll speak quickly and privately, before he gets home.”
At that moment the Mercedes that’d inadvertently let him through the gate pulled up to the curb and the driver yelled out across the broad expanse of lawn and shrubs. “Maureen, this man isn’t bothering you, is he?”
Amarok thought that would bring an abrupt end to the conversation, that Maureen would lean on the driver’s support. But she didn’t. “I’m fine, Scott. Thank you. This man is … he’s a friend of the family,” she said, and opened the door to admit him.
“Okay,” Scott responded. “Just wanted to be sure. Have a nice evening.”
As he drove off, Amarok stepped into the cathedral-like entrance with its black-and-white-checked flooring, crystal chandelier and elegant grandfather clock, which ticked softly in the hushed silence. “Thank you. What I have to say will only take a moment.”
Maureen didn’t seem pleased by her own decision, but she didn’t change her mind and throw him out. She beckoned him into a sitting room off to one side that was stuffed with antiques. “There hasn’t been any new evidence in years,” she said. “Evelyn didn’t even get a look at her attacker’s face eighteen months ago. So … what is it you have in that envelope?”
He opened the flap and withdrew a sheet that contained a collection of color pictures.
“Who are these women?” she asked when he showed it to her.
“Their names are written on the back.”
“I don’t recognize them, don’t know them.”
He handed her Evelyn’s picture. “Do you see the similarity? How much they look like her?”
“There’s more of a resemblance to some than others,” she hedged. “But so what? What are you getting at?”
He pulled another sheet from the folder. “This is what those women look like after being tortured and murdered.”
With a yelp-like sound, she dropped that sheet as soon as she realized it contained crime scene photos. “Who the hell do you think you are? Get out!” she yelled.
“Give me one more second,” he said as he retrieved what she’d dropped. “These women? They were murdered just outside of Phoenix over the past five years, near a burned-out barn very similar to the shack in which your son killed Evelyn’s friends. So if Jasper’s been living anywhere near the northwest side of Phoenix, you need to speak up.”
She was blinking rapidly, trying to avoid tears. “I-I don’t know where he is. It’s not Arizona.”
If she didn’t know where he was, then how did she know it wasn’t Arizona? “Could it be Boston? Where he was eighteen months ago? Because another of Evelyn’s friends has been killed there, a woman both Jasper and Evelyn knew in school. You might’ve heard about it. Her name was Mandy Walker.”
“Yes, I’ve heard, and I remember Mandy. We had her over to the house a time or two. But Jasper had nothing to do with her death. That was some other … some other person—the Zombie Maker or a-a copycat. Surely you’ve read about the Zombie Maker. Maybe you’ve even met him. He was sentenced to Hanover House.”
“You think Mandy’s killer was someone from Minnesota? That’s where all the Zombie Maker’s crimes have been committed.”
She looked shaken, unsure. “It could be.”
“Don’t you find it a bit of a coincidence that the victim was another close friend of Evelyn’s?”
“It must be a coincidence,” she insisted. “Jasper’s a good family man these days—a husband and father. He would never hurt anyone like he did before.”
So she did have contact with him.… “But he does live in Arizona. In Peoria, right?”
When she
didn’t contradict him, he thought he was getting somewhere. He hoped she might reveal more. But a booming voice came from elsewhere in the house. “Maureen? Where are you? Are you ready to go to dinner or what?”
Stan was home. The house was so large they hadn’t heard him come in.
The rest of the color drained from Maureen’s face. “He can’t find you here!”
“I’ll hide, do whatever you want,” he whispered. “I’m not out to cause problems for you. I realize you’re a victim in all of this, too. So take my card and think about what I’ve told you. Think about the fact that no parent of a psychopath wants to acknowledge that their child could cause so much harm. It’s gut-wrenching. But you can’t let the pain stop you from doing what’s right. You have to be brave, even if it means turning in someone you love.”
“Stan’ll never forgive me if I do.”
“I believe your son murdered these women, Mrs. Moore. He chooses victims that look like Evelyn, as these do, because she is the person he’s fixated on, the person he really wants. And he will continue to kill—again and again—if you don’t stop him.”
She didn’t respond. There was no time. She went to the door and called out, “I spilled a little wine on the carpet and am cleaning it up! Will you grab my purse from our bedroom?”
After her husband answered that he would, she peered out until she felt assured that he’d gone upstairs. Then she showed Amarok out the back.
10
Finished with brain imaging for the day, Evelyn returned to her desk to find she’d received several messages from various reporters. Most were from the Minneapolis area, but there were a few who represented national papers and news programs. They all wanted to speak to her about Lyman Bishop.
She knew, as Detective Gustavson had advised, she’d be better off staying out of the firestorm. Hanover House would most likely be better off, too. That was the only thing that gave her pause. She hesitated to let what Detective Gustavson had done get in the way of what she might be able to accomplish with the resources at her disposal. But the only weapon she had to fight back against Bishop was her professional opinion on his culpability, and because of the danger she believed he posed she had to alert the community as to where she stood on the issue.
After wiping her palms on her wool slacks, she picked up one of the message slips and dialed someone named Sebring Schultz—a man, judging by the voice on the recording.
“Star Tribune.”
“Mr. Schultz?”
“Yes?”
“This is Evelyn Talbot in Alaska, returning your call.”
“Thanks for getting back to me, Dr. Talbot.”
She drew a deep breath. “No problem.”
“Do I need to explain what I’m calling about?”
“No, you’re not the only person to have contacted me.”
“So? What do you think of what you’re hearing?”
“Frankly, it frightens me.”
“That this case includes such police corruption? That Bishop could be an innocent man unjustly stripped of his liberty?”
“No, that news of what Detective Gustavson did will lead to the release of a very dangerous man.”
“You believe Bishop is guilty.”
“I haven’t had much time to work with him. I’ve tried to analyze him to a degree, to create some official notes, but he’s been very careful to only show me a certain façade, which makes that hard. At this point, with what’s happened, what small chance I did have has disappeared. I doubt he’ll cooperate, am guessing his lawyer would advise him not to, since that could be perceived as an unnecessary risk. But, yes, even though he’s only been here a short time, I believe he’s guilty.”
“How can you say that, Doctor? He was convicted on evidence that was planted in his house!”
She frowned at the clock, hated the way the seconds and minutes ticked away toward Bishop’s release. “That has no bearing on his guilt, Mr. Schultz, only on proving his guilt. That’s the sad thing here. What Gustavson did was wrong. But those panties weren’t the only evidence. Just the most damning.”
“I’ve interviewed several of the jurors. The conviction turned on those panties.”
“I understand that.”
“Are you also aware that another woman was murdered by “The Zombie Maker’s” MO after he was imprisoned?”
“Of course. The victim was a personal friend of mine. I’d be unlikely to miss that. But I believe someone else committed that murder.”
“Let me guess … the man who attacked you and was never caught?”
“Given Mandy’s connection to me, it’s a possibility. As for the murders Bishop has been convicted for, he knew each of the victims. He had no alibi for the nights they went missing. And let’s not forget the murder of his mother some years ago. The perpetrator was never caught.”
“Maybe he had nothing to do with that. Maybe that was just bad luck all the way around and it wasn’t him.”
Evelyn rolled her shoulders, trying to ease some of the stress knotting her muscles. “After meeting him, I don’t think so.”
“But if you haven’t tested him, what are you basing your opinion on?”
“I’ve spoken to him, Mr. Schultz, on more than one occasion.”
“You couldn’t have spent much time with him. That can’t be all of it.”
“I assure you, it isn’t.”
“So it’s the circumstantial evidence you rattled off to me.”
Evelyn cleared her throat. She’d known she’d meet with a certain amount of skepticism, that it wouldn’t be easy to take the stand she was taking. Bishop hadn’t been with her long enough. She wished news of the tainted evidence could’ve broken six months from now. Maybe by then she would’ve had more credibility when sharing her opinion of Lyman Bishop. “No. I’m merely pointing out that even if the panty evidence is thrown out, nothing has come to light to show he didn’t kill those women. The police can’t rule him out; they just can’t keep him behind bars.”
“Where you think he belongs.”
“Judging by what I’ve seen of him so far, yes.”
“What have you seen that leads you to such a conclusion, Dr. Talbot? Could you be more specific?”
“I’m sure you won’t be satisfied with my answers, Mr. Schultz. If I were you, I’d be equally skeptical. But every once in a while I come across someone who causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.”
“You can tell psychopaths from regular people just by meeting them.”
When she heard the derisive tone of his voice, she considered trying to explain what she’d glimpsed, briefly, in that meeting with Jennifer Hall but decided against it. He’d only pick that apart. Truth was—she had nothing substantial with which to defend her position. But she still wasn’t willing to relinquish it. “No. Occasionally my intuition warns me about some people, that’s all. I’m sure yours does, too. How else would you know who to trust when doing interviews or writing a story?”
“I try to rely on facts, especially when it might ruin someone’s life.”
“We don’t always have the luxury of having all the information so perfectly laid out and clear. As a matter of fact, we rarely have that luxury. A large proportion of the men I work with claim they’re innocent. Perhaps, if they’d had a different jury looking at what the prosecution presented, they’d be free today. In other words, it almost always comes down to opinion, and in my professional opinion, letting Bishop go means more women will die.”
“So where do we draw the line?”
“That’s the debate, isn’t it? I wish I had the answer, but I don’t. I can only tell you that if I’m going to err, it’s on the side of protecting the victim, not the perpetrator.”
“Will you stand by what you’ve said? Can I quote you?”
He’d taken such an adversarial stance. Evelyn guessed she wouldn’t be represented well in whatever he chose to print and wished she’d let his call go unreturned.
But she ha
dn’t. She needed to give him an answer.
She thought of Jennifer Hall, sitting in that interview room with tears streaming down her face, and hoped she wasn’t letting her empathy speak for her intuition. “Yes.”
* * *
“Who came by?” Jasper turned on the single lightbulb dangling over his workbench in the garage, where he’d gone so that his wife wouldn’t hear him. He didn’t speak to his parents often. He was fairly certain that only by assuming they were always being monitored—if not by police, than by one of the private investigators Evelyn had hired—had he managed to escape being caught. Whenever his parents wanted to get in touch, they’d text him from a borrowed or disposable phone the name of his favorite baseball team as a boy—Red Sox. He’d then call the number that text originated from, if he could get safely away from his family long enough to do it. His wife, Hillary, believed his parents died in a car accident when he was eighteen. He’d had to tell her that so she wouldn’t expect to meet them or associate with them. She had no idea he’d ever been Jasper Moore, and it was imperative she never find out.
“A Sergeant Benjamin Murphy from Hilltop, Alaska,” his father replied. “That place where Evelyn lives these days.”
Jasper felt his muscles bunch, but he kept his voice as calm and even as possible. “I didn’t even know she was in Alaska.”
There was a slight pause. Then his father said, “But we’ve talked about it. And it’s been all over the news.”
He’d gone a bit too far in his feigned indifference, so he attempted to prop up the lie with more convincing statements. “To be honest, I try to shut it out, if I can. Why would I ever think of Evelyn? Her name alone reminds me of what I’d rather forget.”
“I wish what happened twenty-one years ago would go away, too,” his father said. “It was dying down, until someone kidnapped her eighteen months ago. That’s what has started it up again.”
“You know I wasn’t anywhere near Boston when that happened.” Although he had, briefly, moved his family there, he’d known better than to tell his parents. They’d guess immediately that Evelyn was the draw. Why else would he go back to where he’d committed his original crimes? The Boston police were still looking for him. “I think she made it up, like I told you before, to whip everyone into another frenzy. She won’t move on. She’s still out there, even after all these years, demanding an eye for an eye.”
