He’d had a chance already—this would be a second or maybe third chance. She was losing track of how many times he’d held things back from her. “I want to trust you. But it’s not really a matter of my giving you any more chances. It’s a matter of whether you take them.” She felt a quiver in her chin and took a deep breath, waiting for it to pass. She hadn’t cried since the day her father died, and she wasn’t going to start up now. “Frankly, I don’t see a single logical reason for you to keep things from me.”
His hands dropped. “It was stupid of me. But some part of me worried you’d cramp my style. I bend the rules sometimes, and I didn’t want you trying to rein me in on the case.”
It took a minute for what he was saying to sink in. And then she let out a long breath. He was probably right. There might indeed be times when she would cramp his style. But over the years, she’d come to understand that trying to force her views on others usually had undesirable results. If she had any hope of making a difference, she had to work within a flawed system. “I’ll speak up when I think it’s called for, but I’m not in charge of your morality, Spense. I’m only in charge of my own.” She reached out her hand for a partners’ shake. “But like you said before, if we’re going to be a real team, you have to stop withholding information.”
He took her hand, then traced the letters, thanks into her palm, and her heart seemed to flip in her chest. “So, Dr. Cassidy, what can I do to help my partner?”
Damn his charm. Keeping her expression neutral, she said, “I need to compare the section of Sally Cartwright’s temporal bone found in Kramer’s possession with the image of Darlene Dillinger’s skull.”
While Spense searched the Cartwright file, she located the Dillinger autopsy photos.
“Here’s a good close-up of Kramer’s trophy.” Spense lined the evidence photo up with the autopsy shots she’d selected.
As she compared the photos her heart banged hard and fast against her ribs, and the whoosh of her pulse magnified in her ears. “There.” Her voice edged up no matter how hard she tried to control it. “You see this. This piece of the temporal bone Kramer took corresponds exactly to the piece taken by our UNSUB.”
“Doesn’t seem the same to me. Kramer’s bone is square and there’s a triangular piece of Darlene’s skull missing.”
“I’m not referring to the shape or size of the incision. I’m talking about the location of the wound. See how this piece of bone found at Kramer’s apartment looks porous? That’s the petrous section of the temporal bone. It’s called petrous after its rocklike appearance. Compare that to Darlene’s autopsy photo. Our UNSUB removed a section of temporal bone just adjacent to the inner ear: the petrous part—the section containing the otic capsule has been removed. When Kramer was arrested, the papers reported a piece of Sally Cartwright’s temporal bone was found in his possession. Nothing was ever mentioned about it being the petrous section. A copycat couldn’t know about that. So maybe the UNSUB killed both Darlene Dillinger and Sally Cartwright or . . .”
“Or what? I don’t follow.”
“One possibility that leaps to mind is that the UNSUB really is the Man in the Maze.”
“Still not following.”
“From the legend, we know that the Man in the Maze was a teacher. According to Kramer, our UNSUB calls himself the Man in the Maze. We’re in Arizona, so it makes sense the moniker might be related to the Southwestern legend.”
Spense tilted his head and looked away, as if lost in thought. She waited for the idea to sink in. It didn’t take long.
“Christ.”
“Now you follow.”
He nodded. “In the legend, the Man in the Maze teaches his ways to his students. That could explain why we have the same signature but different MOs. One killer is the student, the other the teacher. But maybe Kramer was the UNSUB’s teacher, not the other way around.” Spense’s eyes lit up. “Either way, that might answer our question of motive. If the UNSUB and Kramer were student and teacher, then when Kramer was apprehended, the UNSUB might have worried Kramer would make a deal with the police and lead them back to him.”
Her hands shook with excitement. “I believe the Man in the Maze, not Kramer, played the teacher’s role. But I agree the UNSUB might have gone after Kramer because he was afraid he’d make a deal and give him up to the police. That would also explain why he had to take Baumgartner and me out, too, because he was afraid of what Kramer might’ve revealed to us.”
“I’m with you on most of this, Caity, but we should be careful. That exercise we did back at the museum was exactly that—an exercise—not evidence. It’s just a way of getting in touch with possible scenarios by giving your brain permission to put yourself into the mind of a killer. And maybe you’re right. But we need more than your instincts to go on. The truth is, we don’t really know if the Man in the Maze exists. We need more to go on than Kramer’s word.”
“But we do have more to go on. We do have evidence.” She pulled out the brochure from the museum and opened it to the pottery section. “Look at the Man in the Maze motif.”
He scratched his chin. “The unicameral labyrinth with the man in the center, I remember. That’s all well and good, but other than Kramer’s word, there’s nothing that connects the Man in the Maze to the crime.”
“The maze in question is a unicameral labyrinth, right?”
“Sure, but there were no labyrinths drawn or carved onto the victims, no Man in the Maze jewelry or pottery left at the scene. If this guy’s obsessed with the legend, it seems like there would be.”
“Our UNSUB is the Man in the Maze, Spense. He didn’t leave a labyrinth on the bodies. He took a labyrinth . . . as a souvenir.” She pointed to the photo of Kramer’s bone trophy. “It’s hard to tell from this photo, but let me show you a dissected view of petrous bone.” She powered up her e-reader.
His head snapped back in surprise. “You have a picture of dissected petrous bone on your e-reader?”
“I have Netter’s Human Anatomy Atlas on my e-reader. My hardcover copy is too heavy to lug around, and besides, I swear, even after all these years, it still smells like formaldehyde.” She navigated to an illustration of dissected bone. “What does this look like to you?”
“It looks a hell of a lot like the mazes we saw at the museum. That’s what the UNUSB carved out of Darlene Dillinger’s skull?”
“Yes. The petrous bone contains cavities and passages that accommodate the inner structures of the ear. That’s why it’s called the bony labyrinth.”
Suddenly, Spense’s cell vibrated, and Caitlin let out a startled yelp.
“Jumpy little thing, aren’t you.” Spense winked at her and looked down at his cell, the smile quickly vanishing from his face.
“What is it?” She held her breath, knowing from Spense’s expression this had to be something big.
“It’s Baskin. He’s got a suspect at the station. They want us, and in particular you, to come down in the morning to observe his interrogation.”
Chapter Eighteen
Monday, September 16
Phoenix Police Department
Mountainside Precinct
SPENSE SHIFTED IN a flimsy, aluminum-legged chair made of cheap red plastic. The seat he’d been offered in the precinct computer room was identical to the chairs in the interrogation room. This one must’ve been designated specifically for suspects because a screw had been loosened and raised and was currently poking him in the ass. The seat itself wobbled, and the girth was far too narrow for his frame. It was damned uncomfortable, which of course was the point. Detective Thompson had pulled up a similar chair for Caity, but Spense had put the kibosh on that fast and scavenged a comfortable spinner for her from another room.
Although she’d sworn off the good stuff, she was eating ibuprofen like candy, and he knew her flank hurt like hell. If you asked her, she�
�d deny it, but he could tell by the way she grimaced when she thought he wasn’t looking. Caity hated being babied, and he didn’t get that at all. Personally, he loved being on the receiving end of a little extra attention when he was sick. But maybe that was a guy thing. Stretching out his legs, he gave her shoe a gentle kick.
“Quiet.” She flicked her hand at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But I’m trying to concentrate, and you’re bothering me.”
“The interrogation is being recorded, obviously, since we’re watching a computer feed. If you miss something, we can just rewind.”
“Shh.”
Temporarily giving up, Spense rested his forearms on the counter that ran the perimeter of the room. On top of the counter, computers were spaced every few feet to accommodate multiple officers engaged in various tasks. That’s why they called the place the computer room. Cops were clever like that. Caity’s eyes were fixed on the live feed coming from the interview room. The suspect interrogation was just getting started, but the warm-up was one of the most important parts of the process. The lights in the room and the multiple computer screens running at the same time were distracting him, but Baskin was interested, for once, in their observations. Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Spense made an effort to focus.
The interrogation room was set up to maximize the suspect’s discomfort. The more dependent he felt on the officers for his basic comfort, the better. At the moment, Detective Thompson was trying to convince a Mr. Silas Graham, aka the suspect, that he was a Mets fan. Thompson was a diehard Yankees man, but to hear him tell it now, he had the Mets’ starting lineup tattooed on his dick and jacked off to the “Star Spangled Banner” every morning. This was Thompson’s idea of building rapport, and Spense had to give him credit, because he’d managed to get Graham talking and waving his hands around, arguing over who was the best relief pitcher. Thompson was even faking a Bronx accent. That was some serious police work going on in there because what Spense knew of Thompson, the guy had a low opinion of suspects, usually referring to them as assholes and motherfuckers. But right now, he had Graham eating out of his hand. “I had no idea Tommy was such a good actor.”
“Quiet . . . please.”
He nudged Caity’s foot again, and finally she turned around and sent him her drop-dead glare—which had been his goal all along. To irritate her further, he gave her a wink.
“Spense, can you just rein it in a little?”
He might’ve gone too far because she no longer seemed irritated. She seemed concerned, and that’s when he realized his brain really had gone off track. Pulling in a deep breath, he yanked his focus back to center. Sometimes that was like trying to reel in a marlin when all you had for line was dental floss, but over time he’d developed the mental muscle to make it work. He knew how to shift gears when it really mattered, and he did so now. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But I’m trying to take notes and watch the interrogation at the same time.”
“I’m a pretty good multitasker when I have to be. Why don’t you tell me your observations, and I’ll jot them down as we go. That way you can focus on the suspect and leave the note taking to me.”
“Thanks.” She passed him her pen and pad. “Okay, Thompson just asked Graham what he had for dinner last night, and his eyes moved to the right. They’ve done that every time he’s had to access his short-term memory.”
He scribbled it down. “Pretty standard.”
“Sure, but you can’t count on using the same template for everyone. Some people march to their own neurolinguistic drummer. So I’d rather we start from scratch and observe Graham rather than rely on what’s typical.”
“Agreed.” Caity was right. Every individual had his own unique, nonverbal tells, which was why you couldn’t just read a book and expect to know whether or not someone was lying.
“There, did you see that. He’s looking up again.”
Thompson had just asked how he thought the Mets were going to fare this season and what he thought they should do to improve their chances. That meant when the suspect looked up, he was using his imagination, not his memory. His nose twitched, too.
“Got it. Looks up and nose twitches when using his imagination.” In other words, when lying like a son of a gun. Spense watched Baskin enter the interrogation room, turn a chair around, and straddle it, his back to the camera. “Bad cop enters stage left.”
“Mr. Graham, I’ve got a few questions for you,” Baskin said without preliminaries.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be? What would we be charging you with, Mr. Graham?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then no. You’re here voluntarily. Free to go anytime.” Baskin scooted his chair to the right. Now he and Thompson had Graham completely boxed in. “But I thought you wanted to cooperate. Did I get that wrong?”
“No. I do want to cooperate, but I’m afraid no one told me what this is about. So how can I help if I don’t know what you want?”
“Well, we’ll get to that, eventually. Mr. Graham, where you were last Wednesday night?”
Graham’s eyes moved right, using his recall. “I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.” Graham shrugged, seeming unconcerned.
“Where were you the afternoon of August 26.”
“Uh. The twenty-sixth?” His eyes rolled up, and his knee began to jitter. “I went to the movies. I think. I mean I can’t really remember for sure. I might’ve had a job interview. That’s been nearly a month ago, you know. Where were you August 26?”
“Rounding up low-life felons like you.”
“I’m not a felon. I’m an accountant. Maybe I need a lawyer after all.”
“Nothing official’s going on here, but if you want to lawyer up, it’s going to look bad. Still, if you insist, we’ll get someone down here for you. An accountant eh? But you can’t account for your whereabouts.” Baskin slapped his knee, let out a guffaw, and gave Thompson a friendly push.
“Like I said, I’m cooperating.”
Graham had no alibi for the day of the courthouse shootings—judging from his body language, he’d been lying about the movie and the job interview, but that would be simple enough to track down. Baskin and Thompson continued to press him about his whereabouts the days of the murders, and after about twenty minutes, Baskin excused himself and entered the computer room.
He immediately crossed to Spense, leaned over, and muttered under his breath, “Next time you go off chasing your own tail, run it by me first.”
He was referring to Spense and Caity’s outing to the Southwest Museum of Art no doubt. “Sure, buddy, and you do the same. Funny you didn’t mention you were going to follow up on the Man in the Maze—we could’ve carpooled, saved on gas, maybe had a sing-along on the way.”
Baskin opened his mouth, but then cut his gaze to Caity, apparently reconsidering whatever snappy comeback he’d had planned. He smiled at her and dragged a hand through his hair. “You look damn good without those raccoon eyes, Dr. Cassidy. You’re feeling better, I hope.”
Spense didn’t like the overly familiar way Baskin spoke to Caity, but if she minded, she didn’t let it show.
“Much better. Thank you. And thanks for calling me down to the station. I’ve enjoyed seeing you in action today.”
Baskin seemed to gain an inch in stature. “Anytime you want to see me in action, just say the word. I’m happy to have you. Maybe you’d like to tag along next time I—”
“Dr. Cassidy is not available for tagalongs until the UNSUB has been apprehended. Surely, you wouldn’t want to put her in harm’s way.”
“I’d be fully prepared to offer her my protection, so I don’t see how she’d be any more in harm’s way than when she’s tagging along with you, Spenser. But maybe we should ge
t down to business.”
He looked at Caity, apparently uninterested in Spense’s opinion, but Spense wasn’t going to cry over it or anything. Still, the way Baskin blew hot and cold toward Caity bothered him. One minute he was dismissing her and the next minute preening in front of her. Spense rubbed his neck to release the tension that had been building up.
“What do you think of our suspect, Dr. Cassidy?” Spense knew Baskin would supply more details on Graham only after he got their take on things. Better to let them draw their own conclusions before feeding them prejudicial information.
“So far, I like him. He’s the right height and build for our UNSUB, and he’s clearly lying about his whereabouts on the days of both the courthouse shootings and the hospital murders. And that’s without him knowing why he’s being interrogated. But it’s not enough to be certain. Maybe he just happened to commit another crime on those particular days, or did something else he’s ashamed of, like visiting a prostitute.”
“If you think he’s lying, we’re going to lean on him hard. See if we can get a confession.” Baskin dragged a hand through his hair, preening for Caity again . . . like a weasel.
“I do think he’s lying. Who is he? How did you find him?” she asked.
“Combination of luck and good police work. The guys in the bullpen have been passing around the profile you guys came up with and have been told to be on the lookout. Mr. Silas Graham, here, bought himself a ticket downtown by driving under the influence last night. Then his arresting officer matched him up with your profile.”
The profile had proved useful after all. Maybe that accounted for Baskin’s sudden interest in their opinion.
“He had a brief, inglorious stint in the army. Twenty-nine years old, professional, recently lost his job at a big accounting firm in New York. Relocated to Phoenix two months ago, currently looking for employment. Busted two years ago for peeping on his neighbor’s teenage daughter. Long history of substance abuse. And, while he was he was high as a kite, he got graphic with a female cop about what he’d like to do to her in the sack.”
Judgment Page 15
