by Terri Reed
“His eyes are blue this time,” she told Drew.
Drew gave a short nod. “Stay to the left.”
Sami slowly made her way down the aisle on the left side of the center row of seats while Drew took the right aisle. She kept alert for wet shoes, wet pants or anything else that could help her identify the blue-eyed attacker.
They both made it to the back of the ship without finding the assailant. Her head pounded, accentuating her frustration. “Could he have jumped overboard after all?”
“Doubtful,” Drew countered. “Bathroom?”
“Worth a try.” Wielding her badge, Sami shooed away the people in line and they each took a position alongside the door to the men’s bathroom, her hand on her holstered weapon.
Drew banged on the metal portal. “Come out.”
When no one responded, he flung the unlocked door open. Empty.
They turned their attention to the women’s restroom. Drew tried the handle. Locked. He rapped his fist on the door commanding the occupant to come out. A moment later the door swung open and a teenage girl stood blinking at them. “What’d I do?”
“Sorry,” Sami muttered, and stepped past the girl to stand next to Drew.
“Where could he be?” A chill skated over her flesh as she again turned her attention to the passengers. Where was Birdman?
“He’s on the boat somewhere. He didn’t just vanish into thin air,” Drew stated. “Let’s talk to the captain.”
They worked their way to the bridge, which was up a steep flight of stairs at the very top of the boat. A large window wrapped around the front of the bridge, providing the captain an unobstructed view of the sound.
There were three men on the bridge, including the captain, an older man with a head of silver hair, who stood in front of a sophisticated navigation system. The other two stood talking near an old-fashioned steering wheel in the middle of the bridge. A nice decoration, she knew, but no longer a useful tool.
One of the crew members turned toward them, blocking the way. “Passengers are not allowed up here.”
“How about RCMP and FBI?” Drew said, showing the man his badge. Sami did the same.
“Of course.” The man backed down. “How can I help?”
“Has anyone else come up here, say within the past few minutes?” Sami asked.
All three men shook their heads.
Sami looked at Drew. “How did we miss him?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know. But you’re staying up here until we dock in Seattle.”
“Not likely,” Sami huffed. “Our job is to capture this maniac.”
She wasn’t going to be confined to the bridge as if she were helpless. She took out her phone and called the local FBI field office. They promised to meet the ferry at the dock. She hoped that Birdman wouldn’t be able to slip away. They headed back down to the main cabin to continue their search.
*
When they docked in Seattle, she couldn’t get off the ferry fast enough. The salty air felt good on her face and having steady ground beneath her feet helped combat the seasickness that still churned through her stomach. The FBI field agents had been at the customs intake gate, verifying passengers’ IDs and tickets as they made their way off the boat.
Everyone checked out, much to Sami’s frustration. They compiled a list of passengers, though, so instead of a one-in-a-billion chance of finding Birdman, they had it down to under one in three hundred. Better odds. But it would still take time to verify each ID. Keeping a copy of the passenger list for herself, she also had one sent to Jordon.
A local FBI field agent named Malcolm Talbot picked them up from the dock. They drove through a fast-food joint, but Sami could stomach only a soda, while Drew ate a hamburger. Then Talbot drove them to Virginia Mason Hospital.
The hospital complex sat on a hill overlooking the downtown cityscape. Afternoon sunlight glinted off the glass buildings. Overhead a clear blue sky belied the dark clouds hanging over her.
Agent Talbot stayed outside with the SUV while Sami and Drew entered through the main lobby doors. Sami was hit with a wave of fresh nausea as she inhaled the antiseptic smell that seemed to be common to all hospitals.
She knew it was whatever cleaning solution the hospital used but it stirred up the memories of when Ian had been shot and put her off hospitals for good. She clamped her mouth shut and willed her insides to calm while focusing on the task at hand.
One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile.
Her pulse jumped. It was disconcerting how easily he affected her. Working to calm herself, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head as they approached the admission desk, showed the attendant their badges and asked to speak with Lonnie Freeman. The attendant directed them to the Jones Pavilion, the next building over, where Lonnie worked in the critical care unit.
“You okay?” Drew asked as they left the main hospital and headed for the sliding door on the newer building.
“I don’t like hospitals,” she said.
“Who does?” he quipped.
“But I really don’t like them.”
He gave her an assessing look, the investigative wheels in his head turning. He was good at his job and she feared he’d ask for details, so she made a show of checking the directory on the wall inside the doors.
The critical care unit was located on level nine. They took the elevator up and stepped into a world of soft beige walls and white counters, hushed voices and the distinctive beeping sounds of monitors.
At the desk, they again showed their badges and asked to speak to Lonnie Freeman.
“I’ll see if she’s available,” the woman behind the counter said. “Please have a seat in the waiting area.”
They waited for five minutes before a silver-haired woman in blue scrubs approached. “I’m Lonnie Freeman. Can I help you?”
When they made their introductions, surprise widened Lonnie’s dark eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“We have some questions about your sister’s murder,” Drew said.
Lonnie narrowed her gaze. “Why now? It’s been thirty years. The last time I checked with the Victoria police, the case was still cold. Chief Heyes didn’t hold out any hope that her killer would be found.”
“Is there somewhere private we can speak?” Sami asked.
Lonnie nodded and led them to an unexpected courtyard overlooking the cityscape. She sat on a stone bench. “Are you reopening my sister’s case?”
Sami sat next to her. “In a way. We believe that the person who killed your sister might be the same person we’re looking for now.”
Lonnie’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t understand. How do you know it’s the same man?”
“We don’t for sure,” Drew said. He stood next to Sami. His stance appeared relaxed but Sami could feel the tension emanating from his body.
“But there’s been another murder like Becca’s,” Lonnie said. It wasn’t a question. She ran her palms along the tops of her thighs.
Sami exchanged a glance with Drew. There was a fine balance of how much they should or could reveal. But in order to gain Lonnie’s trust and cooperation, Sami felt they needed to divulge at least that much. “Yes. We really want to catch this guy.”
“How can I help you? I wasn’t there.”
“But Becca’s son was,” Sami said. “We were hoping you could put us in touch with him.”
Lonnie shook her head. Sadness filled her face. “Corben doesn’t remember anything from that night. He didn’t talk for a solid three years after the murder. And even after he finally regained his will to speak, it was another ten years of intense therapy before he stopped having nightmares.”
“Nightmares suggest he saw something,” Sami pointed out. She should know. She had her fair share of night terrors reliving the moment Ian was shot.
“Maybe,” Lonnie said. Her mouth twisted and anger flashed in her eyes. “My sister wasn’t a good mother. She abused that poor boy. He has scars all over his
body from her abuse.”
Empathy knotted inside Sami. Child abuse set her teeth on edge and ignited a deep fire in the pit of her stomach.
“Where is Corben now?” Drew asked.
“Working, I suppose,” Lonnie said. “He’s a pilot for Cloud Jet Airlines and also flies for a private company.”
They’d flown on Cloud Jet from Portland to Vancouver Island. Sami’s heart thumped and her gaze jumped to Drew’s. Could Corben Kraft be the killer they were looking for?
TEN
“A pilot?” Drew asked, needing to confirm what he’d just heard Lonnie say regarding her nephew, Corben. A pounding began in Drew’s head that competed with the sound of traffic from the nearby Seattle freeway echoing off the outside walls of Virginia Mason Hospital and swirling through the courtyard where they stood.
Lonnie nodded. “He joined the air force when he graduated from high school. He missed the Gulf War and was out before the Iraq war. But he served his country and was able to move right into a job with the airline,” Lonnie said with obvious pride in her voice.
“Which hub city does he fly out of?” Sami asked. Her voice, though modulated, couldn’t hide the vibration of anticipation.
“Here at Sea-Tac.”
“You said he also flies planes for a private company?”
“Yes. The Smithen Group. Several businessmen banded together and bought a jet. They have six pilots on retainer. They rotate as they are available. Corben says they pay well.” Lonnie frowned. “Please don’t go dredging up Becca’s murder. Corben has been doing so good.”
“You mentioned he was in therapy,” Sami said. “Can you tell us the name of the doctor?”
“Dr. Cantwell. She has an office in the administration center across the freeway,” Lonnie said. “Through art therapy she was able to coax Corben out of his shell. She worked wonders with him.”
They needed to talk to Dr. Cantwell. “You said Corben is based here in Seattle. Does he live with you?” Drew asked.
“No, he shares a house with coworkers in Renton. A nearby suburb.”
“Do you have a picture of your nephew?” Sami asked.
She shook her head. “Not on me.”
“What can you tell us about Corben’s father?” Drew asked.
Lonnie’s mouth twisted. “Becca wouldn’t talk about him. I half suspect she didn’t know who he was. She wasn’t very discriminating in her love life.” Lonnie looked at her watch. “I really need to get back on the floor.”
“We understand,” Drew said. “One last question. Why did your sister take Corben to Victoria?”
Lonnie sighed. “I have no idea. We hadn’t spoken to each other in years. She moved to the Midwest after our parents passed on. I assume they were there on vacation. That’s what the police told me. Now, I really must go.” She hurried back inside the hospital.
“I’m texting Jordon now,” Sami said. “He’ll track down Corben’s address in Renton and pull his DMV records and pilot’s credentials.”
Drew checked the passenger manifest for Corben’s name. It wasn’t on the list. Though as wily as Birdman appeared to be, Drew figured that if Corben was their guy, he most likely had a fake ID to use when committing his crimes.
They walked back into the hospital and stopped at the admitting desk. The helpful volunteer manning the desk gave them directions to the building where they would find Dr. Cantwell. Agent Talbot drove them the short half mile to the Virginia Mason Seattle Administration Center. Sami led the way up the stairs to Dr. Cantwell’s office on the fifth floor.
They quickly found the correct office and entered into a calming blue-and-brown-toned waiting area with comfortable faux-leather chairs and couches. A woman sat behind a partition with a sliding Plexiglas window. A closed door to the right of the reception desk was closed and a sign on the door read In Session.
There were two people waiting. An older man who appeared to be sleeping and a middle-aged woman reading a magazine.
The receptionist smiled as they approached. “Can I help you?”
Drew showed his badge.
Sami did the same. “We need a moment with the doctor.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “She’s in session. I can’t disturb her unless it’s an emergency.”
“How long until she’s available?” Drew asked.
“This client’s time will be up in ten minutes, but Dr. Cantwell has a full schedule and doesn’t like to get behind.”
“Too bad. We’ll wait ten minutes and no more,” Sami stated. “And for the record, this is an urgent matter.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll send the doctor a quick note.” Her fingers went to the keyboard of the computer at her side.
Drew sat while Sami paced. He could see the jumble of thoughts playing through her mind. Her face was easy to read. Obviously, she was excited at the prospect of finding Corben and pinning the murders on him. Drew didn’t begrudge her the need for closure on her friend’s brutal death.
Yet Sami was a good investigator and knew they didn’t have enough facts to support their theory that Corben Kraft was indeed Birdman. They needed more than a hunch that Birdman managed to cross the international border as an airline pilot.
Exactly ten minutes later the doctor’s office door opened. A teenage girl walked out, her eyes downcast. The woman in the waiting area set aside the magazine, rose and put an arm around the girl. Together they left. Drew wondered what trauma had made the girl seek therapy.
“You may go in,” the receptionist said.
Sami didn’t waste any time; she stalked toward the door. Drew followed, putting his hand at the small of her back as they entered the office. They found the good doctor seated behind a large mahogany desk fronted by two leather chairs. Drew gauged the doctor’s age to be early sixties. Streaks of gray had invaded her dark hair, which was held back by a clip. She had cool green eyes and a polite smile.
She rose but kept her fingers clasped together in front of her. “I’m Dr. Cantwell. Jenny tells me you have an urgent matter you wish to discuss.”
Sami showed her badge. “I’m Special Agent Bennett, and this is RCMP Inspector Kelley.”
Dr. Cantwell inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Please, have a seat.” She sat and indicated the two chairs.
“We have some questions regarding one of your patients. Corben Kraft,” Sami said.
The doctor’s brows puckered ever so slightly. “You do know that doctor-patient privilege precludes me from discussing any patient without the patient’s written consent. HIPAA and all that.”
“We understand,” Drew said. The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act provided privacy protection to US citizens just as the Health Information Protection Act protected Canadian citizens. “We just need some general questions answered, nothing that would violate any laws.”
Dr. Cantwell gave him a small smile. “I’m sure you believe that and maybe in Canada things work differently, but here there is very little I can say.”
“Can you confirm that Corben Kraft is your patient?” Sami pressed.
Steepling her hands, Dr. Cantwell regarded Sami with evident curiosity. “What do the FBI and—” she turned her gaze to Drew “—the Royal Canadian Mounted Police want with Corben?”
“We’re reopening the murder of his mother,” Sami said.
Drew slanted her a glance and kept the surprise from his expression. He wasn’t sure he’d have played that card just yet. But he’d come to trust Sami’s judgment. He turned his focus on the doctor to assess her reaction.
Surprise crossed Dr. Cantwell’s face. “Really?” She sat back. “Well, that is interesting.”
“How so?” Drew asked.
Again she sent him that small smile as if he were an errant child who needed schooling. “I’m sure the police report stated that Corben was deeply traumatized by the violent nature of his mother’s death.”
“Yes,” Sami confirmed. “We spoke with his aunt, who became his guardian.�
��
“Lonnie,” Dr. Cantwell said. “Such a nice woman.”
“When did you stop seeing Corben?” Sami asked.
Dr. Cantwell’s eyebrows rose. “What makes you think he stopped coming to see me?”
Slick. Though the doctor didn’t answer the question directly, she revealed that Corben was still under her care. Did she know something about Corben that she wanted to tell them but was prevented from saying by the law and her Hippocratic oath?
“Lonnie said that art therapy helped Corben. What exactly is art therapy?” Sami asked.
“Art therapy combines psychotherapeutic practices with creativity and artistic methods to improve mental health and well-being.” She gestured to the corner of the office at a table cluttered with art material—paints, brushes, drawing pencils and pads of various sizes. Even modeling clay.
“I use a variety of art media to help children and adults process a wide spectrum of mental and physical issues. The purpose is to have the patient express their internal images, feelings, thoughts and ideas,” Dr. Cantwell explained.
“What sort of images did Corben express?” Sami asked. She sat on the edge of her seat, nearly bouncing with pent-up energy.
Dr. Cantwell reached for a large leather-bound book on the shelf behind her. “I keep a portfolio of my patients’ work. With their permission, of course. It helps demonstrate the type of therapy I do for new clients.” She flipped open the book and turned several pages before landing on one. She spun the book so they could look at the open page from the correct perspective.
Drew heard Sami’s sharp intake of breath. His own breath stalled as he stared at the crude drawing of a bird. A bird like the ones Birdman used as his signature at the crime scenes of the women he’d murdered.
“Do you know the significance of the bird?” Drew asked.
Dr. Cantwell shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
Sami took the book to look closer at the drawing. “Corben never told you why he drew this bird?”
“Draws birds,” the doctor said softly.
Drew took her words to mean Corben was still drawing birds. Did the doctor know what Corben had been up to recently? If he’d confided in her, that he intended to kill, she’d be criminally remiss in not reporting it. But if he hadn’t revealed his intent, then she had to keep his sessions with her confidential.
