by Casey Hill
‘The highlighted section on Little Hans – what do you think it means?’ he queried.
Reilly sighed. ‘Daniel, I recognize that tone of voice. I’m not one of your students anymore so don’t play games with me. I already feel like the killer is treating us like morons – having to point things out to us. I don’t need you to as well.’
His voice grew serious. ‘This is significant, Reilly – all too significant I’m afraid.’
‘You’re familiar with Little Hans, then?’ she asked. He could hear the weariness in her voice and hoped she wasn’t overdoing it and burning herself out with the investigation. That was Reilly all over, and Daniel couldn’t believe that she’d traveled all the way across to Atlantic only to stumble into yet another nightmare. When he’d first heard about the move, he’d figured it would be a good thing, maybe a quieter pace of life, and more time outside of work for her to develop a life of her own. An opportunity to reconnect with her father and help put the past behind her, rather than always pushing herself to the limit, as if trying to prove something.
‘Yes, it’s a well-known story,’ he replied, ‘to psychologists at least – so it’s significant for the killer, and for us.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully.
He felt he was getting on dangerous ground with Reilly here, moving into areas that in truth, he would far rather leave undisturbed. ‘Reilly, the story of Little Hans is all about gender identity and how the things our parents do affect us for the rest of our lives.’
Reilly’s silence spoke volumes. Like a small pebble thrown into a deep, still pool, he knew the ripples of his comment were spreading out across her mind, disturbing areas she tried to keep hidden.
Daniel leaned forward, speaking quietly into the phone, wishing he could have this conversation in person, not through an impersonal piece of plastic with thousands of miles between them. ‘The killer is letting us know that what he is doing here is profoundly motivated by an incident – or incidents – from his childhood. It’s a huge and rather telling insight into his MO, his thinking, everything about the case.’
‘An incident from his childhood? Why would we care about that?’
Daniel sighed. ‘Well, as you know these people aren’t exactly rational, to say nothing of sane. We already know the killer enjoys a symbolic style of killing, hence the gratuitous use of taboos. So with the book he’s pushing the symbolism a step further and making it much more personal. He’s reaching out to his pursuers, the people he considers his enemies – namely you.’
‘But why me?’
‘Clearly, and I don’t mean any disrespect to the investigating team by this, but he’s identified you as the brains behind the operation. You’re the forensic investigator, the one who found the relevant clues and put them together, perhaps a lot faster than he’d anticipated.’
‘But how on earth would he know that?’
‘Actually that’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I’m e-mailing my initial thoughts over to you this morning, so you can read through them in detail at your leisure, but in all honesty, I have my doubts as to whether or not the perp is your typical white male working alone.’
She sat up. ‘You think he might be working with an accomplice? I thought so too – and I’m thinking now it could very well be a female.’
‘Well, it’s still too early to make too many assumptions, but again, I’m thinking you’re wasted in that backwater,’ Daniel said, proudly.
‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ she said. ‘The level of organization seems particularly high and there also seems to be two distinct parts to the operation – first the coercion and then the murders.’
‘Good point. But let’s not start jumping to too many conclusions just yet,’ he commanded, his tone decisive and businesslike. ‘We need to keep an open mind – stay alert to all the possibilities until we have something more conclusive.’
Reilly exhaled deeply, torn somewhere between relief and disappointment. ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘It’s just that—’
‘I know, time is of the essence – it always is – but we need to be patient.’ The tone of his voice suddenly changed, softened. ‘Anyway, when I tell you what else I’ve come up with you’ll realize I was really kind of cheating on the Little Hans thing.’
‘What? You mean there’s more?’
He smiled. ‘You’re gonna love this one.’
Although she had admonished him earlier for his tendency to lapse into teacher mode, he knew part of the reason she wanted him on board was because of his instructive style. ‘I feel another lesson coming on,’ she groaned good-naturedly.
‘A lesson?’ he laughed. ‘Not really – more of a chance to celebrate my genius.’
‘Sometimes I have a hard time telling one from the other.’
‘OK, have you got your case files there?’
He heard the rustle of paper as she spread them out on her desk. ‘Of course. Which one are we looking at?’
‘Ryan. Get the photos out.’
‘OK, done.’
He looked down at his own copies of the relevant crime-scene photos and found the one he wanted. ‘Great. Now, I want you to focus on the bedside table.’
‘Where I found the other Freud book?’
‘Exactly. Now, have you got a magnifying glass handy?’
‘Daniel, where is this heading?’ He could tell by her tone that she was getting more and more intrigued and could sense something interesting coming up. He didn’t reply. ‘Give me a second, there’s one in the drawer.’ He waited patiently for her to find the magnifying glass. ‘OK, got it.’
‘Now. I want you to look closely at the books on the bedside table.’
‘I’m looking at them.’
‘What do you see?’
He tried to tone down the self-satisfied tone he sometimes used when pointing out a discovery. He could just picture Reilly scanning the photo, trying to notice the little details.
‘Well, nothing really, apart from the brain spatter and—’
‘Make sure you’re not missing the woods for the trees,’ he urged.
There was a brief silence and then a gasp. He smiled, knowing immediately that she’d spotted it. ‘Oh, crap. Why didn’t I see that before?’
‘Tell me what you see,’ he asked, carefully.
‘The books are all the same size,’ she said. ‘It’s more like a careful arrangement than a random bunch of books on a bedside table.’
‘Right,’ he confirmed. ‘So that means …?’
‘Either that Clare was anally neat and organized – which the rest of the apartment gave no evidence of – or else that the Freud book wasn’t the only one that was planted there?’
‘Right. So now you’ve seen the woods, look more closely at the trees …’
‘I’m still not getting it,’ she admitted.
‘OK,’ Daniel said, teasing it out. ‘The Freud book is on the end. What’s the title of that one?’
‘The Interpretation of Dreams,’ she replied.
‘Right. So the title of that one begins with a T. Now do the same for all the books – write the titles down in order, from left to right.’
As he waited for her to write the titles down as directed, he looked at his own notes.
Yellow Moon
One Life
Unusual Times Long Forgotten
Russian for Beginners
For People and their Pets
All Our Loves Are Not Lost
Under The Bridge
Last to Know
The Interpretation of Dreams
‘OK, I’ve done that,’ Reilly said. ‘And I’m still not seeing anything.’
‘It’s an acronym,’ he said, unable to wait any longer. ‘Read what it says.’
‘Shit, I see it!’ Reilly exclaimed. ‘Your fault … it reads “Your fault”! Goddamnit, Daniel.’
‘Interesting, yes?’
‘Interesting?’ Reilly was practically shouting at him now. ‘What the hel
l does it mean?
His tone was somewhere between an admonishment and a reminder. ‘My theory is our killer is trying to suggest that his motive is driven by something other than simple bloodlust.’
‘He’s punishing his victims for something they’ve done in the past? Maybe he sees himself as some kind of vigilante,’ Reilly interjected, excitedly. ‘In which case we need to take a closer look at the victims’ pasts, maybe there’s something common there that might be relevant, something we can use, something to help us find a link between these people …’
This time Daniel stayed silent, unwilling to share for the moment his thoughts on a third possibility, one that he felt was just as feasible – but far more worrying.
22
Chris knew it would take a while for Reilly to run his blood tests and tried to reassure himself that it was unlikely she’d find anything; it was probably more a case of his working too hard. Even so, he found he was doing everything he could do to keep busy and stop himself thinking about it.
He was at the station, reading through a witness report from another ongoing investigation, when the phone rang. ‘Detective Delaney,’ he answered.
‘Delaney? It’s Jones from Donnybrook. I got a call earlier from the wife of that suicide guy from before.’
‘Jim Redmond’s wife? What did she have to say?’
‘I wasn’t here when she called – just picked up a message to call her back. And seeing as you lot are looking after all that now …’
‘No problem, give me the number and I’ll phone her back.’
‘Great.’ Jones rattled off the number, more than happy to shift the burden of a grieving relative onto someone else.
Chris hung up and immediately dialed Debbie Redmond’s number.
‘Mrs Redmond? I understand you phoned the Donnybrook station earlier. I’m Detective Chris Delaney and my office is currently handling your husband’s case. What can I do for you?’
‘You are? But I thought … Well, OK.’ She seemed surprised, but didn’t comment further.
‘So, what can we do for you, Mrs Redmond?’ Chris repeated, gently.
‘Well, I’m sorry to bother you but …’ The voice was hesitant, nervous, and he could hear her voice crack as she spoke, the pain of her husband’s death still raw. ‘It’s just … there’s been something nagging at my mind … about Jim,’ she continued. ‘It’s probably nothing but I wondered if I could talk to someone about it?’
‘Of course. I could pop over this afternoon if you’d like?’ he offered. A chance to get out of the office – exactly what he needed.
‘Would you really? I’d be so grateful.’
The Redmond house was in an upscale area of the city, just off Haddington Road, and Chris relaxed as he drove down the tree-lined avenue. He parked outside the Redmond house and climbed from the car, trying not to groan as he stood – the pain seemed to have become worse over the last couple of days and, Christ, he was starting to sound like Kennedy every time he moved.
Debbie Redmond was waiting on the doorstep looking very prim in a tweed skirt and black blouse as he labored up the driveway. He wondered what it was she wanted to talk about. Having a gay husband with a secret life would probably have never have entered the poor woman’s mind, he thought.
Inside, Debbie took her time – she had to observe the proprieties of getting Chris a cup of coffee before she would even start talking. Finally, she began trying to explain what was bothering her.
‘I know you’ll probably think I’m being silly, Detective …’ Chris sipped at his coffee and said nothing, preferring to let her get whatever it was out in her own good time. ‘It’s just that I can’t get the events of that day out of my mind. I keep replaying it, seeing again what I found when I came home.’ Her voice cracked and she stopped and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. ‘I walked in, expecting Jim to be in the living room, watching the golf – he’s always watching golf.’ She paused and then gave a bitter smile. ‘Was always watching golf …’
Another dab with the hankie, while Chris waited patiently. ‘He was just hanging there – it was so … shocking. I just … it took me a minute to even realize what I was looking at.’
‘I can only imagine …’
Again she paused, drawing on her reserves of strength to get through. ‘It’s so hard to understand why something like this would happen. Jim wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was unbelievably generous, donating to charity, always willing to help people out and do a good deed for anyone who asked, so I can’t understand how anyone would want to hurt him.’
‘Back to that day,’ Chris directed, gently. ‘What exactly was it that you wanted to talk about?’
She looked pained. ‘The thing is, Detective, what I didn’t realize at the time – and I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but the sheet, the sheet that Jim used to …’ She took a deep breath, steeling herself. ‘Well, I’m almost certain it wasn’t one of ours. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time of course, but as I said, I keep going over and over the scene in my head, and then one night late last week, I realized.’
Chris looked at her, not sure what to think. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying that the sheet Jim used didn’t belong to you?’
‘No. I’ve never seen it before. As I said, at the time I didn’t notice the details, but since then I’ve been picturing it in my mind and I know that we didn’t have anything like it. For one thing it was plain white and all our bed linen here is colored or patterned.’
‘Are you certain? It wasn’t some old sheet you used as a dust sheet for decorating?’ Chris probed. ‘Something from the back of the linen cupboard?’
‘No. I’m absolutely certain,’ Debbie Redmond assured him. ‘That sheet definitely didn’t come from this house.’
Reilly bent over the microscope, peering at a blood sample. She’d expected to find something simple, anemia maybe, but this was beyond her normal range. She checked the slide again, before referring to the medical textbook lying on the desk alongside her.
Julius was working nearby and Reilly called out to him. ‘Julius, could you come here a minute?’
He looked up and dutifully hurried over. ‘No problem.’
‘You used to work in a hospital lab, right?’
His face fell. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he said with a roll of his eyes. ‘Running the same bloody tests all day long – if you’ll pardon the pun.’
Reilly smiled. It was rare for the ultra-serious Julius to attempt a joke, never mind such a lame one. ‘Well, with that in mind, take a look at this for me, would you?’
Julius bent over the slide, made a minor adjustment, and studied the sample for a moment. ‘That’s unusual. Whose blood is it?’
There was a brief pause. ‘That’s classified for the moment.’
‘Oh.’ He straightened up, looked at Reilly for a second and then nodded. ‘I get you.’
‘So what do you see?’
‘It’s a transferrin saturation test, yes?’
Reilly nodded. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Well, it’s a very high transferring ratio, possibly too high, actually.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Reilly pondered over this for a moment. ‘So at the hospital, if you had a sample with such a ratio, what kind of check would you order next?’
He chuckled. ‘I never thought my days at Queen’s would come in so useful. Well because the transferrin isn’t completely reliable, I’d likely order a serum ferritin test next – might be more conclusive.’ He looked at Reilly for a moment. ‘You want me to run one for you? I could fit it in this afternoon.’
She nodded. ‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Julius.’
‘No problem.’
She handed him the vials of blood. ‘Oh, and one other thing—’
‘Yeah, keep it quiet,’ he said, gently. ‘I get it.’
Reilly smiled as he headed back to his workstation, and said a prayer of thanks for competent, discrete staff.
She
was just heading back to her office when the phone rang. She looked at the display. Speak of the devil …
‘What’s up, Chris?’
‘Well, I don’t want to rush you but I was just wondering—’
She didn’t want to admit that the results so far were frustratingly inconclusive. ‘Nothing definitive yet, but I would think you’re likely to survive the next twenty-four hours at least.’
‘Ha, you’re a great source of comfort,’ he quipped. Then he paused. ‘Well, thanks anyway, but it’s not the only reason I’m phoning. I’ve got a strange one for you.’
‘Go on.’ Reilly walked along the hallway in the direction of her office.
‘I’ve just left the Redmond house – Debbie Redmond says that she’s been playing the scene of her husband’s death over and over in her mind.’
‘Well, that’s perfectly normal.’
‘Of course. But she reckons she’s come up with something.’
‘OK.’ She paused, her interest piqued.
‘She says that the sheet, the one Jim supposedly hung himself with, isn’t theirs – says she’s never seen it before in her life.’
Reilly had reached her office and closed the door before perching on the edge of her desk. ‘Seeing as we know it wasn’t a suicide, I suppose we probably shouldn’t be surprised at anything that emerges.’
‘Can you check into it? You’ve got the sheet there, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. To be honest, I only studied the inventory, not the sheet itself, but I can go and get it from the evidence room – we can take another look at it, see if there’s any additional trace on it we might have missed.’
‘You don’t think the killer would be stupid enough to use his own sheets, do you?’ Chris asked.
‘We should be so lucky. But even if he did, we’d have to already have a comparative sample for it to mean anything.’
‘Of course.’
‘Still, it’s worth checking,’ she concluded. ‘I’ll do it myself now.’
