Deadly Messengers (32 page)

Yep, he certainly needed a break!

IT SURPRISED KENDALL TO SEE Trip alone when he arrived to pick her up. He was acting as though this was a date and not an interview. He’d called her thirty minutes prior, suggesting he swing by and grab her.

As she climbed into his large sedan, she’d asked, “Wasn’t I meant to
happen
to be there? Won’t you
burn in hell
for consorting with a journalist?”

A smile had flickered on his lips. “Don’t mind O’Grady. His bark is worse than his bite. Unless you’re a criminal, then both are equally savage. Anyway, I thought it gives us a chance to talk on the way over.” He’d thrown an even wider smile at her.

Kendall didn’t want to get to know him better. Everything had become too complicated, way too quickly. This massacre story, Trip, and the way her heart tightened just a little when she thought of O’Grady. All she wanted was to get this meeting over and move on to solid ground, wherever that might be.

Trip had spent the fifteen-minute drive chatting and cajoling her life details from her. Kendall had been polite, but she didn’t want to be drawn into banal conversation when they were about to meet with a man with such a noble focus.

She knew Doug would be sitting there, excited and anxious she was returning. The more Trip spoke, the more she’d recognized he didn’t care about Doug’s report. Every time she’d tried to steer the conversation around to Doug, the SSRIs, and what angle the police might take on his research, he’d redirected the chat back to her personal life.

Now she worried that, because of her, Doug would experience more disappointment. For the rest of the drive, she’d tried to keep her responses monosyllabic. It was like playing tennis with words. By the time they’d arrived at Doug McKinley’s doorstep, she’d felt they were at forty-all, with no one gaining an advantage.

Doug greeted them at the door with a warm, kindly-uncle smile.

“How are you, Doug?” she said, as she entered his home, which today had an air of darkness reflective of her own dark feeling of what was to come. The curtains were drawn, the only illumination coming from dimmed lights fixed to the wall and a table-lamp in the corner of the living room.

His “I’m good” seemed to belie the truth. Kendall almost didn’t recognize Doug McKinley. In the week or so since she’d seem him, he’d aged twenty years. His red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, and the wheezing, whistling sound escaping his lips with each breath were signs of an ill man. His hunched shoulders and stooped body spoke of a human being in pain.

Yet the man could barely contain his enthusiasm for the visit, his eyes bright and sparkling. Kendall’s guilt welled up inside. Breaking the heart of this poor, sick man—because that’s surely what he seemed to be—was the last thing she wanted. He reminded her so much of her own father the weeks before he passed, a broken man after her mother’s death. Kendall’s heart felt thick and swollen in her chest.

Doug must have seen her studying him. He straightened his body, then grabbed her hand with a firm grip, leading her deeper inside the living room. He didn’t even give her time to introduce Trip, who’d followed them in, close behind.

“This is Detective Trip Lindsay.” Kendall nodded over her shoulder.

“Good to meet you, Mr. McKinley.”

Doug ignored Trip, continuing to hold Kendall’s hand and draw her to a chair. Again, she was reminded of her father, and of his gentle touch as she’d mourned her mother.

Doug only let go of her hand when they parted to sit across from each other, she on the couch next to Trip, and Doug on a worn leather recliner. He appeared slight and hunched in the chair’s oversized encompassing arms.

“How have you been, Mr. McKinley?”

He smiled warmly. “Oh, … tired.”

A hand ran through the wisps of growth on the top of his head, flattening the threads of fine hair to his scalp. “I know I don’t look the best, but now you’re here I’m feeling energized.”

Doug looked across to Trip, who patiently waited, as Kendall had demanded of him, for his cue to gently begin with his questions.

“And this lovely girl has finally gotten a detective involved. Thank you Detective. Finally, the police are taking my research seriously. This means a great deal to me.”

“No problem, Mr. McKinley. Your research is interesting and Miss Jennings, persuasive.”

“Oh, I know.” Doug gazed at Kendall as he spoke. “I think she’ll become even more persuasive in the very near future.”

Doug slowly looked over to a half-poster-sized photograph of a teenage boy, hung prominently on the wall—one of those stiff portraits the discount photographers churn out by the dozen every day.

“My son appreciates what you’re about to do.”

His voice drifted off as though he were thinking about something else, a distant memory. Then, he looked back to Kendall, and, in almost a whisper, said, “As do I.”

A shiver ran through Kendall. It wasn’t
what
he said, it was
how
he looked at her as if he … pitied her? His eyes had suddenly changed, too, as though a heavy barrier came down. Then it was gone. He was again, an old, sad man.

“My condolences on your son, Mr. McKinley. I remember the event from back when I was a new cadet in the P.D. Terrible thing. Just like these current events.”

Doug leaned back in his chair, the recliner creaking with the movement. Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred and fired up his nerves, his eyes were instantly alert and wide.

“If they’d paid attention to my research lives could have been saved. I couldn’t save my son, but I tried to save others.”

Trip’s face remained impassive. He’d slipped into tough, detective mode.

“I know you believe these drugs had something to do with all this, but I’m not sure these things are as predictable as you think. Saying it was a drug that set off these people sounds more like wishful thinking than reality. I’m sure we’d all like a neat answer to insanity.”

Doug’s face emptied of warmth as though he was a child whose favorite toy was just taken away.

“But did you read the report thoroughly? Surely you can have no doubt?”

Kendall wondered at Doug’s frailty. If he became too upset, she worried he might collapse right there in front of them. She jumped into the conversation.

“Mr. McKinley, I read the report from beginning to end. I certainly see why it seems SSRIs are literally controlling these people. I even read the book about your son’s death. I
really
get it. Honestly, if it were my child, I’d want answers, too.”

Doug looked down as though mulling the words.

Kendall turned her head to Trip and nudged him with her elbow, signaling for him to back off, let this poor man believe whatever he chose to believe.

Trip winked at her, as though to say,
“I’ve got this.”

The detective jumped in. “I read most of it, too. It’s an interesting theory. You’ve done a good research job. Whether I believe it or not, it’s not something we can follow up.”

Doug’s eyes narrowed.

“So why are you here? If you think I’m just some old crackpot who can’t get over his son’s death, why are you bothering?”

Kendall noticed the tremble in Doug’s hands as they rested on his knees. His right hand moved to rub forcefully up and down his thigh as though he were attempting to wipe away a stain from his pants.

Kendall felt sick. He’d suffered so much and
she
was adding to that suffering.

“Mr. McKinley, please, you don’t know what can come from any of this. The detective only has a few questions, things he needed clarified that didn’t sit right.”

She turned again to Trip and stared pointedly. “That’s what he told me, anyway.” Then back to Doug: “I promise I’ll write this story one day. In fact soon I might have some news.” She wished she could tell him about
Vanity Fair
, but by the time she’d left, she still hadn’t heard.

“What was unclear in it?” Doug McKinley sounded affronted. “I did this for a living once. Figure analysis and systems. Million-dollar decisions were made based on my advice. So what exactly doesn’t
sit right
?”

Doug’s face reddened. Kendall had hoped that once Trip met Doug, he’d see he couldn’t be involved in killing anyone.

Doug’s rheumy eyes swelled with emotion as he began to speak.

“I’m telling you, if you look at even a couple of the charts, you’ll see my analysis is sound. Those damn, filthy drugs are causing people to kill. If this were a disease, we’d be fundraising to cure it. The drug companies or the government are hiding the statistics. Maybe even the media. One percent of all murders are mass killings. Why isn’t that statistic plastered across the top of newspapers, instead of what some actress does on her holiday?”

Doug stopped, sucking in deep gulps of air, his wheeze even more pronounced.

“Tell me that,” he spat, spittle flying from his mouth.

Trip held up a cavalier hand, traffic cop style. “Mr. McKinley, for what it’s worth, I’m with you. I think these bastards are getting away with murder—sorry, that didn’t come out right. But, like I said, it isn’t a police matter.”

McKinley’s hand slowed from its frantic rubbing of his knee and thigh, gradually coming to a stop. Kendall could almost feel Doug’s thoughts flying at her.
Why did you bring him here? Why did you pretend you would help me?

Trip reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pen and a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He flipped the cover of the notebook over and shuffled through the pages. The air in the room had turned thick and heavy as though the detective were about to read out a court verdict. Trip seemed unaware of the change in mood.

“A few questions, Mr. McKinley. If you could answer these, then maybe I can pass your report on to an agency once we’ve closed off these current cases. Okay?”

Doug looked over at Kendall, a pleading look in his eyes, as though he was looking to her to save him. What a terrible mistake for her to give his file to the police. What was she thinking?
Probably about Lance O’Grady.
How stupid.

She studied Doug as he waited for Trip. His graying skin, his hands, shuddering with small tremors, his cracked and dry lips… Was he dying? That certainly would explain the urgency in his voice. He wanted to see something happen with his report before he died. He looked worn out, no, worn down. Maybe he saw this visit as his last chance.

Kendall’s impulse was to reach out and hug him. Instead, she said, “Mr. McKinley, I really want to help you. It just might take some time. Detective Lindsay wants to help, too. He’s just not explaining himself well.”

Doug’s face softened. He bowed his head, shaking it slowly as he did, and drew in several rattily breaths.

“Sorry, yes, of course. I shouldn’t be so rude. Excuse an old man’s tantrums. I get worked up when I talk about my research. It’s become an obsession.”

Kendall wanted to assure Doug. She was worried about him. “Mr. McKinley, upsetting you was the last thing
I
wanted. Your research is amazing.”

When Trip spoke next, she wanted to hit him. His voice was all business.
Was he even listening to her?

“Mr. McKinley, in your report, which I noticed also included these recent murders, you’ve listed a few observations we find concerning. Questions to which we need honest answers.”

Where was Trip going with this?

He’d told her he had some belief in the research. If Trip upset Doug McKinley again, when he was so frail, then she would intervene. Doug McKinley was
her
contact and should be treated with respect.

Trip’s gaze flicked from his pad to Doug McKinley’s face as he spoke. Neither man smiled at all now.

“For instance, you’ve noted all three of the recent perpetrators of the massacres were taking an anti-depressant.”

“Yes, they were.” Doug’s eyes lit up, his voice gaining energy. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“How did you know that, Mr. McKinley? That they were taking anti-depressants? This information wasn’t in the news reports. In fact, we only discovered Benito Tavell was prescribed Prozac through reading
your
report. Checking with his doctor, we found, surprisingly, you were right. We didn’t find the medication at his home because he kept it in his locker at work.”

Trip paused, his stare fixed on Doug. “So, how
did
you know about the medication?”

Doug McKinley seemed not to hear Trip’s question. He started chewing on his lips, pulling at them with his bottom teeth until several dry cracks began to bleed. He must have tasted blood in his mouth, because he moved his hand to his face and wiped his palm across his mouth. His fingers came away stained red. His eyebrows knitted together as he examined the blood, rubbing his thumb across his wet fingertips.

“Oh, I’m bleeding. Sorry, please excuse me a moment.”

He leaned under the coffee table, pulled out a small blue tissue box, and placed it on the arm of the chair. He pulled out a tissue and dabbed at his mouth.

“Sorry, now what were you saying? Oh, yes, how did I know these people were medicated? Well, I’m not exactly sure. I wonder was it in the newspapers?”