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Authors: Deirdre Savoy

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BOOK: Body of Lies
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She'd brought the original files home. For the first time, she regretted taking such detailed notes, since there was a lot to go through. But if Thorpe had revealed to her his propensity for such violence, it would be here, which meant she'd missed it. She intended to be more thorough this time around.
The first papers in the file were Thorpe's intake sheet that held personal information. Thorpe had refused to give her any of the information pertaining to his family, not even his mother's name. That in itself wasn't unusual. Many clients had difficulty revealing personal information at the start. There were plenty who had given her fake addresses and phone numbers so that they were untraceable should they decide not to come back. She couldn't remember how it had gone with Walter in particular, especially since his referral had come from the state.
She scanned through the notes she'd written on Thorpe's childhood. Or at least his childhood as he'd reported it to her. That was part of the trouble with psychiatry: You didn't know any fact; you only knew what the client told you. But Thorpe reported only the last of the triumvirate of predictive behaviors evident in the histories of serial killers: animal cruelty, fire starting, and enuresis—bedwetting—until he was twelve years old.
But that didn't mean Thorpe's life had been problem-free. He reported having been abused by an older boy in grade school and his mother died when he was ten. Thorpe and his sister had been scheduled to go to the same foster home, but the sister ran away before the placement was made.
He didn't hear from her again until he was in his twenties. She was still living upstate while he was here in New York. The two started up a long-distance relationship. Alex didn't know if that relationship continued, but his sister had divorced herself from his crimes, refusing to attend his trial. Alex had never met her and got the impression she didn't approve of his therapy despite the fact that it had been court-ordered.
At first glance, nothing jumped out at her suggesting that Thorpe could turn out to be the kind of monster who could kill and mutilate so many young women. She intended to be more thorough in her examination of her notes, but tonight the wine was making her sleepy. After the news she'd head up to bed. Tomorrow was another day, one she would hopefully greet more well rested than she had the present one.
Alex closed her folder and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her as she heard the music signaling the news was about to begin. She yawned, trying to banish her sleepiness long enough to make it through the first couple of stories. She figured this story had to be one of the first items if not the lead. Despite what Zach had told her about the police releasing Thorpe's name, that part of the story hadn't made it into the afternoon newscasts.
After the anchor team of a black man and an Asian woman introduced themselves, the camera narrowed in on the woman. “This just in on the case of the Amazon Killer that claimed the life of young Ingrid Beltran.” A picture of the young woman in what looked to be a cheerleading outfit appeared in the top left corner of the screen. “A source close to the police investigation has revealed that investigators are focusing on this man, Walter Thorpe, as the Amazon Killer.” Thorpe's mug shot replaced Beltran's picture on the screen. “Thorpe, also known as the Gentleman Rapist, was convicted of attacking several Upper East Side women in 1999, and has apparently turned toward the macabre. Thorpe is believed to be armed. Anyone spotting him should immediately call police.”
Alex watched the broadcast, her mouth opened, her surprise increasing with every word the woman spoke. Given the fact that Thorpe was missing, it didn't entirely surprise her that the police might release Thorpe's name as someone who they wanted to interview in connection with the crimes. This was different; they'd practically announced that they believed Thorpe to be the killer. That she didn't understand. Serial killers often fed off their own publicity. It was like handing a terrorist an Uzi. More than that, it gave every crackpot in the city incentive to phone in false tips or claim to be the killer themselves, deflecting police resources from legitimate leads. Damn.
But the Asian woman wasn't finished yet. “Police have already questioned this woman, Dr. Alexandra Waters, Thorpe's former psychiatrist, in connection with the case.” Alex didn't hear any more after that. Her attention was taken up by the photo of her that came onto the screen, a four-color version one that had appeared on the front cover of the
News
.
She'd forgotten how unflattering that picture was. She looked like an idiot and she felt like one every time she saw it. If she hadn't gone to see McKay, that part of the story, inaccurate as it was, would never have made it onto the screen.
Oh God. She'd thought it would have been bad enough when anyone digging into Thorpe's story might have stumbled on her name. Now no one had to go digging. There she was, live and in color. Zach had definitely not mentioned that.
Part of her was certain that Zach would have told her about it had he known. If he'd told her about the planned release of Thorpe's name, why wouldn't he have told her about the release of her own? Still, doubt niggled in the back of her mind. She'd once thought the young man she knew would never betray her, but he'd proven her wrong about that, too.
The sound of her phone ringing startled her. Her first thought was that it might be Zach. She didn't want to speak to him now. She let the phone ring until whoever was on the other end of the line gave up.
Eight
Zach stood at the doorway to his spare bedroom that had been decorated in early IKEA, facing his niece. He'd left her alone for fifteen minutes to take a call. In that short span of time, she'd spread her things through the small room in a way that suggested she'd been living there for years. Again he wondered how long she intended to stay, but since he didn't plan on bringing that up again, he let it slide. He'd just wish her good night and go to bed himself.
“What's up, Uncle Zach?” Stevie asked from her spot on the bed. She was brushing the fur of a stuffed dog with the same care you would lavish on a real pet.
“I came to ask you if you needed anything, but I can see you've made yourself at home. If that veterinarian thing you want to do doesn't work out, you should give decorating a try.”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
“Do you need me to drop you at school in the morning?”
“No, my dad already called the school. The bus will pick me up here tomorrow.”
For the exorbitant price Adam paid for the service, they'd better. “Good night, then. Go to sleep. It's getting late.”
“Yes, Dad,” she teased.
He winked at her, backed out the door, and closed it behind him. But as he turned to walk away, he heard Stevie's cell phone ring.
Shaking his head he made his way down the hall toward the stairs. Good Lord, what had he gotten himself into? He didn't know a damn thing about handling teenage girls. Aside from the one's he'd known during his own adolescence the only teenage girl he'd had any experience with was Alex. But Alex had never been a girl in the same way that Stevie was.
He couldn't say even now why it had been so important to him to win Alex over. It went beyond wanting to get along with his partner's family, though that was there, too. Sammy was the first parental influence he'd known since his father died so many years before. Although he was way too old to really need one, he appreciated it. With Alex it was something different.
If he wanted to be truthful with himself, he knew that part of it was the wound to his male vanity. He'd met few women, young or old, black or white, rich or poor, or whatever, who didn't have some positive reaction to him. His mother had labeled him the charmer of the family long before he was old enough to know what that meant. Alex, when she chose to look at him at all, pondered him as if he were some medical curiosity science had yet to figure out.
He had also sensed a sadness in her and a wariness unexplained by anything he knew of except the loss of her mother. He identified with that, even though he'd had longer than she to deal with his own loss. But at least she'd still had her father, overbearing and overprotective as Sammy was. Zach had once remarked to Sammy that he'd never seen Alex go out, that she didn't seem to have any friends.
Sammy had cast him a scoffing look. “She's got me. What does she need with friends?”
This from a man who could have dined at a different house every night of the year if he chose, a man Alex seemed to regard as suspect as she did him.
No, Alex was all alone. He identified with that, too. Even though he had siblings, none of them understood him; none of them tried to. He'd learned to cope with that, but in the end it was probably what drove him to befriend her—that maybe he could show her that someone understood, at least a little.
He hadn't given up, and eventually he'd come to realize she had sort of a crush on him. He'd been careful not to encourage that, but in the end what did it matter? He'd cost her both her father and her innocence. In retrospect, she would have been better off without him.
He settled on the sofa in the living room sofa, intending to watch the tail end of the news on one of the cable channels servicing the Bronx. Almost immediately the male of the anchor duo affected a somber expression.
“Recapping our top story, Walter Thorpe, the so-called Gentleman Rapist, is being sought by police in connection with the Amazon Killer case. Police have already spoken with this woman, forensic psychologist Alexandra Waters ...”
Zach tuned out the minute an unflattering picture of Alex replaced Thorpe's mug shot on the screen. Damn. Who the hell had leaked that information to the press? His first thought was McKay, who hadn't bothered to hide his disgruntlement, both at being replaced and that Thorpe's name hadn't gone public already.
Had he taken it on himself to disseminate the information and impugn Alex in the process? From the tenor of the report it sounded as if Alex was either collaborating with the police or hiding something from them, neither of which was true. Or had Craig changed his mind? Zach doubted it. They'd spent the day tracking down leads on Thorpe without any success. But as Zach saw it, desperation had yet to set in. But he suspected whoever let out the information was on the force. No one on the outside could have known about Alex's involvement. One thing he knew for certain, Alex hadn't spilled the beans herself.
Someone's head was going to roll tomorrow when he found out who it was, even if it was the new boss. There had been no reason to give Alex's name to the press except to embarrass her or perhaps coerce further cooperation. Neither motive was acceptable to him.
Damn whoever it was. He could imagine how Alex must feel seeing herself on the eleven o'clock news. She had to figure that he'd known about the story beforehand and neglected to warn her about it. He had enough to make up for without adding more shit to the pile.
For now, he'd have to live with that. She'd made it clear that she didn't want anything to do with him except as it pertained to his case. She wasn't thrilled about that either, but she'd put up with him on those terms. She wouldn't appreciate him doing what it was in his mind to do—go see her and explain. She probably wouldn't even open the door to him. There was nothing more he could do tonight. He might as well go to bed.
As he passed Stevie's room on the way to his own, he thought he heard a girlish giggle. He couldn't see any light coming from underneath the door, but that didn't mean anything. He knocked on the door. “Go to sleep.”
Silence.
That didn't fool him either. He waited a moment, listening, then heard Stevie say in a hushed voice, “It's okay. I think he's gone,” presumably to whoever was on the other end of her cell phone line.
 
 
“Is this somebody's idea of a sick fucking joke?” Captain Craig strode into the office space at the corner of the second floor that had been allotted to detectives working the case. They'd been accorded a small open area and a few desks, phones, computers, plus a small office and an interrogation room cum conference room.
Zach looked up from his own paper and focused on Craig. Rumor had it that the captain's ruddy complexion was owed to a bad case of rosacia or too many martini breakfasts depending on who you spoke to. Today the cause of the redness in his complexion was clear: anger.
Craig slapped the newspaper down on the nearest desk, scanning the faces in the room. “If there's anything anyone needs to tell me, I'll be in the office. Oh, and somebody find me Walter Thorpe.”
As the captain stalked away, several heads, including Zach's, turned in McKay's direction. He stared back with an expression that spoke more of indignation than of guilt. Despite McKay's disgruntlement, Zach didn't think he was responsible. He was too much of a company player, too ambitious to risk being censured for something like this. Beside that, the guy just didn't have the balls.
But too much of the information was accurate and known only to the police to have been anything but an inside job. But if not McKay, then who?
Regardless of what McKay thought, Craig pulled the plug for a variety of reasons, all of which made sense to Zach: The foremost of which was that no one had yet determined what reaction seeing his name in the press would have on Thorpe. Would he revel in it or would it force him farther underground? Some of these guys craved publicity and would go to outrageous lengths to perpetuate it—including killing again.
Smitty and one of the other guys trained by the FBI had come up with a profile. It contained the usual white male between thirty and forty, yadda, yadda, but any profile was flawed in that it could tell you who but not why. It could tell you, as this one did, that the subject was highly organized and rigidly ritualistic, but not what prompted the ritual. Nor could it explain the killer's absence from the scene. From late June to the middle of November, there had been a killing roughly every twenty-eight days, then two months with nothing. Now he'd picked up again on a date consistent with his original timeline.
Nor could it get inside this guy's head. The profile was a tool more of the criminalist than the psychologist, and certainly not the province of psychic faith healers or whatever like you saw on TV. It was a tool, but Zach wondered if they would ever catch this guy if they didn't know what made him tick.
Zach looked over at Smitty, who was seated at the desk beside his.
Smitty hung up from a call and grinned. “That was one Jack Meoff, who called to inform me that Thorpe was at that moment getting a blow job from my imaginary sister.” Smitty shook his head. “Damn kids.”
“Want to get out of here?”
“You got something?”
Zach shrugged, hoping Smitty would get his message.
Smitty grinned again. “I think I'm beginning to like you.”
Zach chuckled as both he and Smitty rose and put on their jackets. Outside, Zach breathed in the cool morning air. Overnight the temperature had risen substantially, promising spring wouldn't be too far off. Neither he nor Smitty had been assigned a car, so they took his own.
“So, where are we heading?” Smitty asked as Zach pulled away from the curb. “Sammy's daughter's office isn't far from here.”
Zach slid a glance toward Smitty. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, too.”
“Is this a professional visit or is something else going on between you two?”
“No.” That wasn't a complete answer, but it seemed to mollify Smitty. Or at least he didn't say anything for a few moments. True, he did want to see Alex. He wanted to make sure she was all right. But he had another reason as well. Despite what flimsy evidence they had to the contrary, he was beginning to believe her that Thorpe wasn't involved.
He'd spent the small hours of the morning when he couldn't sleep checking her out online. She'd worked on some pretty high-profile cases, almost always for the prosecution. He'd even heard of some of the cases, but the change in last names had thrown him. He'd assumed the Dr. Alex Waters in question was a man.
She'd once been on the staff of Bellevue Hospital, an assistant professor of psychiatry specializing in forensic psychology. He wondered whether she'd given up that position or been forced to after the debacle with Thorpe. Either way, she had the chops to help him get inside this killer's mind, whether it proved to be Thorpe or not.
“She's grown up to be a fine-looking woman,” Smitty said.
Zach darted another glance at Smitty. His face bore a benign expression, as if he were just making conversation. Zach wasn't that stupid. But he couldn't argue with Smitty. Part of the reason he could dismiss her so easily as a former conquest when he saw her in the conference room was that he could have imagined himself with her. He could still imagine it, and had over the last couple of days. But at the moment, his libido didn't enter the picture, not when he could barely get her to speak to him. Part of the reason he'd brought Smitty along was so that she would see this visit as an official one and not throw him out before he got a chance to speak with her.
To Smitty he said, “What's your point? You looking for a date?” That came out with a little more of an edge than Zach intended, but what the hell?
“Not me. I leave those sweet young things alone. I've got a sweet old thing at home that would kill me dead.”
Zach chuckled. “I'm just trying to do what McKay should have done in the first place. Figure out why she doesn't think Thorpe is the guy.”
“You believe her?”
“Maybe.”
Zach turned onto Tremont Avenue at the corner where Alex's building sat. There was a crowd outside looking bored that he immediately recognized as reporters: three television news vans and at least twenty people. Damn. He could imagine how much Alex liked this. He drove past the vans to the entrance to the parking lot on the other side of the building and pulled into a spot near the entrance.
In the short time it took him to park, the reporters had galvanized themselves and surrounded the car. Though they were in an unmarked car and neither his face nor Smitty's had made the news, those savvy enough recognized the police when they saw them and peppered them with questions, mostly regarding what information Alex might be hiding from them. Zach ignored all of them, but his mood soured, knowing Alex must have gone through the same gauntlet herself that morning.
BOOK: Body of Lies
10.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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