Fractured (5 page)

Like at this moment.

“I have a case. I'm sure you watch the news.” Ellie MacIntosh settled into one of the chairs. Georgia had found her intriguing as a person from the beginning because the somewhat delicate exterior of this particular police officer concealed a steely resolve that she suspected Detective MacIntosh took advantage of in her profession. It was reminiscent of how some of the most colorful insects were the most deadly. The inviting appearance concealed the potential danger.

They'd met when one of Georgia's patients was involved in a double homicide and to her surprise, once the case was resolved, Detective MacIntosh had decided to start seeing her for personal counseling. Not that there wasn't a double side to that either. Ellie frequently asked her for free consultations on psychological aspects in her cases.

Fair was fair. Georgia owed her.

“Sometimes,” she responded neutrally. “I did hear about a mutilated victim found in an empty house. Yours?”

“My case, yes, not my victim.” Ellie was in her early thirties, pretty and blond, with a sharp intellect and a surprising lack of the cynicism Georgia expected from someone in her profession. Their introduction to each other might have been under unusual circumstances, but there was an instant affinity, and Georgia found their relationship thought-provoking. There was no question this particular patient had some issues with commitment she was trying to work through and understand.

Georgia liked that she was being challenged as a therapist. When Ellie MacIntosh walked through the door, she was never sure what to expect.

“Tell me about it?”

Detective MacIntosh wore a simple navy sweater with slacks, and a pink blouse of some silky material to finish the ensemble. She looked, as usual, put together and competent and her eyes were direct. “It's bad.” Detective MacIntosh said it succinctly. “Whatever they are saying on the news doesn't do the murder justice. ‘Horrific' works but I don't think it's quite enough.”

“It bothers you.”

“I wouldn't be a human being if it didn't bother me.”

Then it would be bad. Georgia was getting a sense of what it was like on the darker side, and here she thought she'd been exposed to it for years.

“But a human being did it.”

“That's the problem. Excuse me if I disagree. Once a person crosses a line like this, they are no longer one of us. They've forfeited the right to be included in humanity.”

Georgia carefully considered her answer. “I can see where taking the hard line appeals to your sense of justice.”

Ellie MacIntosh interlocked her fingers and rested them on the desktop. “This doesn't have all that much to do with me and my sense of anything. The crime was really brutal.”

“And you want to know what I think about the personality and motivation of the person who did it?”

Of course she did. Ellie tended to not talk about her problems directly and Georgia had already figured out as her therapist that letting this patient define the boundaries was probably for the best. If Ellie wanted to discuss something, she'd eventually bring it up.

In the meantime Georgia would happily consult with the Milwaukee Police Department on their dime.

*   *   *

“I brought a
few pictures.” Ellie reached into a briefcase and extracted the photos. “I'd
really
like to know what you think about this crime. All insights welcome.”

Georgia Lukens was a valuable tool in the sense that not only was she trained in deciphering the psyche of all different kinds of people, but she had a quick mind that combined intelligence with compassion. Ellie considered their sessions to be more a chance to talk to a friend than actual therapy. While she loved her sister, Jody, she would certainly never discuss the details of a murder with her. Nor would she try to sort out her conflicting emotions about her relationship with Bryce.

Dr. Lukens, on the other hand, was a perfect sounding board.

When the pictures were handed over she could tell Georgia wasn't quite braced for the graphic images and had to fight to not recoil. She studied them for several minutes before setting them on the edge of the desk. “Brutal is right. I'd say you have someone on your hands that has a lot of rage inside them. I'd also say that the difference between the first murder and the second one is a sense of power. Your killer didn't get caught the first time. The second one is worse because there's more confidence.”

“My thoughts too.” And Grasso had said much the same thing. Ellie accepted the pictures back and brooded over them for a moment before tucking them into her leather briefcase. It was an understatement to say that solving the crime was much more satisfying than dealing with the fact a person had been murdered. “We have two very different victims, I'm afraid. We're still trying to make a connection.”

“I hope you do soon.”

“Me too. Santiago and I are going to talk to the professor's widow again. I hate to drag her into this second murder because I can say with reasonable conviction that she wasn't helpful to us in any way, maybe because she took her husband's death very hard, but now that some time has passed I hope she will be more cooperative and can link this second victim.”

Georgia said neutrally, “I'd recommend not showing her that photograph then. My reaction was pretty visceral. I can't imagine hers. I assume it will bring back the vivid memory of identifying his body. That could not have been pleasant.”

True enough, but luckily, Ellie hadn't been there for that moment.

“I wasn't planning on it.” She slightly lifted her brows. “I know as police officers we develop a tough skin, but we are still capable of empathy. Probably more than most people actually.”

Then she abruptly changed the subject because she needed to talk to someone about it. “Something is going on with Bryce.”

“Oh? How so?” Georgia looked truly interested and maybe a little relieved they weren't discussing the murders any longer.

Ellie smiled ruefully. “On an effusive day he's pretty laid back and quiet. But I just have a feeling there is something I don't know about going on. I could be imagining it, of course.”

“What has changed?”

“I can't put my finger on it precisely.” She shifted in her chair, the slight movement restive. “I'm pretty good at sensing when someone isn't anxious to tell me something. It is a vital part of my job.”

“Any idea what it could be?”

She had. That was part of the problem.

“I know he wants to get married and have children.” Ellie exhaled and briefly closed her eyes. “I'm not ready and I don't quite understand why. As you know, that's why I'm here. I'm thirty-three. I can't wait forever. I'm afraid
he
won't wait much longer.”

“Has he said that? Or are you just making that assumption because if you were in his shoes you wouldn't wait?”

Good question. Ellie thought it over. “He and I are not much alike.”

Georgia said dryly, “My impression is that is an understatement, Detective, but it can be a positive balance in a relationship. You pay me for advice, so I am going to give some. He isn't a murder suspect, he is the man you currently share your life with on a daily basis. Ask him about it.”

“Does it make sense I'm afraid to do that?”

“Does it make sense to worry over something when perhaps it could be resolved with a simple inquiry?”

“I'm not worried exactly.”

“Ellie, I think you are.”

Well hell,
she thought in a very Santiago-like way, she probably was. She went ahead and said haltingly, “He sold his book. His agent called him last week.”

Georgia seemed to consider her response carefully. “That's wonderful news for him, of course. How do you feel about it?”

What an excellent question, except she couldn't answer it. Ellie smoothed her hands over her knees and thought over her answer. “I'm happy for him, since he's put a lot into it. This is his dream.”

“But?”

“It's a two-book deal. He's thinking of going to New York for a while to get a feel for the sequel. Apparently it is going to be set there. The main character is an aspiring actor who is hoping for a shot at Broadway. He'd thought about writing it anyway, but now he has to.”

“Interesting. Did Bryce ask you to go with him?”

It wasn't interesting, Ellie thought with a frisson of dismay, it was like a line being drawn in the sand. The comfort with their current relationship had been tipped suddenly sideways and it was the last thing she needed at the moment with her mother's diagnosis and this new investigation.

But that was a selfish view and she didn't think she was normally self-centered. There was just a small sense she needed to make a decision she was not ready to make.

He
hadn't
asked her.

She looked up at the clock and stood, not answering the question. “I think our time is up and then some. Thanks for the insights.”

 

Chapter 5

Oh yeah, something was definitely up.

Jason had no illusions he was the most sensitive man on God's green earth—he wasn't—but he knew how to read people. There was no doubt it had kept him alive both when he lived on the street and during his years in the military.

Ellie was conflicted in some way and one look at her set face told him questions were not welcome. Fine, he understood working it out for yourself so he'd let her do just that.

Maybe she'd eventually tell him.

The Peterson house was a brick ranch in a nice neighborhood, with mature trees in the yard and a paved driveway. The dead professor's Mercedes sat like a neglected aristocrat off to the side of the garage, a dusting of snow giving it a venerable dignity.

Mrs. Peterson was about as chilly as the weather. The attitude was reminiscent of his last contact with the woman.

Ellie, dressed in a pale gray wool coat and a cap, took out her credentials and smiled apologetically, but her eyes held no warmth. The initial interview with the woman hadn't gone very well. “I'm sure you remember us. We are sorry to bother you again, but could we just ask a few more questions?”

The red carpet was not exactly rolled out. “Why?” Slightly overweight but still attractive with dark hair and pale skin, Mrs. Peterson wasn't friendly. The house smelled like cinnamon and cloves, and she was still in her robe and pajamas at ten in the morning.

Ellie said, “I'm sure you know there's been another murder.”

He kept his mouth shut. Jason had learned some time ago that diplomacy was not his forte, so he just followed his partner inside when they were grudgingly shown in. It was one of those houses he hated, not because it wasn't beautiful, it was,
if
you admired pretension. Big windows, polished floors, artfully arranged chairs in what were no doubt supposed to be cozy conversational groupings for artsy cocktail parties. Black-and-white still shots were framed and hung on the walls. It came off as cold and impersonal to him, but then again, he had mirrors with beer logos and half-naked women on the walls of his apartment, plastic chairs on the tiny balcony overlooking the community pool, and a fifty-six-inch television mounted on the wall of the living room, so what did he know about good taste? Still, this house felt unlived in and sterile and he liked his place a lot better.

“What do you possibly think I can tell you that I haven't already?” Mrs. Peterson asked, gesturing at them to sit down but there was some reluctance in the act.

They both accepted and settled next to each other. “We don't know. It could be a bit of information you don't think is significant, but might mean a lot to the investigation.”

Ellie looked like she always did during an interview like this one. Collected and empathetic, but not too much so. There was a businesslike edge to her when she talked to the family of a victim that they usually found reassuring.

Usually.

About two minutes into the conversation, sitting on a white couch—who had a
white
couch?—and listening to the vitriol, he got it that the woman blamed them for not immediately apprehending whoever was responsible for her husband's death. “I don't think the police are even trying,” Pam Peterson said bitterly. “I sit here day after day and no one has told me anything.”

His partner seemed unfazed by the rudeness, though he had to admit it bothered
him
. Being a police officer was a calling, not a career. They got paid very little really compared to what they had to do, the hours they worked, and when it came down to it, what they had to see that ruined any rosy glow a person might have about humanity. It was only with restraint he didn't shoot back a comment. If Ellie hadn't shifted a subtle distance so her knee touched his, he really might have gone over the edge.

“That's why we're here a second time. If we had anything to tell you,” Ellie said as if she wasn't insulted, “we would, so please help us out. This second murder appears to be very similar to what happened to your husband. If both victims were chosen at random that makes it difficult to understand the motivation. If they were not and we can link them to each other, it could lead us in the right direction.” Ellie handed Mrs. Peterson a slip of paper. “Does this address mean anything to you? It's where we found the second body.”

The woman at least had the courtesy to look at it. “No.”

Not helpful, but information was information.

“Can you think of anything that might link a young man, possibly homeless, to your husband? Did he do charity work? Volunteer at a shelter?”

If it was possible, Jason liked the woman even less when she looked slightly affronted. “Charity work? No, of course not.” Then she at least seemed to hear how that response sounded for she amended coolly, “We have always been very active in raising money for the arts. The symphony, the local theater groups, that sort of thing.”