Her Darkest Nightmare (12 page)

Fitzpatrick pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his beak-like nose. “So what? Why so much interest in the positioning behavior?”

She was surprised he couldn't guess. “Jasper did something similar when he killed my friends.”

Shoving the hanky back into his lab coat, he startled her with a bark of laughter. “Oh dear.”

Offended by his response, she straightened her spine. “What?”

“You
know
what. You're using everything I've helped you create for your own purposes.”

“My own purposes? We're studying psychopathy here, and Anthony Garza is a psychopath. He fits the profile, so I've done nothing wrong. And even if you think I have, I've never made a secret of the fact that I intend to find the psychopath who nearly killed me. That's what enticed me into this field to begin with.”

He came to his feet. “But that isn't the understanding we had when we joined forces. Hanover House is supposed to be about something bigger than one person's experience.”

She rose to help compensate for his tremendous height advantage. He'd gone outside their initial understanding, too, when he'd cornered her in her office and tried to kiss her one night when they were both working late in December. As far as she was concerned,
his
behavior had been worse, because it had been awkward to work around him ever since, especially when he asked her out a week later as if he could get her to change her mind. “If I have the opportunity to learn from someone who has the same behavioral pattern as Jasper, I'm going to take it.”

“But don't you see? It's such a long shot that Jasper and Garza have anything in common. And going about it the way that you did, behind our backs—”

She couldn't argue this anymore. Not when Lorraine's murder made a far greater impact than one more serial killer at HH. “Tim,” she interrupted. “Lorraine's dead.”

His eyes widened.
“What?”

“You heard me.”

It took several seconds for him to find his voice. “The woman who runs the kitchen? That's why she didn't show up today and we had to call in Kathy Olsen?”

“That's why. She was the murder victim the sergeant came here about.”

“He's sure?”

“I'm the one who identified her.” She couldn't help but shudder as she described what the killer had done. She'd dealt with the perpetrators of such violence for so long she sometimes felt numb to even the worst atrocities. But not today. Having such a personal connection to the woman who'd been killed removed the professional buffer that protected Evelyn in other cases and brought back all the heartbreak of losing her girlfriends in high school.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know you were close to her. Do they have any idea who did it?”

“None,” she said dully.

Agitation replaced his earlier pique, and he began to pace. “That's unfortunate. Her murder will shock the whole community, make them suspicious of us, unfriendly—”

His concerns were valid. She'd have to consider them eventually. But Evelyn couldn't bear to hear what the killer's actions would do to HH right now. She hadn't gotten over the shock of what the killer had done to Lorraine. “We'll deal with that later.”

The edge to her voice let him know he'd struck a nerve. “Have you told anyone else?” he asked, softening.

“I was just about to call Glenn. He should hear first, since they were so close. Then I'll make the announcement.”

“Okay. I'll … put together some safety tips. E-mail them to the staff and make them available to the general public.”

“Thank you. That will help.”

He headed to the door, but she stopped him. “I'm sorry you're unhappy about Anthony Garza, Tim. But I honestly believe he might be valuable to our research.”

“I understand that,” he said, looking back at her. “I don't agree with your tactics. But … somehow we'll make it work.”

“I appreciate your flexibility. I really do.”

He opened the door.

“One more thing,” she said.

Again, he hesitated.

“Can
you
make the announcement about Lorraine? I don't—I don't want to break down on the loudspeaker.” Just having the conversation they'd had made her feel perilously close to tears—and she still had to call Lorraine's closest friend at HH.

The sympathy in his eyes gave her a glimpse of Tim the Educated Psychiatrist instead of Tim the Driven, Hard-Headed and Opinionated Pain in the Ass she so loved to hate. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Just give me a few minutes to call Glenn.”

“Buzz my office when you're ready.”

Evelyn breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone only to have a fresh deluge of tension tighten the muscles in her back and neck as she dialed.

“Hello?”

“Glenn, this is Evelyn.”

“Oh, hi. What's going on?”

She could hear the surprise in his voice. She typically didn't call him at home. “Do you have a second to talk?”

“Sure. Is everything okay at HH? Are you short staffed or something?”

If he were going to be called in, that call probably wouldn't come from her. But she could see why his mind would go in that direction. “No. This is … this is about something else, something terrible.”

His mood changed instantly. “Whoa, are you
crying
?”

She sniffed. The harder she tried not to break down, the more the tears came.

“What's wrong?” he asked before she could even answer. “Did we have an incident at the prison? Just tell me what you need, Dr. Talbot. I'll come right away.”

“I don't need anything, Glenn. I merely … felt like I should … tell you that”—she gripped her forehead—“Lorraine's dead.”

Silence.

“I'm sorry, Glenn.”

“Th-that can't be true,” he stuttered when he finally spoke.

“I wish it
weren't
. God, how I wish it weren't, but—”

“What happened?” he broke in. “Was it a car accident? I've been telling her about her tires. The tread's nearly gone. I should've gotten on the phone and found her some new ones myself. Why didn't I do that?”

“It wasn't a car accident.”

His voice grew thicker with tears. “What else could it have been? She wasn't sick, was she? She never said anything to me about being sick.”

“Someone killed her.”

Another shocked silence met this statement. “
Who?
” he cried at length.

“We don't know yet.” Evelyn thought about the way Lorraine had been found, but she couldn't bring herself to tell Glenn about that. She figured he could look into the situation a bit more himself. By now the whole town had to be talking about Lorraine's murder. He didn't live in town, probably didn't even know anybody from Hilltop who didn't work at the prison, but whatever happened locally filtered over to Hanover House fairly quickly.

“Could it have been her ex?”

Evelyn hadn't even considered that. What she'd seen seemed too brutal for it to be anyone who'd ever loved Lorraine. Because of her line of work, Evelyn could only imagine the person responsible being a lust killer. But that flew in the face of the usual reality. Generally, “overkill,” as it was called, suggested the perpetrator knew the victim and a great deal of emotion was involved in the attack.

Lorraine had just gone through an acrimonious divorce, one in which her ex hadn't been happy about her taking half his pension. Could he have gotten angry enough to kill her?

Maybe, maybe not. But the mere suggestion gave Evelyn hope that they weren't looking at a psychopath, despite the level of brutality she'd seen—that Lorraine's murder would be more easily solved than she expected and Danielle would soon be found alive and well. What reason would Lorraine's ex-husband have to murder Danielle?

“I hope so,” she said.

“You
hope
so?” he echoed.

“It's better than the alternative.”

“What's the alternative?”

“I'd rather not go into that.”

“Can you tell me
anything
else?” he asked. “How'd it happen?”

“I'm afraid I can't discuss the details. I just … I wanted to make you aware, before you heard from someone else.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, and, a few seconds later, Evelyn was off the phone.

She gave Fitzpatrick the go-ahead. Then she listened as his voice rang through the institution, somber and austere.

He did an admirable job. She had to hand it to him. He expressed sadness, asked anyone who might have any idea who did the terrible deed to contact the police and warned everyone to leave the prison in pairs, especially in the winter when it was so often dark. He closed by saying what a great woman Lorraine was and giving examples of her many kindnesses.

Evelyn couldn't have managed so eloquent a eulogy. Not in her current state. She was battling the effects of too little sleep and food and too much caffeine and grief. Calling Glenn had been hard enough.

She should go home. But first she had to talk to Hugo.

 

8

If the blue meanies are going to get me they'd better get off their asses and do something.

—THE ZODIAC KILLER

The first thing Amarok noticed was the warmth of Danielle's small duplex.

“Hello?” he called out.

No one answered him. He figured if Danielle were home she would've come when he knocked. He'd had to break a window to get in, but … it didn't hurt to make the attempt to be polite. He didn't want to invade her private space, was still holding out hope that he would find her as alive as she'd been when she gyrated against him at the Moosehead not long ago, trying to get him to dance with her.

As he stood in the entry, he heard the heater kick on. Anyone who was going away for an extended period would turn that off, he thought. Especially in Alaska. Yet her duplex had to be a toasty seventy-five degrees.

The warmth put him on edge. He'd been hoping to find the place cold and empty so he could believe she'd moved back to the Lower 48.

“Danielle?” he called again. “It's Sergeant Amarok with the Alaska State Troopers.”

Nothing. No movement. No response. At this point, he was no longer expecting it.

After putting some forensic booties over his shoes, he pulled off his hat and heavy gloves, shoved them in the pocket of his coat and ventured inside. He'd thought he might find a bloody murder scene. But it didn't smell like death. It smelled like rotting garbage, which was exactly what he encountered when he rounded the corner and flipped on the light—a large black trash bag stuffed to overflowing. If Danielle had been home over the past day or two, the stench would have forced her to take it out, no matter how much she hated going into the cold.

What he found on the table was even more interesting. There were two goblets and two plates with the remnants of a meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green bean dinner. She'd had company. A rose hung wilting in an old mason jar. Not many people bothered with a centerpiece unless they had someone they were hoping to please or impress, someone they were excited to see—like a date.

“Who'd you invite over?” he murmured as, careful not to touch anything, he walked around to the living room and gazed at the photograph sitting on top of an old TV. That picture showed Danielle with three other girls. They were dressed in Halloween costumes and were laughing, holding drinks.

He hoped Lloyd Hudson, her closest neighbor, could tell him who she'd been with before she went missing. That would at least give Amarok a place to start. Lloyd was an unmarried pilot. In the warmer months he flew hunters and fishermen into the more remote parts of the state, but he didn't work much during the winter. He might've been home when Danielle was entertaining, might've heard or seen … something.

Lloyd wasn't around now, though. Amarok had checked.

The bedroom and bathroom weren't nearly as clean as the kitchen and living room, which again gave Amarok the impression that she had prepared for an evening with someone special.…

In the bathroom, he noticed that her makeup was spread out on the counter. Her toothbrush sat on the edge of the sink, but it wasn't wet, so she hadn't used it that morning. Most women would pack those toiletries, even if they were going somewhere for only one night—further evidence that she hadn't taken a vacation or returned to her home state.

Her purse made it all unequivocal. He discovered that in the bedroom, on her nightstand.

“Shit,” he murmured, and pulled on the pair of latex gloves he'd brought with him so he wouldn't mess up any forensic evidence. She had less than twenty bucks in her wallet and a debit card. Other than that, he found some cheap jewelry in the bottom of the bag, lip gloss, a brush, some coupons, a whole handful of condoms and an appointment book filled with male names. Mike, John, Bill, Big Jim, Tim—there had to be thirty such entries and they all had an annotation: “A laughable 3.” … “A solid 5.” … “A pathetic 4.” … “Maybe 3.5.” … “A decent 6.”

What was this?

He would've caught on sooner if there weren't so many. But the past three months were filled with the same thing. There was one almost every day—on some days there were as many as five or six. A few of the names repeated, but not a lot and none with any consistent regularity. Amarok was still wondering what the heck she'd been keeping track of when he saw that under one man's name she'd written: “A full 8 inches!!!”

The exclamation points—and the condoms—gave it away.

*   *   *

Hugo wasn't nearly as talkative as normal. He sat in his seat on the other side of the glass, drumming on the desktop as if he was listening to music in his head.