Murder Comes by Mail (16 page)

“It’s not my case. You need to talk to Detective Whitt with the Eagleton Police Department.”

“I did speak with the detective previously, and I must admit I found him to be not only arrogant, but extremely rude. His obsessive need to control everything around him made any kind of open communication impossible.” A note of irritation slipped into the doctor’s voice as his complaints about Whitt picked up speed. “I would have suggested therapy, but I didn’t feel he’d be amenable to the idea. Nor was he ready to listen to any theories I would have been more than willing to explore with him in regard to Mr. Jackson. That was a shame since we are all on the same team.”

“Theories? What sort of theories?” Michael picked up a pencil in case he wanted to jot down a note about what the doctor said.

“First off, that Jackson may not be following an archetypal pattern with his victims.”

“Victims?” Michael drew a dark box on the paper in front of him.

“Surely you’ve heard about Kim Barbour.”

“I heard, but nothing to prove connection with the other murder.”

“You’re avoiding reality, Michael.”

For some reason Michael didn’t like the doctor using his first name, but he didn’t know why. Everybody used first names anymore. “Okay, Doctor. What is reality?”

“Reality.” The doctor sounded impatient with Michael’s question. “I fear answering that might take longer than either one of us has, but you of all people as a policeman surely know that facts must be faced. Jackson killed the first girl and found a way to inform you of the deed, or so I surmise. I think it was your local editor who may have mentioned something about a picture in the mail when I spoke with him yesterday. Whatever it was, that was a warning. Perhaps even a plea for you to find him and stop him as he had planned to stop himself by jumping from the bridge. Then when you didn’t catch him, he moved on to more desperate means to get your attention, targeting someone he knows you know.”

“I didn’t know Kim Barbour.” Michael pressed the pencil lead so hard against the paper, it broke.

“Perhaps not intimately, but he may have seen her interviewing you on the news. What you have to remember is that Jackson is mentally ill. He is operating on a whole different level than a sane person. A killing level.”

“So if he’s trying to get my attention for whatever sick reason by murdering these girls, then if I vacate the scene, perhaps he’ll lose his incentive to kill.” Michael could almost feel the cool wind of Alaska on his face. Maybe he could take Jasper with him and they could hole up in a cabin in the northern backwoods and learn to dogsled.

“You’re selling our Mr. Jackson short. He wouldn’t quit. He’d become more focused on his intent.”

“Focused?’

Betty Jean looked up at the sound of Michael’s voice and said something, but Michael was concentrating on the doctor’s words. She turned back to her computer.

“He’d target someone whose death would be sure to bring you back on the scene.”

“Why doesn’t he just jump off another bridge? I wouldn’t stop him again.” Michael picked up another pencil and began connecting dark lines on the paper again.

“I suppose not.” The doctor made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Unfortunately the deranged mind is rarely that logical. That might make sense to you or to me, but who knows what Mr. Jackson is thinking?” The doctor paused a moment before adding, “Or planning.”

“Look, Dr. Colson, nothing would make me happier than seeing Jackson behind bars, but Detective Whitt is the man you need to talk to. He’s handling the case.” Michael was ready to end this counseling session.

“Oh, you can be sure I will attempt to share my thoughts with the detective before Jackson strikes again, but I would be remiss not to warn you of the danger to your loved ones. Your wife? A daughter perhaps? Especially in light of this young newswoman’s death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that Jackson is getting more personal.”

“I still have no reason to believe Kim Barbour’s death has anything to do with Jackson or me.”

“You may not have any reason to believe it, but you do believe it.” The doctor paused, but when Michael didn’t say anything, he went on. “As a matter of fact, I talked with Ms. Barbour myself early yesterday. She wanted to know how she might contact Jackson to do a follow-up on her hero story. To see if he was grateful. I think we can assume not, right?”

Michael forced his hand to relax on the phone and didn’t respond.

Silence hummed on the line a moment before the doctor continued, his voice taking on a doleful sound. “She didn’t know about Jackson murdering that poor child, and I couldn’t very well tell her since Detective Whitt was quite adamant in demanding I not share that information with anyone as yet. But the fact that Jackson had walked out of the hospital—I think she used the word ‘escaped’—mesmerized her. I’m sure if Jackson had called her, she would have arranged a meeting with him without hesitation. Even knowing about the dead girl might have made no difference. Young people never seriously consider the prospect of death.”

“I advise you to report your talk with Ms. Barbour to the Eagleton police right away.” Michael used his best official tone.

“Don’t worry, Deputy. I know the rules. What you need to remember is that Jackson is operating without rules.” The man disconnected the call without bothering to say goodbye.

Michael put the phone down.

“What did the doctor want?” Betty Jean kept her eyes on her computer screen. “He know something that might help catch his guy?”

“Not really. I guess he was anxious to report in now rather than be accused of not cooperating in the investigation later.” Michael stared down at the dark squares he’d drawn while talking to the psychologist. “Plus he said he wanted to warn me.”

“Warn you?” Betty Jean swiveled her chair around toward him. “Does he honestly believe Jackson is killing people to get your attention? Sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“That was his theory.” Michael massaged his forehead. Could the day get any worse?

Betty Jean was silent for a moment as she frowned at him. “Do you think he could be right?”

“I don’t know. It seems crazy to think so, but I don’t know. Right now I don’t know anything.” Except he did know the killer had planted Hope’s earring in his house. The earring he had in his pocket and still hadn’t reported. The day was going to get worse when Whitt returned his call. “Nobody from the Eagleton police called, did they?”

“No.” Betty Jean turned back to her computer. “Hank did, but he was screaming in my ear. So I hung up on him.”

“Screaming?” Michael’s stomach flipped. “About what?”

“I couldn’t make it out. Something about Rebecca Ann. I figured he’d call back and I’d let him yell in your ear.”

The front door of the courthouse crashed open. Michael had barely gotten out from behind his desk when Hank ran into the office and slung a plastic grocery bag with an envelope inside it at Michael.

Michael dropped the sack on his desk and caught Hank by the shoulders. The man’s face was beet red, his glasses were fogging over, and his whole body was shuddering.

“Take a deep breath,” Michael ordered.

Betty Jean pushed a chair toward Hank. “Should I call the paramedics?” She actually sounded concerned.

“I’m not having a heart attack.” Hank gasped for breath. “At least I don’t think so.” He put his hands over his heart.

Michael pushed him down into the chair. “What’s happened?”

Hank motioned toward the brown envelope that had slipped out of the sack. “That.”

Michael looked at the envelope with dread. The front was blank, no address or name. Michael raised it up with a pen. The seal had been torn open. “I told you not to open any envelopes.”

“I didn’t open it.” Without warning, Hank put his face in his hands and began to weep.

“I’m calling Dr. Hadley.” Betty Jean reached for the phone. “He may not be having a heart attack, but he’s having something.”

Hank didn’t seem to hear her as he looked up at Michael, his face lined with despair as he said, “I didn’t, but Rebecca Ann did.”

17

Betty Jean put down the phone and pulled a couple of tissues out of the box on her desk before handing the box to Hank, who snatched out a handful to mop up his face. Michael took one of the pink tissues and lifted the envelope to slide the pictures out far enough to get a look at them. Kim Barbour, the light gone from her eyes and her face frozen in terror, stared back at him.

Michael let the pictures slide back out of sight in the envelope. He wished he could slide them out of sight in his mind as easily, but the image of the woman’s face burned in front of his eyes the way a too-bright burst of light lingered on the back of your eyelids.

“All right, Hank, tell us what happened.” Michael put a steadying hand on Hank’s shoulder. “How did Rebecca Ann get these pictures?”

It took a while but finally Hank got out his story. Rebecca Ann had been walking home from a friend’s house. The friend had a pool. Rebecca Ann went over there most every day. She was watching the yards for this neighborhood cat that sometimes came out for her to pet it and didn’t even know the car was beside her until the driver spoke her name.

“I’ve told her not to talk to strangers, but I’ve never harped on it. It didn’t seem that important here in Hidden Springs. There aren’t any strangers. Strange people maybe, but no strangers.” Hank pulled out another tissue and blew his nose loudly.

“Was it Jackson?” Michael asked.

“Who else could it be?” Hank added the tissue to the pile on the desk beside him. “She said she didn’t know the guy, but Rebecca Ann doesn’t pay much attention to the paper, so she might not have recognized him anyway. I was too upset to ask her much of anything. I told them—her and Barbara—to lock the door and not open it to anybody while I brought these to you.”

“Did the man in the car try to grab her or anything like that?”

“No, he just handed her the envelope and told her to give it to me. Said she could look at it first if she wanted to, and then he drove off.” Hank swallowed hard and rubbed his hands up and down his thighs.

“So she looked.” The death picture of Kim Barbour was back in front of Michael’s eyes. Not something a kid should see.

“She looked.” A tear slipped down Hank’s cheek.

“Did you ask her about the car?”

“She thinks it was blue, some beat-up old model. Sounded like the car Jackson drove to the bridge.” Hank swiped the tear off his cheek and spoke in a steadier voice.

“T.R. was supposed to call if anybody came for the car.”

Michael turned away from Hank and dialed the service station’s number.

Jackson’s car had been there when T.R. closed up last night and gone when he got to the station that morning. He aimed to call Michael, but Holly Baxter called in a panic with a dead battery because she was going to be late to work. He was sorry, but he let calling about the car slip his mind. Besides, the guy stuck a hundred-dollar bill in an envelope on the door and that about paid the storage and towing charges. So he didn’t really have any complaint against the guy, who did him a favor getting the junker out of his way.

On the way to Hank’s house, Michael asked, “Rebecca Ann real upset?”

“Some, but not like Barbara. Not like me.” Hank stared out the windshield. “Rebecca Ann hasn’t ever really seen a dead person not already fixed up for a funeral, but she’s all the time watching those scary movies with blood splashing everywhere. Maybe that’s how she thought this was. Something pretend no matter how real it looked. But this.” Hank hesitated as if searching for the right word. “Well, this isn’t pretend. Barbara already had the suitcases out from under the bed when I left.”

“Maybe they should go visit her folks down in Georgia for a while.” Michael kept his eyes on the street. Everything looked the same. The red salsa flowers bloomed bright as ever in the half barrels on the street corners. Gordon Evermon, the president of the Hidden Springs Bank, was out washing the bank’s entrance door the way he did almost every day. He said he liked seeing what the weather was like on the other side of the glass. A bunch of kids in baseball uniforms were coming out of the Hidden Springs Grill, carrying soft drinks and chips. Bill Wharton and Sanders White stood in front of the drugstore, catching up on the news. It looked like any other Tuesday afternoon. The town gave no notice of the fact that evil had come to call. That evil might yet be riding its streets.

“You don’t think she’s in any real danger, do you?” Hank asked.

“He knew her name and where she lived.” There was no need pretending.

“You’re scaring me, Mike.”

“Good.”

“Barbara says all this is my fault. That I’d do anything for a story.” Hank dropped his head in his hands as if his thoughts were too heavy. “If she goes, she might not come back.”

“She’s scared. Once she has time to think about it, she’ll see you didn’t have any way of knowing he’d get personal.”

Hank looked over at Michael. “He’s laughing at us, Mike.”

“What makes you think that?” Michael kept his eyes on the road and forced himself to relax his grip on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know. It’s almost like I can hear him.”

“Get hold of yourself, Hank. Things are already strange enough.” Michael kept his voice calm, even though he knew what Hank meant. Monster laughter was in the air.

A few minutes later, inside Hank’s home, things got stranger. Rebecca Ann looked at the picture of Jackson in the paper and, without a second’s hesitation, shook her head. “That’s not him.”

Hank stared down at the paper as though to make sure he had the right one. “Take another look, honey.” He poked the picture of Jackson. “This man right here. His hair might be different, but the eyes would be the same.”

“He had on sunglasses,” Rebecca Ann said. “Those mirror kind you can’t see through.”

“Well, the nose then or the shape of his face,” Hank said.

Rebecca Ann looked from her father to the picture again. She was thirteen, but baby fat still plumped her flushed cheeks. Michael could tell she wanted to say whatever her father wanted her to say, but that she didn’t know how to say anything but the truth. “I didn’t look at him real close.” She peered at the picture, then shrugged a little. “It was just some old guy with a beard. The man in that picture doesn’t have a beard.”