Torn (Second Sight) (7 page)

“It might be the only opportunity we have of capturing a psychotic, sexually-motivated, serial killer,” Mac said, fixing him with a stare. “And saving a young woman who is probably being tortured as we sit here.”

A stunned silence settled on the room.
 

Good
, thought Isabelle.
Let them know what we know. Let them feel what we feel.

Stallworth uncrossed his legs and sat up a little straighter as Mac turned back to Camden. He’d taken the sheet and was studying it.

“You want him to describe details of previous murders?” Camden asked, looking down the list of short paragraphs. “Why? To prove he did it?”

“No,” Mac said. “That’s what he’ll think. But I’m already certain he’s responsible for at least four deaths based on the nature of the torture.” Camden looked up at him, his mouth hung open a little, though he quickly closed it. “What we’re looking for is information we don’t have. Anything that might lead to his identity.”

Camden scanned the script again and Stallworth leaned toward him so that he could read it as well.

“Nothing about Angela Caras?” asked Stallworth.

“Not unless he brings her up,” Mac said. “But the goal is
always
to focus it back on him. You’re giving him an opportunity to have something he desires:
fame
. Let him tell us about himself.
Let him talk
.”

• • • • •

The view from the bench at Angel’s Knoll was marred by smog today. Somehow, when they’d filmed
500 Days of Summer
here, they’d managed to roll back the haze. Or maybe it hadn’t really been summer. Or maybe they’d just done it digitally.
 

Prentiss leaned back against the wood slats of the bench and stretched his legs in front of him as he listened to the phone ringing. He wore the light, blue scrubs under the white lab coat today, makeup securely in place.
 

“Get me Camden Gould,” he said, bossy and impatient, when someone answered. Doctors were always bossy and impatient.

“This is Camden,” the news anchor said.

What a great voice the guy had.

“It’s me,” Prentiss said.

There was a brief pause on the other end.

“How should I address you? Father?”

Prentiss’ laugh burst forth before he could stop it.

“No,” he said, stifling himself. “No.” He cleared his throat. “You can call me Doctor.”

“All right, Doctor,” Camden said, not missing a beat. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve called with an update on the patient,” Prentiss said, squinting through the glasses at the blocky beige buildings in front of him.

“I see,” Camden said. “And that would be Angela Caras?”

“Of course,” Prentiss snapped, glaring down the rolling hill of grass. “Who else?”

“Maybe one of your past victims,” Camden replied.

Victims? That’s completely the wrong word.

“I
think
you mean patients,” Prentiss said through clenched teeth.

“Right,” Camden said. “Patients.” There was a pause. Prentiss took the opportunity to glance at the time on his phone but he could still hear Camden. “You’ve had other patients besides Angela.”

But they hadn’t been patients
, thought Prentiss,
not really
. It wasn’t until he’d impersonated a priest that the roles had really come together, really gelled into outstanding performances. Even so, who had ever heard of a surgeon who hadn’t had previous patients?

“Of course,” Prentiss said quickly. “I’m eminently qualified to perform this surgery. You might say I’m the best.”

“And where will you be performing your work, Doctor?”

How completely obvious.

“In the operating room, of course,” Prentiss replied, pleased to be parrying words so easily.

“How many of these surgeries have you performed?”

“Six,” Prentiss said, immediately. “This will be my seventh. I’ve honed it. Any blade can be used.” That
had to be impressive.
That
had to get on the news.
“I’m going to–”
 

“Why the psychic?” Camden asked.

Prentiss blinked.

“The what?”

“Why involve the psychic, Isabelle de Grey?” Camden asked, sounding rushed. “And why call me? Out of all the reporters in L.A.? Why me?”

Prentiss pursed his lips and snapped the phone closed.

Without a backward glance, he turned and strode up the hill to a bum sleeping on one of the benches. Prentiss tossed the cell phone to the grass underneath.

• • • • •

Mac fumed, hardly hearing what Sergeant Dixon was saying. He glared down at the sergeant’s desk, in the middle of the bullpen seating in the West L.A. Police Station.
 

Another opportunity lost. Did these people
want
Angela to die?
 

Again the cell phone triangulation had been successful and, again, they’d found the phone without the Priest, this time at Angel’s Knoll. The homeless man hadn’t seen a thing and the tiny park had been empty except for him.

“Mac?” Isabelle said quietly as her gloved hand touched his arm.

They sat side by side, Sergeant Dixon across from them, trying to link another two unknown victims to the Priest–who was apparently now a doctor–and a surgeon. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Mac.

“He doesn’t have multiple personality disorder,” Mac declared, looking from Isabelle to the sergeant and back.
 

Dixon had been rifling through the files in front of him but stopped.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because the
doctor
knows about
all
the operations,” Mac said. “Including the one on Esme.”

“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said.

“It’s also known as dissociative identity disorder,” Mac said. “The personalities
alternate
control. One identity doesn’t have the memories of the other.”

“The doctor knew about multiple other victims,” said Dixon.

“It
never
made sense to me that he’d have multiple personality disorder,” Mac said. “The odds were always against it.” Mac leaned forward in his seat. “No, he’s a chameleon, taking on a new persona with each kidnapping.”

“But the torture remains the same,” Dixon said.
 

“It has to,” Mac said. “It’s sexually motivated in some way. It’s what drives him in the first place.”

“The knee?” Isabelle asked.

“Not just the knee,” Mac said, tracing the line on his own leg. “It starts at the knee and then moves up the thigh.”

“Even so,” Dixon said. “It’s a far cry from–”

“We’ll find a wound on him that’s the same,” Mac said, sitting back, almost stunned at his own conclusion. “Something that, to him, is associated with sex. Something that happened
during
sex.” He looked from Dixon to Isabelle. “And now he’s recreating it.”

There was no proof but it made sense. The Chameleon’s ideal victim type was young, pretty, and petite–and always a brunette with long hair. Mac glanced at Isabelle, her dark hair swept behind her shoulders but its gentle curves framing her beautiful face. Though she smiled at him, Mac felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.

“We need to search hospital records for a man with that type of wound,” Mac said.

“He might not be from Los Angeles,” Dixon said. “Or he might have sustained the wound years ago before emergency rooms were computerized.”

“Or he might never have gone to a hospital,” Isabelle added.

“But we’ve got to check,” Mac said. “With so little else to go on, we have no choice.”

Unlike the case with Esme, no witnesses had come forward. Nor had Isabelle been permitted to read anything of Angela’s.

Dixon’s phone rang.

“Dixon,” he said, answering it. He listened for a few moments and his dark eyes immediately focused on Mac, who felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “We’ll be right there,” Dixon said, slamming the phone down as he stood.

Mac jumped to his feet, his muscles coiled for action, as Isabelle stoop up as well.

“The hospital found something on the security video,” Dixon said. “It’s Angela.”

• • • • •

Prentiss placed the earphones of the brand new stethoscope around Angela’s neck. Though she was still strapped to the operating table, there was hardly any need. Like his previous…patients…dehydration and exhaustion were running their course.

He threw the glass of water in her face and watched her react with a quick inhale as her eyes fluttered open. Slowly, she tried to lick her lips and save whatever moisture was left there.

“Look at me,” he ordered. Lethargically, her eyes began to close. Prentiss bent lower and slapped the side of her face, twice in quick succession. “Look at me!” he yelled.

Her eyes snapped open and tried to focus on him. He backed up slightly, took the lighter from his pants pocket, and lit it–no easy trick with the latex gloves. Gingerly, he picked up the end of the stethoscope by the black rubber tube, just above the circular steel disc, and put the flame to it. Then he looked into Angela’s eyes.

“Hello, Isabelle,” he said smiling.

Angela’s eyebrows knit together.
 

“Just a little message from me,” he said, drawing closer to Angela’s face, “to you.” His smile abruptly vanished. “I don’t appreciate how you spoiled my time with Esme,” he growled. “But, no worries. You’ll have a chance to make up for it.” Heat from the metal of the stethoscope radiated up to his fingers. “And I’ll tell you exactly how,” he said, drawing back. “Next time,” he paused for dramatic effect. “I’m coming for you.” With that, he tossed the lighter to the floor and picked up Angela’s hand. The belts on the operating table clanked and tightened as she squirmed, but it was pointless.

“No!” she screamed.

Before the stethoscope could cool off, he quickly pressed the diaphragm into her upturned palm. Flesh sizzled as Angela’s wild shriek echoed all around him.

“Next time, Isabelle,” he yelled, pressing the metal down harder. “It’ll be you!”

“
There
,” Mac said, pointing at the video. “That’s her.” He stood just behind Officer Dadashian, seated at the computer terminal. Mac hunched lower and closer. “It looks like she’s unconscious.”

Dixon and Isabelle leaned closer as well.
 

“From this angle,” Dixon said. “It’s hard to tell.”

At the exit from the hospital to the parking structure, the camera looked down from the ceiling.

“Watch what happens,” Dadashian said as the video continued to roll.

In silence, the four of them watched the sketchy black and white image. The Chameleon was dressed in a white lab coat over slacks and a shirt and tie. His hair was grey, as was his mustache and beard, and he wore thick rimmed glasses.

As he wheeled Angela up against a white van, turned her around and locked the wheels, it was clear she was unconscious, her head strapped to the headrest of the wheelchair. The Chameleon checked his surroundings, opened the sliding door of the vehicle, and then undid Angela’s belt and head strap. Quickly, he rolled her forward and used her momentum to tumble her inside the door and apparently onto the floor of the van.

“License plates?” Mac asked.

“Already running them,” said Dixon.

Unless he was mistaken, Mac already knew that the vehicle had been a rental, paid for in cash, a false ID given.

“He can’t get the wheelchair,” Isabelle said quietly.
 

They all watched as the Chameleon struggled to lift the wheelchair into the van with Angela in the way.
 

“He didn’t think far enough ahead,” Mac said.
 

And his plan was more bold.

“That’s a transport wheelchair,” Dadashian said. “They’re a little more rugged and they have the headrest. Most wheelchairs in the hospital aren’t that type.”

Suddenly, the Chameleon stood up straight and, at the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen, another car pulled in and parked next to the driver’s side of the van. The Chameleon quickly closed the door and moved the wheelchair to the front of his parking space.

“He’s abandoned his plan,” Mac said, feeling the tide start to turn. “It was too elaborate this time.” The Chameleon quickly got behind the wheel and backed out, exiting the viewing angle of the camera. “Good work,” Mac said, clapping his hand down on Dadashian’s shoulder. He turned quickly to Dixon. “We need to find that wheelchair,” Mac said. “I want everyone on it right now.”

Dixon quickly stepped away from them as he took out his cell phone. Dadashian picked up the handset on the desk. Mac turned to Isabelle and lowered his voice.

“Then we need to get you and that wheelchair together.”

• • • • •

Prentiss felt a bit of empathy for Angela. He’d never studied so hard in his life as when he’d pored over the anatomy information he’d found online. Angela must have studied the same thing at some point. And that had just been
for the knee
.
 

He rolled the tray of surgical instruments next to the table. Laid out on the white cloth that covered the metal tray, they rattled and glittered under the bright overhead lights of the operating room. He had a surgical mask on but he still wore the mustache and goatee to stay in character. And of course the gloves. Always the gloves.

Angela’s skin seemed a pasty white under the glaring light and her mouth hung open a bit, as she breathed shallowly and rapidly. Her eyes were closed, as they almost always were for patients at this point. No doubt she’d screamed for help–at first. He’d stayed with the first two women and then realized that gagging and binding them was safe enough. With Angela, though, the staging had been perfect. Remote, isolated, abandoned–she could scream for help all she wanted. Prentiss gave her the reassuring smile of a surgeon with excellent bedside manner, making sure to smile with his eyes because of the mask. Angela, of course, took no notice but that was no reason not to perform to the best of his ability. She would play her part soon enough.

As though he were examining someone else’s work, he inspected the instruments: clamps, forceps, scalpels, a retractor, even the syringe he’d originally used to subdue her. Of course, drugging her was no longer a concern.