Читать книгу Blood Memory - Greg Iles - Страница 19

Sean and I sit on opposite sides of my kitchen table, case files and photographs spread out between us. We’ve enacted this ritual many times before, but in the past we sat on the same side of the table. Today this new arrangement seems more appropriate.

For the past fifteen months, it’s been Sean’s habit to build a private file on every major murder case assigned to him. He keeps these files in a locked cabinet at my house, selectively adding to them as new evidence comes in. He digitally photographs what he can’t get me access to and dubs audiotapes of most witness interviews and interrogations. He’s broken countless rules and probably some laws by doing this, but the result has been to jail more killers, so he doesn’t struggle with the ethics too much.

Sean brewed coffee while I was in the shower, and by the time I emerged wearing scrub pants and a Pearl Jam sweatshirt, a cup was waiting by my chair. This kind of courtesy grew rare after the first few months of our relationship, but today it doesn’t surprise me. The pregnancy is making him walk on eggshells.

Captain Piazza hasn’t officially suspended Sean from the task force, but she did remove him as lead NOPD detective on the case. She only toured him through the crime scene this morning because his case clearance rate is so high. Piazza doesn’t know that Sean uses a lot of help from me to accomplish this, but after the captain’s little lecture at the LeGendre crime scene, I think she may suspect it.

In any case, Sean’s information flow has not been cut off. His partner is shuttling between police headquarters and the task force headquarters at the FBI building, keeping Sean informed of all new developments by cell phone. Ironically, the fortresslike new FBI field office is situated just five minutes up the shore of Lake Pontchartrain from my house. Inside that building, at least fifty people are studying the same information we’re looking at now.

“James Calhoun,” I read, naming the fifth victim. “What makes him different than the others?”

“Nothing,” says Sean, leaning his chair back on two legs. “He was alone in the house. No sign of forced entry. One paralyzing shot to the spine, then the bite marks, delivered antemortem like the others …”

Delivered is a pretty sterile word to describe the savage act of tearing human flesh with teeth. But that kind of semantic distance creeps into law enforcement work all the time, just as it does in medicine. When thinking about murder, I always try to keep the immediacy of the violence in the forefront of my mind.

“… and a coup de grâce to the head,” Sean finishes. “End of story.”

“Trace evidence?”

“Aside from the note written in blood—the victim’s blood—nothing new.”

“This guy is too good,” I say with frustration. “‘My work is never done.’ He must be wearing a space suit while he does this work of his.”

“Then how is he biting them?”

“He left saliva in the bite marks again?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. Is there any way Nathan Malik could have gotten out last night without his surveillance team knowing?”

“I don’t think so.” Sean leans forward, bringing the front legs of his chair back to the floor. “But there’s always a way, I guess.”

“No thermal-imaging camera to make sure a warm body was in the house?”

“No. They were going to start using one tonight. It’s been about a week between each hit, like you said. I don’t think the feeling of urgency was there last night.”

“Famous last words. Time of death?”

“Probably about seven this morning.”

I feel a peculiar shock of surprise. “So the crime happened in daylight. Lots of people moving around then. Getting their Times-Picayune, leaving for work.”

He stares at me in an odd way, then shakes his head. “It’s Sunday, Cat. Nobody’s leaving for work.”

“Church, then,” I say quickly, my cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

Sean’s gaze doesn’t waver, and I sense that he’s ruthlessly gauging my mental state. “No witnesses so far,” he says at length. “We canvassed like crazy. We’re still trying to locate a couple of neighbors, but so far, nobody saw anything.”

“The killer could have entered the house during the night,” I point out. “And only left during the day.”

“Let’s get off Calhoun for a minute,” Sean says, tapping a pen on some papers in front of him. “The whole string—all five victims—what are you thinking? Just off the top of your head.”

“I think it’s Malik. And if he didn’t do Calhoun this morning, somebody’s helping him.”

“That’s who’s leaving the bite marks? An accomplice?”

“Maybe, but not necessarily. That could still be Malik.”

Sean squints as though he doesn’t understand. “Yesterday you said something about the killer using fake teeth to make the marks. I didn’t really catch all that. And when you got home …” He trails off, not wanting to mention the awful scene we played out while I was drunk.

“I said the killer could be using someone else’s teeth.”

“What did you mean? Like dentures?”

“Dentures would work.”

“But how would he make the marks look real? Wear them over his own teeth?”

“He could do that. But he’d get his own saliva in the wound doing that. There’s another way. When dentists make dentures, they’re attached to a hinged metal device called an articulator. It simulates the opening and closing of the jaw. That’s how we fine-tune the dentures for proper occlusion.”

“Occlusion?”

“The way the teeth come together. The bite. Malik could make the marks with that.”

Sean looks intrigued. “How easy would it be for him to get one of those?”

“He could order one off the Internet. Or as I said yesterday, he could have stolen one out of Dr. Shubb’s office lab. You should check and see if Shubb has lost an articulator in the past couple of years. He might not even have noticed it missing.”

Sean makes a note in a small wire-bound pad. “And the dentures?”

“Same thing. Malik could have stolen them. Or they might belong to a relative, like Francis Dolarhyde’s grandmother.”

Sean looks blank. “Who?”

“The killer in Red Dragon.”

“Oh, yeah. You mentioned that. I saw the movie, but I don’t remember anything about dentures.”

“You should have read the book. It was a big deal psychologically, those teeth. But for us, the point is that Malik could be using dentures, and he could get them almost anywhere. A family member—living or dead—is one possibility. I want to go through everything you know about Malik’s family.”

“Just a minute. You couldn’t tell the bite marks were made by dentures as opposed to real teeth?”

“No.”

“What about the saliva in the wounds?”

“Again, that could still be Malik’s. But it’s more likely to belong to an accomplice, if there is one. Or the killer could even be swabbing in someone else’s saliva.”

“Where the hell would he get that?”

I shrug. “One of his patients? All we know from the saliva so far is that the DNA in it belongs to a Caucasian male.”

Sean mulls this over. “I guess all Malik needs is some spit from a guy he knows we’d never check. I can see it.” He takes a sip of coffee. “The paralyzing gunshot keeps coming back to me.”

“It’s not always paralyzing.” I shuffle through the autopsy reports of previous victims. “Call it incapacitating.”

“That’s splitting hairs. The point is, excellent marksmanship.”

“The fax you sent me said Malik served in Vietnam. As a medic, I think. Which means he probably saw action.”

“That doesn’t make him a good marksman. Especially with a handgun.”

“Does Malik have any handguns registered in his name?”

“One. A .45 automatic.”

The murders were committed with a .32-caliber pistol. “And they searched Malik’s house already?”

“Top to bottom. No other weapon found.”

“What did they find? A shrink’s house … had to be some weird stuff in there.”

Sean waves his hand as if he doesn’t want to be distracted. He’s always been more linear in his thinking than I have. “Let’s stay with the gun for now. Funny weapon for this kind of crime, you ask me.”

“More of a Saturday night special than an organized killer’s weapon.”

He nods. “Or maybe a cop’s throwdown gun.”

“Well, it obviously does the job.” I point at a photo of Colonel Frank Moreland’s naked corpse, a neat hole drilled through its forehead. “We should find out if Malik visits any shooting ranges around here. See if anyone knows how good a shot he is.”

“The task force is already on that. We need to get outside the box, Cat. Think of things they’ll miss. Like the dentures thing.”

“Are you going to tell the task force my theory about that?”

“Sure,” Sean says casually. “I’m talking to John Kaiser. He’s a good guy, for a Fed.”

“Are you going to tell him I came up with it?”

Sean freezes, his face uncertain. “Do you want me to?”

“What if I say yes?”

“If you say yes, I’ll tell him.”

I hold his gaze without blinking. “Yes.”

“Okay, then. I’ll tell him.” Sean looks sincere, but I wonder if he’ll follow through.

Colonel Moreland’s photo brings another thought to mind. In some serial murder cases, close analysis of the first murder scene ultimately breaks open the case. The reason is simple. Serial killers, like any other hobbyist, get better with practice. They’re frequently very anxious during their first murder—they may not even have meant to kill their first victim—and they make stupid mistakes. Mistakes they never repeat at later scenes. But the NOMURS killer is different.

“First-victim angle,” I say, knowing Sean will understand my shorthand.

“Yeah?”

“It’s led us nowhere.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“The guy’s a prodigy.” Sean shakes his head with something like respect. “It’s like he walked out of nowhere onto the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium and threw a no-hitter. And he’s thrown nothing but no-hitters ever since.”

“What does that tell you?”

“Either he’s killed before, or …”

“Or he knows a lot about murder,” I finish.

Sean nods. “Yeah.”

“Who would know that?”

“A cop.”

“Who else?”

“Crime-scene tech. Forensic tech. Pathologist. True-crime reader.”

“Psychiatrist,” I say softly.

Sean looks unimpressed. “Maybe. What’s your point?”

“My point is that every killer makes mistakes the first time out. Maybe not a technical mistake. Maybe it’s just his choice of victim. Why was Colonel Moreland killed first? Was he random? I don’t think so. There’s got to be a reason.”

“Kaiser’s all over that kind of thing, Cat. The task force is taking apart every victim’s family.”

“Just bear with me. Any likely suspects in Moreland’s family? He’s not from here, right? Just retired here.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a daughter living here and a son in Biloxi. Daughter is Stacey Lorio, a registered nurse.” Sean shuffles through the pile of paper on the table and comes up with a five-by-seven photo. It shows a blonde woman in her midthirties with a hard-looking face. “Thirty-six years old, divorced. Works two jobs. A private clinic and nights at Touro Infirmary.”

“Alibis for the murders?”

“Rock solid.”

“The son?”

Sean comes up with another photo, this one a wallet-size shot of a good-looking man in a blue uniform. “Frank Moreland Junior. A major in the air force. Stationed at Keesler Air Force Base. Big family man. Medals out the yinyang. His alibis are bulletproof.”

“Neither one has any connection to Malik?”

“Not that we can find.”

“Shit.” I shift in my chair and take a sip of coffee. “Okay, forget that for now. Let’s talk about Malik’s patients. Do you know yet if James Calhoun has any family members who’ve been treated by Malik?”

The hint of a smile plays across Sean’s lips. “You’re gonna love this.”

“What?”

“Malik’s still refusing to hand over that information.”

“He hasn’t given you the names of his patients yet?”

“Nope. He’s arguing doctor-patient privilege.”

“That won’t hold up in a case like this, will it?”

Sean shakes his head. “No. We can show a judge a strong likelihood that the killer is choosing his victims from Malik’s patient base. That creates a situation of imminent danger, which is a public safety issue. That should override the privilege.”

Sean knows what he’s talking about. Three years ago, he earned a law degree by going to night school. He didn’t really want to, but after being wounded in the line of duty, he let his wife persuade him that a career change was in order. Hoping to improve his marital situation—not to mention his financial one—Sean attended night school while working full-time as a detective. He graduated seventh in his class, retired from the force, and went to work for a criminal defense firm. In less than six months he was going crazy. His wife pleaded with him to try working for the district attorney, but Sean despised the man. He told her he was going back to police work, and that she would have to deal with it. She did not deal with it well.

“Our UNSUB isn’t actually killing Dr. Malik’s patients,” I point out, using the FBI’s jargon for “unknown subject.” “He’s killed relatives of two patients. That’s all you can prove. Maybe Malik is relying on that to shield his records from the police.”

“Won’t hold up,” Sean says with certainty. “A judge will consider the privacy issue, but with our UNSUB killing so frequently, we’ll get the names of Malik’s patients, at the very least.”

“But not the records?”

“We should get those, too. Everything but private notes Malik takes during sessions.”

“Couldn’t those be important?”

“Obviously. But we won’t get them. Lots of precedent for that.”

I stand and begin to pace my kitchen. “The real question is, why is Malik holding this stuff back?”

“He claims his patients’ lives could be destroyed if things they’ve told him in confidence become public. He says some of them are at risk if it even becomes known they’re in therapy.”

Yesterday I suggested this rationale to Sean myself, but today—given the new victim—it seems a stretch. “At risk from whom?”

“He wouldn’t say. I’m assuming from family members, since the two women we know about kept the fact that they were seeing Malik secret from their families. Maybe from boyfriends?”

“What if Malik’s not the killer, but he’s shielding the killer?” I suggest.

“Then he’s an accessory to murder. If he has prior knowledge of a crime, he’s bound by law to try to prevent it. That means telling the police.”

I stop pacing. “What if he’s only told about the crime after the fact? Is he like a priest hearing it in confession?”

“Same principle.” Sean looks at the table, his lips pursed tightly. “Yes, I think that would fall under the privilege.”

I sense that I’m onto something. “What if a patient comes in four weeks in a row, and says, ‘I killed somebody a couple of days ago’?”

“Past conduct is protected under the privilege. If it weren’t, nobody would ever disclose anything to their shrink. Or to their priest, or their lawyer. Exceptions to the privilege are based on the risk of imminent harm.”

I take a banana from a bowl on the counter, start to peel it, then put it back. “Okay, so Malik could be shielding the killer. Legally. Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s an arrogant asshole. An academic who can’t even begin to imagine the reality of these murders.”

“A combat medic probably has a pretty good idea about the reality of murder.” As Sean concedes this with a sigh, I feel a sudden rush of excitement. “What if he’s shielding the killer because he believes the murders are justified?”

“Like a twisted moral stand?”

“Maybe not so twisted. An abuse victim kills the man who’s been raping her for years. In her mind, it’s self-defense.”

“And to Malik, justifiable homicide,” Sean adds, an edge of enthusiasm in his voice. “The problem is, we have five victims. You think one of Malik’s patients was abused by all five of these guys?”

“It’s possible. If there was some kind of pedophile ring or something.”

“You’re saying the killings are revenge over something that happened a long time ago?”

“Malik specializes in repressed memories, right? Let’s talk about sex for a minute.”

Misunderstanding me, Sean gets a twinkle in his eye. He starts to make a joke, but the twinkle vanishes as he remembers our present situation.

“Does Malik treat both men and women?” I ask. “I think Dr. Shubb said he did.”

“We know he’s treated some men. We don’t know how many. The task force is talking to every psychologist and psychiatrist in Louisiana and Mississippi, looking for anyone who’s referred patients to Malik. They already found a psychologist who referred a guy to him last year.”

“For sexual abuse?”

“The shrink wouldn’t say without a court order.”

“Damn. How long—realistically—before you can force Malik to turn over his patients’ names?”

“Kaiser thinks he can get a judge to order it this afternoon. Maybe the records, too.”

“And if Malik refuses?”

“He’ll be in contempt of court.”

“Immediate jail?”

“No, there’d have to be a hearing first. But he will go to jail.”

“Do they set bail in cases like that?”

“No. Because on a contempt charge, the prisoner can walk out of jail any time he wants to. All he has to do is comply with the court’s order.”

“Do you think Malik will do jail time to protect his patients’ names?”

Sean gives a knowing smile. “I think we’ll have those names by tonight.”

“Good. Hey, did you guys search Malik’s office, too? For guns, I mean?”

“Yeah. Malik was present during the search, and he made sure no one looked at his records. The records were specifically excluded in the warrant. We didn’t want to waste time arguing that with a judge.”

“But were there records there? Did you see actual files in the cabinets?”

“I wasn’t on the scene. I’ll check, but I’m sure someone would have mentioned it if they were missing.”

“Don’t assume anything, Sean. I’ll bet Malik’s already moved those records off-site. Have you kept men at his office to pick up any patients who show up for appointments?”

“Hell, yeah. But nobody’s shown up. We can’t figure it out. How do they know not to come? We’ve tapped Malik’s phones since we suspected him, and he hasn’t called anyone to cancel. He doesn’t have a fucking receptionist.”

“And of course you’ve gone to the victims’ families and asked point-blank if anyone is a patient of Malik’s?”

“Yeah, but we’re being cautious about that. Just in case Malik’s right about his patients being in danger. It wouldn’t look good if Malik warned us that his patients could be harmed, and then we got one of them killed in some kind of domestic dispute.”

“Cautious how? Are they trying to get female family members off by themselves?”

“Yeah. But it’s hard to know who they all are, what with marriages and divorces and all.”

My mind drifts back to mid-July, after the second victim was killed. Andrus Riviere, the retired pharmacist. I went with Sean to interview the Riviere family, and there I saw a strange sight. A granddaughter of Mr. Riviere’s was running joyously through the house as though preparing for a birthday party rather than mourning her grandfather. And it wasn’t a momentary burst of energy. She continued to behave that way throughout our visit. About seven years old, she stuck in my mind because she didn’t seem like an insensitive child. In fact, when I spoke to her, she seemed quite the opposite. The calm regard in her eyes made me feel as if I were talking to an adult.

“How do you feel about a woman committing these crimes?” I ask.

Sean stands and goes to the refrigerator, but instead of opening it, he looks back at me. “I like the revenge-for-abuse idea, but it’s hard to see a woman doing what we’ve seen. There’s almost no precedent in the literature. Female serial killers? Aileen Wuornos is about it.”

“That’s not strictly true. Almost five percent of serials are female.”

Sean looks expectantly at me. He’s an instinctive investigator, and while he is very good, most of his knowledge is based on his own experience or that of other detectives around the country—usually men with whom he has a personal relationship. I’ve made it a point to educate myself in the professional literature of serial homicide, and my knowledge is far broader. This often irritates Sean, but he’s pragmatic enough to make use of what I know.

“Female serials operate for an average of eight years before being caught,” I tell him. “That’s twice as long as male offenders. And one of their hallmarks is a very clean crime scene.”

“Okay,” he allows, “but don’t most of them have a male accomplice?”

“Eighty-six percent use an accomplice, but it’s not always male. What works against a female here is the type of crime. Most female serials are so-called ‘black widows,’ who kill their husbands, or angels of death, who kill hospital patients. Often the victims are family members. The only female serial classified as committing sexual homicide against strangers and acting alone is Wuornos.”

Sean looks almost smug.

“But I think she was wrongly classified,” I go on. “Aileen Wuornos killed to punish men for sexually abusing her. One of Malik’s patients could be doing the same thing.”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible,” says Sean. “But the crime signature weighs against it. The marksmanship, the nudity, the torture—”

“Revenge,” I argue. “You have very little cooling-off period in revenge killings, and that fits this case. And the bite marks are almost certainly made after the incapacitating gunshot. A woman would have to disable her victims before getting close enough to bite like that.”

“Do you really see a woman ripping these guys up with her teeth?”

I’ve had some pretty violent urges myself. “A sexually abused woman probably carries around a lot of repressed rage, Sean.”

“Yeah, but women turn rage inward. That’s why they commit suicide, not homicide.”

He’s right about that. “What about Colonel Moreland’s daughter? Stacey Lorio? Army brat, tough-looking woman. You said she had alibis for all the murders?”

“Yep, all corroborated. Couple of times with friends, couple of times with her ex-husband. Her ex doesn’t even like her, but he confirmed. Talked to him myself. He said, ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the bitch, but I still like to screw her now and again.’”

“Sounds like a great guy.” Frustration is making me crave alcohol. “Okay then, a male patient of Malik’s. Abused as a boy. A large percentage of convicted serial killers were abused as young boys.”

“Now you’re talking,” Sean says, his tone warming. “The second we get that patient list, I’ll start working that angle.” He bends over and stretches his back, the vertebrae popping like Chinese firecrackers. “You want to take a break?”

My body tenses. Normally, when given an opportunity to be alone for an extended period like this, we would spend much of it in bed. But today the bedroom door is closed, and it’s going to stay that way.

My eyes must have betrayed my thoughts, because Sean quickly says, “I was thinking of running over to R and O’s, getting a couple of oyster po-boys.”

I relax—a little. “That sounds good.”

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Look, you don’t have to stay here all day. I want to read Malik’s book.”

Sean looks at me with calm sincerity. “I want to stay. If that’s all right with you?”

I can’t help but smile. “Okay. Why don’t you get the food, then?”

He gets his keys and heads out to the garage. No kiss good-bye, just a light touch on my forearm.

I go into the bedroom and strip the vodka-soaked sheets, then carry them to the washing machine. The alcohol evaporating from the cotton is enough to ignite a craving that itches in every cell of my body. My mind goes to the Valium in my purse, but it’s time to start weaning myself off that. A birth defect isn’t the first gift I want to give the baby growing inside me.

To take my mind off my craving—as if anything could—I go back to the kitchen table and pick up Nathan Malik’s book, which Sean borrowed from the Tulane Medical School library. Titled The River Lethe: Repressed Memory and Soul Murder, it’s a thin volume, only 130 pages long. Its dark jacket shows an eerie, moonlit scene: an old, robed man standing in a boat in a river, and a frail young woman waiting to board. The image seems unlikely to inspire feelings of well-being in someone who’s been sexually abused. But maybe it presses a button in such victims that prompts them to want to discover what’s between the covers.

The book jacket has the opposite effect on me. Despite my desire to learn more about the inner workings of Nathan Malik’s mind, the prospect of wading through 130 pages on child abuse is too much to handle right now. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. Besides, Sean will be back soon. Better to start the book later, when I can read it in a single sitting.

While I wait for Sean to return, I scan a list of Malik’s professional publications. His earliest articles focused on bipolar disorder, summarizing extensive work he did with manic-depressives. Then came a study analyzing post-traumatic stress disorder in Vietnam veterans. Judging by the abstracts of the articles, Malik’s work on PTSD in veterans is what led him to study the same phenomenon in survivors of sexual abuse. This, in turn, led to groundbreaking research on multiple personality disorder.

“Oysters in the house!” Sean calls from the garage door.

He walks in carrying a brown bag spotted with grease. He’s opening it on the kitchen table when his cell phone rings. Glancing at the screen, he says, “It’s Joey.” Detective Joey Guercio is his partner. “Joey? What you got?”

The smile vanishes from Sean’s face. “No shit? Was Kaiser around when they found this? … Okay. I’ll talk to him later. This could be big, though … I appreciate it … Yeah. They checking all the other vics for the same thing? … Okay. Call me with anything else they find.” He hangs up and looks at me. “There’s another connection between two of the victims. The first one and today’s. Colonel Moreland and Calhoun.”

“Through Malik?” I ask hopefully.

“No.”

“What’s the connection?”

“Vietnam.”

I couldn’t have been more surprised if Sean had said “Harvard.” “What about Vietnam?”

“They both served there. Moreland and Calhoun.”

“At the same time?”

“Their dates of service intersect. Colonel Moreland was career army. He served in-country from 1966 to 1969. James Calhoun was there in sixty-eight and sixty-nine.”