“Yes, I read it,” said Maura.
“This piece was picked up by the wire services. It ran in a lot of newspapers. If our killer spotted this story, then he’d know Lorraine Edgerton’s body had just been found. And that there’d be excitement to come after the CT scan. Now look at this.”
Jane clicked on a saved file on her computer, and an image appeared on the screen. It was a head shot of a young woman with long black hair and delicately arching brows. This was not a candid shot but a formal pose in front of a professional backdrop, a photo that might have been taken for a college yearbook.
“Who is she?” asked Maura.
“Her name was Kelsey Thacker. She was a college student who was last seen twenty-six years ago, walking home from a neighborhood bar. In Indio, California.”
“Indio?” said Maura. And she thought of the crumpled newspaper that she had pulled from the head of the tsantsa—a newspaper that had been printed twenty-six years ago.
“We reviewed the missing persons reports for every woman who vanished from the Indio area that year. Kelsey Thacker’s name popped front and center. And when I saw her photo, I was sure of it.” She pointed to the image. “I think this is what Kelsey looked like before a killer cut off her head. Before he peeled off her face and scalp. Before he shrank it down and hung it on a string like a fucking Christmas ornament.” Jane took an agitated breath.
“Without a skull, we have no way of matching her dental records. But I’m positive this is her.”
Maura’s gaze was still fixed on the woman’s face. Softly she said, “She looks like Lorraine Edgerton.”
“And like Josephine, too. Dark-haired, pretty. I think it’s clear what kind of woman attracts this killer. We also know that he watches the news. He hears that Madam X has been found in the Crispin Museum, and maybe all the publicity thrills him. Or maybe it just annoys him. The important thing is, it’s all about him. And he spots Josephine’s photo in that article about the mummy. Pretty face, black hair. Identical to his dream girl. The kind of girl he seems to kill again and again.”
“And that draws him to Boston.”
“No doubt he saw this article, too.” Jane pulled up yet another news article from the Boston Globe archive, this one about Bog Lady: BODY DISCOVERED IN WOMAN’S CAR. Accompanying the story was a file photo of Maura, with the caption: “Medical examiner says cause of death still undetermined.”
“It’s a photo of another pretty woman with black hair,” said Jane. She looked at Maura. “Maybe you never noticed the resemblance, Doc, but I did. The first time I saw you and Josephine in the same room, I thought you could be her older sister. That’s why I’ve asked Newton PD to keep an eye on your house. It might not be a bad idea for you to leave home for a few days. Maybe it’s also a good time to think about getting a dog. A great big dog.”
“I have an alarm system, Jane.”
“A dog has teeth. Plus, he’d keep you company.” Jane stood to leave. “I know you like your privacy. But sometimes, a woman just doesn’t want to be alone.”
But I am alone, thought Maura later as she watched Jane’s car drive away and vanish into the night. Alone in a silent house without even a dog for company.
She armed her security system and paced the living room, as restless as a caged animal, her gaze returning again and again to the telephone. At last she could resist the temptation no longer. She felt like a junkie in withdrawal as she picked up the receiver, her hand trembling with need as she punched in Daniel’s cell phone number. Please answer. Please be there for me.
His voice mail picked up.
She hung up without leaving a message and stared down at the phone, feeling betrayed by its silence. Tonight I need you, she thought, but you’re beyond my reach. You’ve always been beyond my reach, because God is the one who owns you.
The glare of headlights drew her to the window. Outside a Newton PD cruiser crawled slowly past her house. She waved, acknowledging the faceless patrolman who watched over her on a night when the man she loved did not and could not. And what did that patrolman see as he passed her house? A woman with a comfortable home and all the trappings of success who stood alone at her window, isolated and vulnerable.
Her phone rang.
Daniel was her first thought, and by the time she’d snatched up the receiver, her heart was pounding as hard as a sprinter’s.
“Are you all right, Maura?” said Anthony Sansone.
Disappointed, she gave a response that sounded more curt than she intended. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I understand there was some excitement at your house tonight.”
She was not surprised that he already knew about it. Sansone always managed to sense every disturbing tremor, every shift in the wind.
“It’s all over now,” she said. “The police have left.”
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Why don’t you pack a bag and I’ll come get you? You can stay here on Beacon Hill, as long as you need to.”
She looked out the window, at the deserted street and considered the night ahead. She could spend it lying awake, listening anxiously to every creak, every rattle in the house. Or she could retreat to the safety of his mansion, which he’d made secure against a universe of threats that he was convinced stood arrayed against him. In his velvet-cloaked fortress, furnished with antiques and medieval portraits, she would be protected and safe, but it would be a refuge in a dark and paranoid world, with a man who saw conspiracies everywhere. Sansone had always unsettled her; even now, months after she’d made his acquaintance, he seemed unknowable, a man isolated by his wealth and by his disquieting belief in humanity’s enduring dark side. She might be safe in his house, but she would not feel at ease.
Outside, the street was still deserted, the police cruiser long gone. There’s only one person I want here with me tonight, she thought. And he’s the one person I can’t have.
“Maura, shall I come and get you?” he asked
“There’s no need to fetch me,” she said. “I’ll come in my own car.”
The last time Maura had set foot in Sansone’s Beacon Hill mansion, it had been January and there’d been a fire blazing in the hearth to ward off the winter chill. Though it was now a warm summer night, a chill still seemed to cling to the house, as though winter had permanently settled into these dark-paneled rooms, where somber faces gazed from the portraits on the walls.
“Have you had supper yet?” Sansone asked, handing her overnight bag to his manservant, who discreetly withdrew. “I can ask the cook to prepare a meal.”
She thought of her grilled cheese sandwich, of which she’d taken only a few bites. It hardly counted as supper, but she had no appetite, so she accepted only a glass of wine. It was a rich Amarone, so dark it appeared almost black in the parlor’s firelight. She sipped it under the cool gaze of his sixteenth-century ancestor, whose piercing eyes stared down from the portrait hanging over the hearth.
“It’s been far too long since you’ve visited,” he said, settling into the Empire armchair facing hers. “I keep hoping you’ll accept the invitations to our monthly suppers.”
“I’ve been too busy to make your meetings.”
“Is that the only reason? That you’re busy?”
She stared into her glass of wine. “No,” she admitted.
“I know you don’t believe in our mission. But do you still think we’re a group of crackpots?”
She looked up and saw that his mouth was tilted into an ironic smile. “I think the Mephisto Society has a frightening view of the world.”
“And you don’t have the same view? You stand in that autopsy room and watch the homicide victims roll in. You see the evidence carved into their bodies. Tell me that doesn’t shake your faith in humanity.”
“All it tells me is that there are certain people who don’t belong in civilized society.”
“People who can hardly be classified as human.”
“But they are human. You can call them whate
ver you want. Predators, hunters, even demons. Their DNA is still the same as ours.”
“Then what makes them different? What makes them kill?” He set down his wineglass and leaned toward her, his gaze as disturbing as that of the portrait over the hearth. “What makes a privileged child warp into a monster like Bradley Rose?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s the problem. We try to blame it on traumatic childhoods or abusive parents or environmental lead. And yes, some criminal behaviors can probably be explained that way. Then there are the exceptional examples, the killers who stand apart for their cruelties. No one knows where these creatures come from. Yet every generation, every society, produces a Bradley Rose and a Jimmy Otto and a host of predators just like them. They’re always among us, and we have to acknowledge they exist. And protect ourselves.”
She frowned at him. “How did you learn so much about this case?”
“There’s been a great deal of publicity.”
“Jimmy Otto’s name was never released. It’s not public knowledge.”
“The public doesn’t ask the questions I ask.” He reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass. “My sources in law enforcement trust me to be discreet, and I trust them to be accurate. We share the same concerns and the same goals.” He set down the bottle and looked at her. “Just as you and I do, Maura.”
“I’m not always certain of that.”
“We both want that young woman to survive. We want Boston PD to find her. That means we have to understand exactly why this killer took her.”
“The police have a forensic psychologist consulting on the case. They’re already covering that territory.”
“And they’re using the conventional approach. He behaved this way before, so that’s the way he’ll behave again. But this abduction is completely different from the earlier ones, the ones we know about.”
“Different how? He started by crippling this woman, and that’s precisely his pattern.”
“But then he deviated from that pattern.”
“What do you mean?”
“Both Lorraine Edgerton and Kelsey Thacker vanished without a trace. Neither abductions were followed by taunts of find me. There were no notes or souvenirs sent to law enforcement. Those women simply disappeared. This victim is different. With Ms. Pulcillo, the killer seems to be begging for your attention.”
“Maybe he’s asking to be caught. Maybe it’s a plea for someone to finally stop him.”
“Or he has another reason to want all this publicity. You have to admit, courting publicity is exactly what he’s done by staging high-profile incidents. Putting the bog body in the trunk. Committing the murder and abduction in the museum. And now the latest—leaving a souvenir in your backyard. Did you notice how quickly the press showed up in your neighborhood?”
“Reporters often monitor police radios.”
“They were tipped off, Maura. Someone called them.”
She stared at him. “You think this killer’s that desperate for attention?”
“He’s certainly getting it. Now the question is, whose attention is he seeking?” He paused. “I’m concerned it’s yours he wants.”
She shook her head. “He already has mine, and he knows it. If this is attention-seeking behavior, it’s directed at a far larger audience. He’s telling the whole world, Look at me. Look at what I’ve done.”
“Or he’s aiming it at one person in particular. Someone who’s meant to see these news stories and react to them. I think he’s communicating with someone, Maura. Maybe it’s another killer. Or maybe it’s a future victim.”
“It’s his current victim we need to worry about.”
Sansone shook his head. “He’s had her for three days now. That’s not a good milestone.”
“He kept his other victims alive far longer than this.”
“But he didn’t cut off their hair. He didn’t play games with the police and the press. This abduction is moving along its own unique time line.” The look he gave her was chillingly matter-of-fact. “This time, things are different. The killer’s pattern has changed.”
THIRTY
The Cape Elizabeth neighborhood where Dr. Gavin Hilzbrich lived was a prosperous suburb outside Portland, Maine, but unlike the well-kept properties on the street, Hilzbrich’s house was set back on a lot overgrown with trees, and the patchy lawn was slowly dying for want of sunlight. Standing in the driveway of the large Colonial-style house, Jane noticed peeling paint and the green sheen of moss on the shake roof, clues to the ailing health of the doctor’s finances. His house, like his bank account, had almost certainly seen better days.
At first glance, the silver-haired man who answered the door had the appearance of prosperity. Though he was in his late sixties, he stood unbowed by either age or economic travails. Despite the warm day he wore a tweed jacket, as though on his way out to teach a university class. Only when she looked more closely did Jane notice that the collar tips were frayed and the jacket hung several sizes too large on his bony shoulders. Nevertheless he regarded her with disdain, as though nothing his visitor might say could possibly interest him.
“Dr. Hilzbrich?” she said. “I’m Detective Rizzoli. We spoke on the phone.”
“I have nothing more to tell you.”
“We don’t have a lot of time to save this woman.”
“I can’t discuss my former patients.”
“Last night, your former patient sent us a souvenir.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, what souvenir?”
“The victim’s hair. He hacked it off her head, stuffed it into a grocery bag, and hung it on a tree, like a trophy. Now, I don’t know how a psychiatrist like you would interpret that. I’m just a cop. But I hate to think of what he might cut off next. And if the next thing we find is a piece of her flesh, I fucking promise you I will be back on this doorstep. And I’ll invite a few TV cameras to come along with me.” She let that sink in for a moment. “So now do you want to talk?”
He stared at her, his lips pressed together in two tight lines. Without a word, he stepped aside to let her come in.
Inside, it smelled of cigarettes—an unhealthy habit made more so in that house, where she saw stuffed file boxes lining the hallway. Glancing through a doorway into a cluttered office, she spotted overflowing ashtrays and a desk covered with papers and even more boxes.
She followed him into the living room, which was oppressively dark and cheerless because thick trees outside blocked the sunlight. Here some semblance of order had been maintained, but the leather couch she sat down on was stained, and the finely crafted coffee table bore the rings of countless cups set carelessly on unprotected wood. Both had probably been expensive purchases, evidence of their owner’s more affluent past. Clearly Hilzbrich’s circumstances had gone terribly wrong, leaving him with a house he could not afford to maintain. But the man who sat across from her betrayed no hint of defeat, and certainly no humility. He was still every inch Doctor Hilzbrich, facing the minor annoyance of a police investigation.
“How do you know that my former patient is responsible for this young woman’s abduction?” he asked.
“We have a number of reasons to suspect Bradley Rose.”
“And those reasons are?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal the details.”
“Yet you expect me to open up his psychiatric files to you?”
“When a woman’s life is at stake? Yes, I do. And you know very well what your obligations are.” She paused. “Since you’ve been through this situation before.”
The sudden rigidity in his face told her he knew exactly what she was talking about.
“You’ve already had one of your patients go off the rails,” she said. “The parents of his victim weren’t too happy with that whole patient-confidentiality thing, were they? Having their daughter sliced and diced can do that to a family. They grieve, they get angry, and finally they sue. And it all shows up in the newspapers.” She gl
anced around the shabby room. “Are you still treating patients, by the way?”
“You know I’m not.”
“I guess it’s hard to practice psychiatry when you lose your license.”
“It was a witch hunt. The parents needed someone to blame.”
“They knew exactly who to blame—your sicko former patient. You were the one who pronounced him cured.”
“Psychiatry is an inexact science.”
“You had to know it was your patient who did it. When that girl was killed, you must have recognized his handiwork.”
“I had no proof it was him.”
“You just wanted the problem to go away. So you did nothing, said nothing to the police. Are you going to let that happen again with Bradley Rose? When you can help us stop him?”
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
“Release his records to us.”
“You don’t understand. If I give them to you, he’ll—” He stopped.
“He?” Her gaze was fixed so intently on his face that he drew back, as though physically pressed against the chair. “You’re talking about Bradley’s father. Aren’t you?”
Dr. Hilzbrich swallowed. “Kimball Rose warned me you’d be calling. He reminded me that psychiatric records are confidential.”
“Even when a woman’s life is in danger?”
“He said he’d sue me if I released the records.” He gave a sheepish laugh and looked around at his living room. “As if there’s anything left to take! The bank owns this house. The institute’s been shuttered for years and the state’s about to foreclose on it. I can’t even pay the damn property taxes.”
“When did Kimball speak to you?”
He shrugged. “He called me about a week ago, maybe more. I can’t remember the date.”
That would have been soon after her visit to Texas. From the beginning, Kimball Rose had put up barriers to the investigation, all to protect his son.