Fractured (14 page)

That was when she'd switched her major to psychology. It was a logical transition to wonder what had prompted her to pursue what she'd already realized was an impossible dream. How fascinating to delude and deny even with the reality right in front of her. It set her on an entirely different path.

Good decision. She was far better at listening and offering what guidance she could than she was at performing a concerto. Oh, she still longed for the latter, and played often, but it was not her true medium and it was a triumph to acknowledge it and move on. Though she'd gone to her dorm room and cried until she fell into an exhausted sleep that afternoon, the honest professor had done her a profound favor.

Her companion took her elbow as they walked out the doors with the exiting crowd. “Have a drink with me to round out the evening?”

She liked Grant Rosenthal well enough, but even more, she respected his academic background and credentials. His interest was romantic—she got that loud and clear—hers was more of colleague to colleague, but there could be potential for more. She wasn't going to rule it out, anyway. He was graying around the temples but still fit the term distinguished since he was a good fifteen years older.

The place he chose was a quiet martini bar with an elegant atmosphere and glass tables, comfortable leather chairs completing the décor. Black walls held framed pieces of art featuring vivid flowers.

“I'm not really fond of Gustav Mahler's style, but otherwise I thought the Albinoni and especially the piece by Jennifer Higdon were exquisite.”

“An eclectic selection, I agree, but beautifully played. Thanks for coming with me.” Georgia had ordered a cosmopolitan and it arrived in a frosted glass with a blue rim. She fingered the stem for a moment and then said, “However, I have an ulterior motive. I want to confer about one of my patients. I need some insight.”

It wasn't like she didn't feel qualified to make an educated analysis, but it never hurt to ask for another opinion. He was well respected to say the least, and had more experience in general.

Grant smiled. So far, although she'd provided the symphony tickets, he'd paid for dinner, the cab, and now the drinks. They were still just colleagues enjoying an evening out.

His smile was affable. “Talking shop is fine.” There was soft jazz playing in the background. “I'll help if I can.”

He would. That was why she'd called him. She had no trouble going out by herself. Digging up another ticket had taken some time and she'd gone through the effort for a reason. “I have a patient that bothers me. You have waxed eloquent in your various published articles on how ignoring the inner voice is a mistake, and it isn't one I want to make. Can I get your take on it?”

“I'm reeling that anyone I know uses the phrase ‘waxed eloquent,' Dr. Lukens, but please … ask away.”

“Everyone you know uses that phrase. I've met a lot of them,” she said dryly. “They listen to Scarlatti and drink Grey Goose just like we are now. I have asked myself how many are really trying to help people, or how many just want to think they are.”

“I don't think that's Scarlatti. More like Joplin.” He pretended to contemplate his glass. “For that matter, I'm not sure this is Grey Goose but I get less picky as the evening goes on. What's the question?”

There was no question he was too old for her in some ways, and no question she liked his sense of humor. Georgia weighed her response. She took in a breath. “All right, I have a patient that seems to be in a relationship—not sexual—that is unlike anything I've really encountered before. It is fascinating in some ways, but disturbing in others. My initial diagnosis would be to call them both fairly socially dysfunctional and leave it alone, but they play extraordinarily well off each other and together achieve an odd balance. Both are women but quite different and the love/hate part of it is what drives their dynamic.”

“I don't know the details but have encountered something similar before. Mothers and daughters in some cases, siblings; look at every case of domestic violence. Why are you worried?”

“I'm not worried.”

He folded his arms on the table and looked at her intently. “Yes, you are, Dr. Lukens. Let's talk about why.”

He was right. Rachel had seemed disturbed their past few sessions and fragile enough emotionally to begin with, so yes, she was concerned.

A martini bar seemed the perfect location to have this discussion.

There was a neon bear dropping a neon olive into a neon glass above the bar. Georgia considered it and then explained. “You are a more experienced therapist than I am so I know you'll understand when I say that there's a secret this patient is keeping, not just from me, but maybe from herself.”

“More experienced? What a very polite way to point out I'm somewhat older.”

She looked at him directly. “Does that bother you?”

“You must be joking. Go on about this patient.” He looked amused.

Good, they had that out of the way. She'd been wondering if they were ever, after several dates, going to say anything on the subject of their disparate ages. “On the surface she seems very composed and reasonable and I am not positive she remembers this secret. I've considered suggesting hypnosis, but I am not sure she isn't better off without the memory. Right now, she has a good job, which she seems to like, a nice apartment, and other than her uneasy relationship with her roommate, seems to be happy enough. She doesn't really date, or so she says, but she has not mentioned any problems with her male colleagues at work. My opinion would be she's ambivalent about her lack of a social life.”

“Some people are, I agree. I take it you think she wants to remember, but is afraid of it. As her physician, so are you of that memory surfacing. If you encourage it, and it backfires, you might have done more harm than good.” He pondered for a moment. “Do you think she'd agree to hypnosis?”

A waitress whisked by in a short black skirt with a tray of sparkling drinks for a table by the window facing the street, the patrons, from the way they were dressed, also part of the symphony crowd. Georgia answered the question. “I'm going to speculate one of two things would happen. She'd be completely puzzled as to why I would suggest it, or she'd quit therapy.”

“I'm only a moderate believer in hypnosis myself and I think this patient needs to keep seeing you,” Grant said decisively. “If you bring up the topic, you could do more harm than good if she stops her sessions and that is not what we strive for in our care. If this was my call, I would leave well enough alone and just give her someone to talk to openly.”

She picked up her drink. “I think that is probably very good advice.”

But she added, “I think she's dangerous and I haven't the slightest bit of proof.”

*   *   *

The third murder
set the news on fire, which wasn't really a surprise. In a lazy sprawl on his couch, Jason watched as a reporter stood on the perimeter of the woods where the latest body had been found and wondered just who had leaked the sensational details about the slashed face. He knew it wasn't Ellie; she didn't play the media game at all. If he had to guess, the source was someone on the crime scene team and Metzger was going to be pissed, but in truth, it didn't matter much to the case except the frustration of having exactly zero in the lead department.

Like zero degrees Kelvin leads.

That was, translated, negative 273.15 on the Celsius scale. The temperature where everything seizes up and stops moving.

They truly had nothing. The pattern was random, the murders seemingly unconnected, and no one knew anything about the killer.

He stared at the television, watching only absently. He didn't share his partner's faith that the wooded area in Jefferson County meant a damn thing. It could, but—

His cell beeped. MacIntosh, no doubt, furious about the leak and watching the broadcast, except it
could
help them. He didn't even look at the screen before he answered. “I know, it's a piss off, but look at it this way, it might raise some flags.”

Deadpan silence, and then someone said, “Hey, maybe I have the wrong number. I'm looking for a guy named Jason Santiago. Old-school, you know? He left this number.”

Young voice. Like a barely there baritone with a potential for a bass in his future but that was a few years down the road. Jason sat up and endeavored for smooth calm despite his flicker of excitement. “Yeah, dude, you got him. Sorry, thought you were someone else.”

“You're the cop?”

“Homicide detective.” No use not to try and impress if he could. “I appreciate you calling. I take it you got my note and know what I want.”

“We got it.”

Score
. Ellie was going to have to give in that he'd been right on this one. “You have some information for me?”

“Is there a reward?”

He wasn't surprised by the question. He'd met kids like this a hundred times. Hell, he'd been one what felt like centuries ago. “Yep. You get to do the right thing. We don't even know who the guy living across the street who was murdered was, so his family, if he had one, doesn't know he's dead. Law enforcement is supported by people like you and me. If you want to give yourself a dollar, go ahead. Just tell me what you got. What is it going to cost you unless maybe
you
killed him?”

“I didn't do shit.”

“The neighborhood could be a little safer for you all to run around if you just speak up. Watch the news. It is an unsafe world out there with the guy hacking people up around.”

The call ended abruptly.

He wasn't surprised. Ellie answered on the second ring when he punched in her number. “MacIntosh.”

“Tossing out a line wasn't a bad idea. I just got a call.”

“From?”

“If I had to call it, one of the kids breaking into the school. He knew my name but he didn't offer up his.”

“What did he say?”

He told her and she sounded disappointed. “So it isn't a lead.”

Jason knew she was smart, but they'd had an entirely different upbringing. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he said with utter confidence, “He's going to think about it and call back. I used to run the streets but I wasn't a bad kid. I kind of considered myself a rebel, and maybe that applied at the time, but I never lost my sense of right and wrong. That's where it breaks down. I knew kids that would have used the note for toilet paper. Those are the ones you worry about eventually getting letters in prison, but this wasn't one of them. My gut says we'll hear from him again eventually.”

“You eat microwave burritos. Are you sure that isn't just indigestion?”

“He bothered, Ellie.”

Her tone lost some of its brisk edge. “I get that, but we need something solid.”

“The autopsy results might help us and fingers crossed we get a missing person report on our guy from the woods. He was pretty expensively dressed.”

“But no wedding ring.”

“Unless our killer took it.”

“He didn't with the first victim.”

She had a point.

“No, but our guy is getting better at it.”

 

Chapter 14

“Lea has a degree in anthropology but she doesn't use it.” Rachel looked introspective. “She's taking night classes to get her master's. I'm not sure what she thinks she will do with it. Hopefully get a raise so she can buy a new car. Hers has some stains she can't quite get out on the carpet.”

Her patient's tendency to share trivial information not pertinent to her own life was an avoidance tactic but Georgia wasn't sure strong-arm therapy would work with someone like Rachel, especially since she admitted to being at least borderline suicidal. She tried a gentle nudge. “You don't complain about your job and yet most people do. You must like it.”

Rachel brightened. “I do. I just had my review. It went well. Lea kept telling me I was being stupid for wasting my time worrying about it, and it turned out, she was right.”

“Do you socialize with the people you work with often?”

“Not often, no.”

That was not surprising. “What do you do for fun, Rachel?”

“Hmm. I listen to music. In the summer sometimes I go to the lake cabin my family has north of here.”

“Alone?” She was really interested in the answer.

Rachel shook her head. “No, my whole family has a get-together over the Fourth. My mother insists I go.”

“You don't talk about your family very much.” Georgia had in her notes that perhaps there had been childhood sexual abuse, but Rachel had not said anything yet to indicate that was the source of her anxiety and general introversion.

“They're … nice. I get along with them all pretty well if that is what you're asking.”

“You have admitted to considering taking your own life. Don't you think that we should work together to discover why and maybe find a way to help you deal with the issue that makes you feel this way?”

“Discover why?” Rachel's face was entirely expressionless. “I already know why.”

*   *   *

“We have a
repeat of the methodology, and the tox screen came back the same.”

Ellie wasn't surprised. One look at what was left of the last victim's face was so similar to the portraits of the other two, and unfortunately, that didn't help them much. “Stab wounds to the chest?”

All three crime scenes had been a less than pleasant experience.

The ME nodded, walking around the table, pointing with forceps. “You almost can't see them because it was so cold outside and done postmortem, but they are there. You have a cross pattern again. I am not a detective except in a medical sense, but if asked, I'd say the same person is responsible for this latest addition to our morgue's lovely collection. To be kind, the killer zipped the coat back up, probably to keep the deceased from feeling the cold. Some people are so nice.”