Little Girls Lost (12 page)

Pamela hugged her knees and remained silent.

"Would you be willing to give me your body, in exchange for your life? I'll bet you would. I'll bet you're just the kind of whore to give it up. But that's no good. You'd enjoy it, you filthy slut, and I don't want you to enjoy anything, ever again."

Pamela turned her head away again. She recognized this game. They had played it before.

"Since you'd give up your body to me, I wonder if you'd also be willing to give up just a little bit of it. Like maybe your fingers. Would you give up your fingers and walk out of here with bloody stumps at the ends of your arms, if it meant you could walk out of here?"

He laughed at his joke. Pamela blinked away new tears.

"Maybe you need to think about it. Here's what I'll do. I'll take one finger tomorrow and let you think about the other nine. That seems fair."

He laughed again, and Pamela heard his chuckling recede down the hallway, the sounds bouncing off the brick walls.
 

In time it was silent again, and Pamela counted one hundred breaths before she moved to the door of the cage. With scraped and bloody fingers she began working again on a loose hinge at the bottom of the cage door. The thought of what he had promised, the chance that he might keep his promise and cut off her fingers, gave Pamela's work new urgency. She pushed and tugged at the hinge as hard as she could without filling the room with the sound of metal on metal. Her labored breathing was louder than the noise of metal on stone.

Suddenly, with a tearing sound, the hinge broke loose. Her heart pounding, Pamela listened for a sign that her captor had heard. After counting another hundred breaths of silence, she reached out and put her weight against the door. By bracing her feet and pushing, she was able to create enough space at the bottom to pull herself through.

And then she was free. Pamela felt a burst of emotion, a mixture of elation and fear. She knew she had little time. She could see more clearly now, and she could tell that she was in some sort of cellar. Discolored brick walls stretched between archways along a low corridor that stretched to her right and her left. Her dark-trained eyes made out a bare wall at the end of the corridor to the left.
 

Silently she turned and padded down the corridor to her right. A stairway began to take shape in the gloom. Pamela hid at the base of the wall and craned her ears for any sound. She didn't know where the staircase led. Maybe it led to a locked door. Maybe it led directly into the arms of her captor. Or maybe it led to a way out of here. The only thing she knew is that it was a chance she had to take.
 

Three quick steps took her to the bottom of the stairs. Pamela stretched out one foot and carefully put her weight down. Would the stair creak and give her away? Her heart pounding, she put her full weight down on the leg. No squeak. Breathing a sigh of relief, Pamela lifted her other foot.

"You might have made it."

The whispered words came just behind her and to her right. Pamela spun wildly and tried to run. But before she could make it up one more stair she was encased in two powerful arms and pulled, struggling, down to the cold stone floor.
 

"Put her in the cage," another voice called out from the darkness. "And this time do it right."

After he found a parking place under the shade of a tree and the coughing and wheezing of the car's engine died into silence, Sam took a moment to take in his surroundings.

He cracked the car door to take in the sounds—or rather the lack of sound, since this neighborhood was so silent that it was hard to imagine that it was part of the angry, impatient city that surrounded it. For years Sam had fantasized about living in a place like this. Somehow he'd fall into enough money: maybe he'd buy a winning lottery ticket, or maybe he'd write the story of his life and sell the film rights, and he'd take residence in one of these stately old buildings with ivy-framed windows and trees old enough to have held many generations of children in their branches.
 

He first formed that dream when a spacious back yard seemed like a necessity, for Missy to play in and for Sam to preside over the barbecues that he'd always intended to have for friends and family. Now that he and Patty would be alone in one of these great, echoing houses, he was reluctant to let go of the dream. Sam liked the architecture and the smell of growing things, and he appreciated the elegance of the surroundings, but most of all it was the peacefulness that drew him like a moth to a light. Sam craved peace more than anything else on earth. He was only beginning to realize how deep that craving ran.

With a sigh he pulled himself out of the driver's seat and slammed the car door. Doctor Sundquist's home and office were just across the street. Off in the distance he heard the steady hum of a lawn mower.

As he approached the house, Sam's steps slowed and finally stopped. Parked in the driveway to the side of the house was a gray van. Since the day he'd seen the security camera footage, Sam had learned how many gray vans there were in the city. At first he had seized on every one of them as a possible lead, but eventually he came to understand that he was searching for a needle in a very large haystack. Worse, he was searching that haystack for a single stalk of hay.

No doubt it was a coincidence that there happened to be a gray van next to the doctor's house. Sam hated coincidences. He took a slip of paper from his pocket and jotted down the license plate numbers.

The doctor answered the door and ushered Sam up to his office on the second floor. Once inside, he began clearing his already-immaculate desk and putting away materials he'd been reading.

"I noticed a gray van parked outside when I came in."

Warren Sundquist glanced at him. "Yes. If you're wondering whether you were hallucinating, you were not. There is, in fact, a van parked in my driveway."

Sam smiled without amusement. "Could you tell me who it belongs to?"

The doctor took a seat in the comfortable chair behind his desk and, with a hand gesture, indicated that Sam should sit on the couch. "It belongs to Tyrone. He's my handyman."

"Tyrone," Sam said, feeling out the name on his tongue. "Could you tell me more about your handyman? Start with his full name."

Warren looked at him curiously. "Tyrone Pasco. Is he accused of a crime?"

"No, not at all. I'd just like to know a bit more about him."

"Hmmm. Well, I suppose the police have their reasons. Tyrone is a former patient. When he was referred to me, he was almost completely non-functional. He had been severely abused as a child, and while it might have seemed like a good idea at the time, enlisting in the army and going on a tour of duty in Afghanistan only made matters worse. When he returned he suffered from severe post-traumatic shock that manifested in violent outbursts. He has improved under my care, but he still suffers from migraines and flashbacks, and he remains incapable of holding a job. So I give him work around the house. He mows my lawn, trims the hedges, and does various odd-jobs. That, along with his military pension, is enough for him to live a simple existence."

"That's very kind of you."

Warren shrugged. "I suppose you might call it kindness, but he performs a service for me, and in return I perform a service for him. It's a simple exchange."

"You said that your handyman has violent tendencies?"

Warren quirked his head. "Now I'm beginning to suspect that Tyrone will soon be accused of a crime, if he is not already."

"I'm simply exploring every avenue. Could you please answer the question?"

Warren considered him for a moment, then answered solemnly. "To my knowledge, he is not currently a threat to himself or others—and I say that as the person who knows Tyrone best. He was brutalized by his father, and then they put a gun in his hand and sent him off to be brutalized again. It's true, those experiences can cause a person to lash out at the world, taking the pain the experience inwardly and turning it outward where others suffer as they do. But Tyrone, with my guidance, has blossomed into a kind and gentle soul. He is deeply wounded, without a doubt, but what he wants above all else is to save others from being wounded the way he was."

Sam nodded, considering the doctor's testimony. "So if I were to remind you that someone is abducting, killing, and mutilating young women, you would tell me that this man could not possibly be responsible."

The doctor looked to the side, collecting himself, before he answered the question. "I would tell you two things. First, that I will do everything in my power to help you find and stop whoever is responsible for these monstrous acts. And second, that it is my clinical judgment that Tyrone is incapable of doing the things you describe."

"Can you prove that?"

Sundquist shook his head. "There is not much in my work that can be proven, Detective. All that doctor-client privilege allows me to tell you is that I have very strong reasons for my opinions."

Sam nodded. He could see that he was not going to get any further with the doctor. There was a part of him, too, that felt guilty at being suspicious of a mental patient simply because of the car he drove. It felt cruel, almost, as if he were singling out the man for additional torment when he had clearly already suffered enough.
 

Sam had a simple code as a police detective, though: trust your gut but follow procedure. Right now, both his gut and procedure were telling him to find out more about the doctor's handyman.

He didn't have long to wait before getting some answers. Sam had been waiting by his car for only about 30 minutes when he saw a man carrying a bucket and rake walk up to the van and open the rear doors.

"Good afternoon, sir," he called out as he walked up, extending his hand.

Tyrone looked at him without expression. At first Sam thought that he would refuse the handshake, then he tentatively stuck his hand, still wearing his work gloves. Sam shook his hand, mentally making note of how strong his grip was.
 

"Could I ask you a few questions?" he said, keeping his tone light and friendly.

"I guess," Tyrone said in obvious discomfort, his eyes slipping away from contact with Sam's. He resumed putting his equipment into the van.
 

"Is this your van?"
 

Tyrone broke eye contact. He pulled his work shirt off and threw it in with the rest. Underneath he was wearing a sweat-stained tee shirt. "It's mine," he said at last.

"Could you tell me where you were last Tuesday night?" Sam asked. He looked carefully at the man's face when he asked the question. He wanted to see what emotions played out there.

He saw nothing. The man may as well have been carved out of granite, for all his eyes and face shared with the world. "I don't know," he mumbled in reply to the question.

"You don't know? Think back on it. It's an important question. It was this last Tuesday."

Tyrone looked at him and shrugged, in every respect looking like a little boy accused of stealing cookies or pulling his sister's hair. "My memory's not so good sometimes. The doctor says that happens with the pills I'm taking."

The direct questions were going nowhere, and so Sam decided to try a different tack. "Dr. Sundquist. Have you been seeing him for a long time?"

"I suppose so."

"Has he helped you, the doctor?"

"Sure."

"You've been through some things, I gather. Really terrible stuff. And I'm glad that you found someone like Dr. Sundquist to help you out, but it's got to be a lot to deal with, even now. You have good days and bad days I bet, right?"

Tyrone nodded.

Sam made his move. "What do you do on the bad days?"

Tyrone looked uncertain, as if he'd been navigating a maze and came to a turn that he wasn't expecting. "I don't ... what do you mean?"

"What do you do on the bad days? When it's all boiling up inside of you, how do you let it out? How do you get to the next day?"

"Dr. Sundquist...."

"Sure, the doctor can help when he's available, but he's not always going to be there, is he? Sometimes you have to take care of it yourself. And I'm just wondering, how do you do it? When you're deep down in the thick of it, when you're lying in bed at night trying to sleep but all the shit you've been through just keeps bubbling up no matter what, what do you do to make yourself feel better?"

"I look out for assholes like you," Tyrone said with sudden heat, and for the first time Sam saw what lay behind the veil. It was a brief glimpse before the shields slammed down again, but it was so intense that he nearly took a step backwards."

He held up his hands. "You're right, I'm out of line. I deserved that, and I apologize. I just have one more question for you."

Tyrone looked at him, clearly ready to turn on his heel and leave if he heard something he didn't like.

"Those scratches on your arm. Where did you get them?" Sam asked, gesturing at the long, pink welts that decorated Tyrone's right forearm.

"I have cats. Sometimes they play rough," he said, then slammed the van's doors shut. "Are we done?"

"We are, sir, and thank you for your time," Sam said with a smile. He turned and walked to his car, hoping that his gait wouldn't give away the excitement that was building in his chest.
 

Tyrone was the killer. He was sure of it. He was lying about the scratches on his arm. Sam had grown up with cats, he knew what a cat scratch looks like, and these were not cat scratches. Tyrone had evaded the question about where he was on the night of the most recent abduction. He was the owner of what now seemed a very incriminating gray van. It was all there.

But best of all? Not once in their conversation had Tyrone asked a single question about why Sam was questioning him. He didn't ask about the crime, the victim, or anything to do with the investigation, and Sam knew why: Tyrone already knew all about the crimes. He knew more about them than Sam did.