Restoration 01 - Getting It Right (26 page)

Let me know if I should wait up. Good luck.

James sent back a smiling face. He hated canceling their plans, but Nathan understood the nature of his job. They’d both canceled plans on each other over the years because of work. Still, he fought against a pang of guilt he didn’t expect. Probably because they were a couple now.

Missing dinner was more serious than when you were just friends.

He’d make it up to Nathan. First priority was his patient.

James hit the ER at the same time as Kate, and they went through together. The small cubicle already contained a doctor James knew on sight but not by name, and Will’s foster mother, Jennifer. Her hair was a mess and she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could spot. She was a generally put-together lady, so her state spoke to her stress.

Will lay in the middle of a bed too large for his slight frame, arms tight across his chest, a long tube already snaking up his right nostril. He also had an IV line taped to his right hand. His cheeks flamed red, a stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin, and his eyes were swollen from crying. He seemed one sharp word away from trying to bolt.

Anger blasted through James at the sight of that tube already in place. “I specifically asked you to make sure I was present if this procedure had to be endured again,” he snapped at Jennifer.

She glared at him through her own tears. “He was unconscious, Dr. Taggert. I was terrified. If your way was helping, he’d be eating on his own.”

“Jennifer, don’t,” Kate said. She gave the upset woman a sideways hug. “You’re upset and you’re scared.”

“Damned right I am.”

“Will is dehydrated and his electrolytes are dangerously low,” the doctor said. “I ordered the nasogastric tube. He needs fluids and nutrition immediately, or he’ll be at risk of kidney failure. I’ve also ordered calcium supplements, but I suspect our tests will show that he’s already well on his way to developing osteoporosis.”

Will didn’t react to the doctor’s statements, but they hit hard for James. He glanced at the doctor’s name tag. “Dr. Pope, I’m sure you’re also aware that forcing treatment on someone with severe anorexia can be detrimental to recovery.”

“My first priority is to his general health, Dr. Taggert.”

“And as his psychiatrist, I have to look after his mental well-being. Will does not respond positively to being coerced.”

“I’m not trying to make your job harder. I’m simply doing mine. Excuse me.” Dr. Pope left the cubicle in a self-important huff that made James want to scream.

“I’m so sorry, Will,” Jennifer said. “You scared me to death, honey. I didn’t have a choice.”

Will continued to stare at his lap, a study of misery.

“May I have a few minutes alone with him?” James wasn’t entirely sure how to fix this latest setback, but he had to try. He couldn’t fail Will.

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” Kate said to Jennifer.

After the women left, James moved to the left side of the bed. “How are you feeling right now, Will?”

Will’s response was to shrug his left shoulder.

“We aren’t in my office, but this is still a safe space. You can say anything you like to me, you know that.” Nothing. Damn. “Will, when was the last time you ate something?”

Another shrug. “A while.”

Verbal communication was a start. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Jennifer made eggs the way I like.”

“For breakfast.”

Nod. He sniffled hard. James snagged a tissue from the box near the bed. One thing every ER seemed to have in abundance was tissues. Will blew into the tissues, then coughed. So young and fragile.

“Was this yesterday?” James asked.

Will shook his head no.

“Tuesday?”

“Monday.”

Shit, damn and hell. He hasn’t eaten for nearly four days.

“Have you been drinking anything?”

“Some juice. I’m not really that thirsty.”

That’s the depression talking.
“I’m glad you drank some juice, Will. I know food is hard, but water or juice is very, very important. Thank you for drinking the juice.”

The praise raised Will’s head a few degrees. Watery eyes blinked at him. “That was good?”

“That was very good. Keeping hydrated is very important. How did you feel about

drinking the juice?”

“Okay, I guess. It doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt when you drink it?”

“When I piss.” Will’s mouth turned down sharply, as though he’d admitted to something bad.

“Well, it’s good that it doesn’t hurt when you urinate. If it did it might mean you had an infection.” A new connection formed in James’s mind, and he grabbed hold of the thread before it disappeared. “Will, does it hurt when you defecate?”

Will stared.

“When you poop,” James amended. “Does it hurt?”

“Jennifer says it’s crazy.” His eyes welled up, and his lips twisted into a fierce snarl. “She says I’m all healed up down there, so it can’t hurt, but what does she know? She doesn’t.”

“You’re right. You know your mind, and you know your body.” Different scenarios

filtered through James’s mind. Everything from irritable bowel syndrome brought on by his poor diet to phantom pains from the rapes themselves. The bottom line was that the boy was in pain—

real or imaginary—and doing his best to keep his bowels empty.

More than anything else, though, was the fact that Will’s guardian hadn’t believed him.

Given Will’s inability to trust adults, that infuriated James the most.

“Will, I can ask the doctors to run a few more tests so maybe we can find out why it hurts when you go to the bathroom. Do I have your permission to share what we’ve talked about today?”

“I guess. If it gets Jennifer off my back.”

“This isn’t about Jennifer. This is about getting you well. That is what I want. Do you believe me?”

Will nodded, some of the anger leaking out of his eyes. Exhaustion settled in its place.

“Why do you care so much? Because you’re being paid?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t become a therapist for the money. I genuinely care, Will. No child deserves to have their trust broken and their body abused by someone who’s meant to take care of them.” Laurie’s face that day, so embarrassed and confused, flashed in his mind. Her face the last time he saw her alive, heavy with makeup and empty-eyed, hit next.

No one else like that, Laurie.

“Who was it for you?” Will asked.

“I can’t tell you that, but it was someone I loved very much.”

Will was quiet for a few seconds, going somewhere inside his own head. “You can tell the doctor and Jennifer what we talked about. Whatever. I’m so tired, Dr. Taggert.”

“I know you are. We’ll get you well, all right? But you need to want to get well.”

“I do. I really do.”

James believed him.

Nate dragged himself to his desk Friday morning with all the energy of a sixty-year-old coming down off a two-week bender. His joints ached for no reason that he could figure, and he’d barely managed two hours of sleep last night.

Sleep. Alone. In his house.

James had finally called at ten to midnight, sounding exhausted and apologetic about the emergency that kept him in the hospital all evening. He’d begged off coming over, citing exhaustion and an early appointment. Nate had briefly toyed with being selfish and guilting him into it. But he didn’t want to be that guy. James sleeping by his side was like having a living dream catcher. He kept the nightmares at bay. But Nate couldn’t be dependent on one person. He had to get better on his own.

Not that he’d made any real progress on that front.

Carey plunked a file down on his desk before Nate could boot up his computer. “We got an ID on Wily.”

Nate flipped open the folder and scanned the contents.

“Cory White, formerly of Detroit, Michigan, age twenty-one, with one arrest for

prostitution,” Carey said. “Last known address was there, no change filed in any state since.”

Twenty-one years old. Such a fucking waste.

“We also got out-of-state information on our other dead rent boys. Garrett Kincaid was arrested two years ago in Baltimore, and Benjamin Tate three years ago in Chicago. Guess what for?”

“Prostitution.” Nate didn’t bother phrasing it as a question.

“Bingo.”

“Why the hell would someone target prostitutes with out-of-state arrest records? And the killer has to know because that’s just too big of a coincidence.”

Carey eased into the chair next to Nate’s desk. “I’m positive it’s the connection, actually.”

Something uneasy slithered in Nate’s gut. “Which means the killer has access to those records.”

“The problem is that nowadays you can find that shit on the internet.”

“Not for every city.” Nate picked up a pen and tapped it against his blotter. “If you’re into raping and murdering male prostitutes, most killers don’t go through the hassle of first scoping and then researching their intended victim to make sure they have a record. Plus most of those guys use fake names, so how would the killer know who to search for?”

“Photos?”

“Again, how would he or she know who?”

“I’m spinning theories here, pal. Help me out.”

Nate spun the possibilities as he tapped the pen, using the rhythm to stay focused.

“Excellent facial recognition software and a hacker friend.” He frowned, not liking that. It didn’t seem to fit their killer’s profile. “Or it’s someone with access to private police records. Like mug shots.”

Carey glanced around the bullpen, then lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Are you suggesting the killer is a cop?”

“I’m looking at this from all angles, Wally.”

“So someone, maybe a cop, is seeking out men on record for prostitution and punishing them?”

“No, the killings don’t feel like a punishment. Typically a revenge killer is more violent.

Our victims were sodomized, whether by force or choice, and then stabbed in the ear. The deaths are fast and clean, and the bodies show very few signs of a struggle.”

“So our perp researches his victim, finds one with a record, solicits him, has sex with him, then kills him.”

The profile fit. “Yes.”

Carey scrubbed a hand through his graying hair. “So the big question, besides who, is why?”

“The thrill of the hunt?”

“What about repressed sexual desire?”

Nate’s lips curled back. “Being in the closet doesn’t mean a guy is going to stalk and murder the guys he has sex with, just to keep the secret.” The notion disgusted Nate on every level because it played to old, hateful stereotypes. That being gay was shameful and that the secret drove men to violence. That gay men were perverted in some way.

Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

“You’re right,” Carey said, a funny edge to his voice. “Still a possibility. We can’t discount anything.”

“I know. The problem is our guy is too damned careful. He hasn’t left any physical evidence behind. He avoids traffic cameras around the crime scenes. He doesn’t have a type that we can profile, and he doesn’t kill to any specific schedule that we can see.”

Good-looking and early twenties wasn’t much of a type.

“I don’t want to wait around for victim number five to show up,” Carey said.

“What do you suggest?”

Carey met his gaze with a firm steadiness. “We talk to Lieutenant Danvers about putting out some bait and seeing what we catch.”

James glared at the digital clock on his stove. Seven ten. Forty minutes past the time he’d texted to Nathan at lunchtime, asking if he was free for dinner. The positive response had been the last communication until he’d texted Nathan again at six forty, asking where he was. He’d received a brief
Caught up, on my way!
a few minutes later.

The baked chicken he’d put together sat on top of the stove, covered in tinfoil, slowly cooling. The rice to go with it had turned into a ball of stickiness. He’d already tossed out the broccoli because he’d forgotten it was simmering until he checked on the pot of green goop.

He pulled from his second bottle of Flying Dog, not giving a good shit if Nathan got on his case about the beer. He’d been stood up. Nathan didn’t do passive-aggressive, so it wasn’t payback for him ditching Nathan last night for his hospital emergency.

At least I told him why I was canceling.

Caught up was not an explanation. It was an excuse.

James had cooked at his place because he’d wanted a quiet night in to celebrate. An abundance of tests at the hospital had shown Will Madden had nothing physically wrong with him that a proper diet couldn’t cure. After a long discussion with Jennifer and Dr. Pope, they’d deduced that the intense pain he described when attempting to defecate had, indeed, been phantom pains.

James’s later chat with Will solidified his theory. Memories of the abuse and the years of painful rapes came alive in the present through a bodily function most people took for granted.

The discovery wasn’t a miracle cure, but it was certainly a step forward. No steps backward today.

Not with Will’s recovery.

He couldn’t say the same for his relationship with Nathan.

The doorbell startled him off his stool. For whatever reason, he’d expected Nathan to just walk inside without the formal approach, like James did at his house. But Nathan always rang the bell, and two weeks of sex and sleeping together hadn’t changed that old habit.

“It’s open,” James yelled as he settled back on his stool.

Nathan breezed inside, practically vibrating with energy—more energy than James had seen in him since his return from convalescing. “Hey, babe, I am so fucking sorry about dinner.”

His dumbass smile said otherwise, and James grunted. He guzzled down the rest of his beer, enjoying the way the cold, fizzy liquid settled in his empty stomach. A faint cotton dressing was wrapping around his mind, taking the edge off his verbal filter.

The nonresponse seemed to make it past whatever good news Nathan was floating on.

His lips turned down, and he paused next to the island. Sniffed the air. “Did I ruin dinner?”

“Doesn’t matter.”