No skin sloughing, no maggots, the beginnings of the green tinge . . . I was no forensic pathologist, but I'd seen enough corpses to guess that not more than a couple of days had passed since the murder. Alice's mail and phone records could clear that up. . . .
Propped, holding hands, a picnic.
Someone canny enough to overpower a big man like Haiselden and a woman who hiked the Himalayas.
Someone they knew. A confederate. Had to be.
The feelings of disgust didn't subside, but a new sensation joined them— strange, juvenile glee.
Not Eric, not Richard. No motive and both their whereabouts were well accounted for during the past two or three days. Same for Donny Salcido.
Propped against a tree. Geometry. Michael Burke's trademarks. Time to give Leimert Fusco's big black book another review.
Time to call Fusco— but Milo deserved to know first.
I was on the 134, driving much too fast, hoping for an empty house, thinking about Haiselden hiding from the civil suit only to encounter something much worse.
He'd probably been hiding out with Alice all along— I recalled the phone call she'd taken when Milo and I had visited. Afterward, she couldn't wait to get rid of us. Probably from her pal, wanting to know if the coast was clear.
The two of them waylaid right there in Alice's house. Someone they knew . . . someone respectable, trusted. A bright young doctor who'd apprenticed to Mate.
No doubt Glendale police had already been dispatched to the scene. Soon my prints on the gate would be lifted and within days they'd be matched to the Medical Board files in Sacramento.
Milo needed to know soon.
If I couldn't reach him, should I go straight to Fusco? The FBI man had said he was flying up to Seattle. Wanting to check on the unsolveds— something specific about the Seattle unsolveds?
The last Seattle victim— Marissa Bonpaine. Plastic hypodermic found on the forest floor. Cataloged and forgotten.
Not a coincidence. Couldn't be a coincidence.
Fusco had left me his beeper number and his local exchange, but both were back home in the Burke file.
I pushed the Seville up to ninety.
• • •
I unlocked my front door. Robin's truck was gone— prayers answered. I raced to my office, feeling guilty about being quite so pleased.
I tried Milo again, got no answer, decided sooner was better than later and phoned Fusco's beeper and routing number. No callback from him, either. I was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. After another futile attempt to reach Milo, I punched in FBI headquarters at the Federal Building in Westwood and asked for Special Agent Fusco. The receptionist put me on hold, then transferred me to another woman with the throaty voice of a lounge singer who took my name and number.
"May I tell him what this is about, sir?"
"He'll know."
"He's out of the office. I'll give him the message."
I pulled out the big black accordion file, flung it open, stared at pictures of corpses against trees, geometrical wounds, the parallels inescapable.
All my theories about family breakdown, the Dosses, the Manitows, and it had come down to just another psychopath. I paged through police reports, found the Seattle cases, the data on Marissa Bonpaine, was halfway through the small print when the doorbell rang.
Leaving the file on the desk, I trotted to the front door. The peephole offered a fish-eye view of two people— a man and a woman, white, early thirties, expressionless.
Clean-cut duo. Missionaries? I could use some faith but was in no mood to be preached to.
"Yes?" I said, through the door.
I watched the woman's mouth move. "Dr. Delaware? FBI. May we please speak with you."
Throaty voice of a lounge singer.
Before I could answer, a badge filled the peephole. I opened the door.
The woman's lips were turned upward, but the smile appeared painful. Her badge was still out. "Special Agent Mary Donovan. This is Special Agent Mark Bratz. May we please come in, Dr. Delaware?"
Donovan was five-six or so with short light-brown hair, a strong jaw and a firm, busty, low-waisted body packed into a charcoal gray suit. Rosy complexion, an aura of confidence. Bratz was a half head taller with dark hair starting to thin, sleepy eyes and a round, vulnerable face. The skin around his jowls was raw, and a small Band-Aid was stuck under one ear. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, gray-and-navy tie.
I stepped back to let them enter. They stood in the entry hall, checking out the house, until I invited them to sit.
"Thanks for your time, Doctor," said Donovan, still smiling as she took the most comfortable chair. She carried a huge black cloth purse, which she placed on the floor.
Bratz waited until I'd settled, then positioned himself so the two of them flanked me. I tried to look casual, thinking about the open file on the desk, trying
not
to think about what I'd just seen in Glendale.
"Nice house," said Bratz. "Bright."
"Thanks. May I ask what this is about?"
"Very nice," said Donovan. "Care to guess, Doctor?"
"Something to do with Agent Fusco."
"Something to do with
Mr.
Fusco."
"He's not with the FBI?"
"Not any longer," said Bratz. His voice was high, tentative, like that of a bashful kid asking for a date. "Mr. Fusco retired from the Bureau a while back— was asked to retire."
"Because of personal issues," said Donovan. She took a pad and a Sony minirecorder out of her bag, set them on the coffee table. "Mind if I record?"
"Record what?"
"Your impressions of Mr. Fusco, sir."
"You're saying he was mustered out because of personal issues?" I said. "Are we talking criminal issues? Is he dangerous?"
Donovan glanced at Bratz. "May I record, sir?"
"After you tell me what's going on, maybe."
Donovan's fingernails tapped the Sony. Surprisingly long nails. French tips. Her lipstick was subtle. Her expression wasn't. She had no use for civilians who didn't fall in line.
"Sir," she said. "It's in your best interests—"
"I need to know. Is Fusco a criminal suspect?" As in multiple murder.
"At this point, sir, we're simply trying to find him. To help him." Her index finger touched the Sony's REC button.
I shook my head.
"Sir, we could arrange for you to be questioned at Bureau headquarters."
"That would take time, paperwork, and something tells me time's of the essence," I said. "On the other hand, you could tell me what's going on and I could cooperate and we could all try to have something of a weekend."
She looked at Bratz. No signal for him that I saw, but she turned back to me and her expression had softened.
"Here's a summary, Doctor. All you need to know and more: Leimert Fusco was a highly admired member of the Bureau— I assume you've heard of the BSU? The original Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico? Mr. Fusco was a member of the freshman class. Actually, he's Dr. Fusco. Has a PhD in psychology, same as you."
"So he informed me. Why was he asked to leave the Bureau?"
Bratz leaned across and clicked on the recorder, said, "How'd you meet him, sir?"
"Sorry, I'm not comfortable with this," I said, sorry about a lot more. Moments ago, I'd been ready to focus on Michael Burke as the real Dr. Death. If Fusco had lied, what happened to that scenario?
"What's the problem, sir?" said Donovan.
"Talking to you, going on record, without knowing the full picture. I spent time with Fusco. I need to know who I was dealing with."
Another looked passed between them. Donovan's mouth turned up again and she crossed her legs, setting off little scratchy sounds. Short legs, but shapely. Runner's calves in sheer stockings. Bratz snuck a peek at them, as if they were still a novelty. I wondered how long they'd been partnered.
"Fair enough, sir," she said, suddenly sunny. She tossed her hair, but it didn't move much. Leg recross. She inched closer to me. I could imagine some FBI seminar.
Achieve rapport with the subject by any appropriate means.
"But first, let me take a stab at how you met him: he contacted Detective Sturgis and asked to meet with you to discuss a homicide— most likely that of Dr. Mate— because you're the psychological consultant on the case. He told you he knows who the murderer is." Lots of teeth. "How'm I doing so far?"
"Very well," I said.
"Michael Burke," said Bratz. "He wanted you to believe in Dr. Michael Burke."
"Is Burke fiction?"
Bratz shrugged. "Let's just say Dr. Fusco's obsessed."
"With Burke."
"With the
idea
of Burke," said Donovan.
"Are you telling me he made Burke up?"
She glanced at the recorder. Switched it off. "Okay, here's the whole story, but we insist you keep it confidential. Agent Fusco had an honorable career with the Bureau. For several years, he was assigned to the Midtown Manhattan office as director of behavioral sciences. Five years ago, his wife died— breast cancer— and he was left sole parent of his child. A daughter, fourteen years old, named Victoria. What made Mrs. Fusco's death especially traumatic for Agent Fusco was that Victoria had also been diagnosed with cancer. Several years before, as a toddler. A bone tumor, she was treated at Sloan-Kettering, apparently cured. Shortly after his wife passed away, Fusco requested a transfer, said he wanted to raise Victoria in a quieter environment. An administrative position was found for him in the Buffalo office and he purchased a home near Lake Erie."
"Not a career move," I said. "He was devoted to the girl."
Donovan nodded. "Everything seemed fine for a couple of years, then the girl got sick again, at sixteen. Leukemia. Apparently the radiation she'd received for her bone tumor years ago had caused it."
"Secondary tumor," I said. Rare but tragic; I'd seen it at Western Peds.
"Exactly. Agent Fusco began bringing Victoria down to New York to be re-treated at Sloan-Kettering. She went into one remission, relapsed, received more chemo, achieved only a partial remission, started to weaken, tried some experimental drugs and got better but even weaker. Agent Fusco decided to continue her treatment closer to home, at a hospital in Buffalo. The goal was to increase her strength until she was able to tolerate a bone-marrow transplant back in New York. She improved for a while, then came down with pneumonia because chemotherapy had weakened her immune system. Her doctors hospitalized her and, unfortunately, she passed away."
"Was that expected?"
"From what we can gather, it wasn't unexpected but neither was it inevitable."
"One of those fifty-fifty situations," said Bratz.
"A hospital in Buffalo," I said. "Was she cared for by a respiratory tech named Roger Sharveneau?"
Donovan frowned. Looked at Bratz. He shook his head, but she said, "Possibly."
"Possibly?"
"Roger Sharveneau was on duty during Victoria's final hospitalization. Whether he was ever her therapist is unclear."
"Missing records?" I said.
"What's the difference?" said Bratz.
"Was Michael Burke also working there during that period?"
Bratz's eyes narrowed. Donovan said, "There's no record of Burke caring for her."
"But he was circulating through at the time— probably freelancing at the E.R.," I said.
Silence from both of them.
I went on: "When did Fusco become convinced that someone— Sharveneau or Burke, or both of them— had murdered his daughter?"
"Months later," said Donovan. "After Sharveneau began confessing. Fusco claimed he recognized him from the ward, had seen him in Victoria's room when he had no good reason to be there. He tried to interview Sharveneau in jail, was refused permission by the Buffalo police because the Bureau had no standing in the case and
he
certainly didn't— it was obviously a personal issue. Agent Fusco didn't react well to that. After Sharveneau was released, he persisted, harassing Sharveneau's lawyer. He became increasingly . . . irate. Even after Sharveneau committed suicide, he didn't cease."
"Was Fusco considered a suspect in Sharveneau's supposed suicide?" I said.
Second's hesitation. "No, never. Sharveneau had been in hiding, there's no evidence Fusco ever found him. Meanwhile, Agent Fusco's work product deteriorated and the Bureau sent him back to Quantico for several months. Had him teach seminars to beginning profilers. As a cooling-off measure. It seemed to be working, Fusco looked calm, more content. But that turned out to be a ruse. He was utilizing the bulk of his energies researching Burke, accessing data banks without permission. He was brought back to New York for a meeting with his superiors, during which he was let go on disability pension."
"
Emotional
disability," said Bratz.
"You see him as seriously disturbed?" I said. "Out of touch with reality?"
Bratz exhaled, looked uncomfortable.