Silent Victim (29 page)

“That’s self-explanatory,” said Chuck. “But how does it help us?”

“He’s methodical and thorough. He probably drives a late-model car, well maintained. His appearance will be neat and not call attention to itself.”

“What about visiting the bodies, sir? Might he do that?” Ruggles asked. “I remember how the Green River Killer used to do that, and that’s how they caught him.”

“It’s possible,” Lee said. “If they are there long enough without being discovered—but we’ve hardly given him time. They’ve usually been discovered within a day or two at the most.”

“I take your point, sir,” Ruggles said.

“The water motif means more to him than it did with the Green River Killer,” Lee mused.

“Right,” Chuck agreed. “The Green River Killer just used the water to dispose of his victims, but with this guy you think there’s a deeper meaning there.”

“There’s one more thing,” Lee said. “I don’t know if it’ll help us find him, but it’s likely there was a precipitating stressor before his first victim. Something in his life that changed—probably for the worse.”

“A breakup, a job loss, something like that?” Butts suggested.

“Could be—but I think we should keep our minds open. The important thing is not the event itself, but his reaction to it. Whatever it was, it pushed him over the edge, and caused him to start killing.”

“All right,” said Chuck, looking at his watch. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need some caffeine.”

He scooped some coffee into the Krups grinder and pushed the button. Lee watched as the beans tumbled over each other as the blades shredded and ground them to dust. The loud clattering assaulted his sleep-deprived system and made his ears ring. He looked at the others. Butts was staring at the coffee grinder with a blank expression, Ruggles was fiddling with the photos on the bulletin board, and Chuck was leaning wearily on the edge of his desk, pouring water into the coffeemaker.

It was going to be a long night.

Later that night, shortly after arriving home, Lee heard a rapid, timid rapping on his door. When he opened it he was stunned to find Charlotte Perkins standing there, rain dripping from her soaked garments. She wore a long woolen cloak with a hood, but it was no match for tonight’s downpour. Her matted hair hung in damp strands around her face, and she was shivering.

“The lady who lives downstairs let me into the building,” she said apologetically.

“Come in, please,” he said, taking her sopping wet coat and hanging it on the coatrack to dry. “How did you find me?”

“You left your card with my brother when you were at our house.” She looked around the apartment while rubbing her hands together.

“Can I get you something hot to drink?”

“Y-yes, p-please,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He put the kettle on and came back to the living room. She was seated on the ottoman in front of the couch, her thin arms wrapped around her body. Whereas Ana Watkins had sauntered in and taken possession of the place as if she owned it, Charlotte Perkins was an uncomfortable visitor, trying to take up as little space as possible.

“Would you like some dry clothes?” he asked.

She looked up at him gratefully. “Do you have some?”

“Yes—my, uh, girlfriend keeps some clothes here I think you could wear.”

Was Kathy still his girlfriend? She hadn’t called to ask for her clothes back yet, at least. He thought of giving Charlotte something of his, but that felt like too intimate a gesture for this virginal woman in her prim lace-up boots and long skirt. He suffered a brief pang of guilt at offering Kathy’s clothes, but brushed it aside. Charlotte Perkins was at least half a foot taller than Kathy, but had the rail-thin build of a fashion model, and he thought she would be able to slip into one of Kathy’s dresses easily.

He ducked into the bedroom and returned with the most conservative things he could find in the closet—a long flowered skirt and a long-sleeved black oxford shirt. He handed them to Charlotte and pointed the way to the bathroom.

When she came out he had hot tea waiting. He was right—Kathy’s clothes did fit, up to a point. Charlotte’s long arms protruded from the shirtsleeves, which came down just past her elbows. He took her wet clothes down to the laundry room to put in the dryer, and when he returned she was perched on the edge of the sofa sipping Earl Grey (he didn’t care for it much, but something told him that she would). He asked her why she had come.

She clutched her cup in her hands and hunched over her knees. Once again Lee was reminded of a tall, thin bird—an egret, perhaps, or a heron. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, and made her deep-set, luminous eyes appear even larger. He handed her a fresh bath towel for her hair and sat across from her on the leather hassock.

“You must excuse me, but this is very difficult,” she said, running the towel over her hair. He couldn’t help notice how it curled around her face when damp, and looked rather fetching. In spite of her maidenly ways, she was quite an attractive woman.

He cleared his throat to push the thought from his mind. “Take your time.” His words belied the sharp stab of anticipation in his stomach. He did not want to scare her off by appearing too eager.

Her gray eyes roamed the room as if searching for an escape. “I’m afraid my brother has been less than honest with you.”

“Oh?” His attempt to sound disinterested failed, so he tried leaning back in his chair to conceal his impatience. But she wasn’t paying much attention to him; she was too caught up in her own struggle.

“Yes. I—well, this is so hard. Forgive me. I am quite beside myself today.”

“Of course,” he said. “Can I get you some more tea?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” she replied, hastily gulping down the rest in her cup.

He took her mug to the kitchen to refill it, and when he returned she was standing at the window, gazing out. As he entered the room she turned abruptly and blurted out the words as though she were afraid they might choke her.

“My brother and I are living as husband and wife.”

The force of her confession made him take a step backward. Some tea sloshed out of the mug onto the floor, but neither of them made a move to wipe it up.

He tried to formulate a response to her words, but everything that came to him seemed grossly inappropriate or inadequate.

She rescued him by continuing. “No doubt you think we are very wicked.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. But—”

“We
are
very wicked,” she said. “Or at least that’s what I think. But my brother … “ She waved her hand as if dismissing the very idea of him. “To my brother it is all very natural, you see—even foreordained.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, still holding her tea in his outstretched hand. Something about her stopped him from crossing the remaining stretch of floor between them. He put the tea on the sideboard.

She paced in front of the window. For some reason the thought went through his head that she was a moving target, in case anyone outside tried to take a shot at her. He slipped behind her and closed the curtains.

“You have no doubt noticed that our attire is somewhat—antiquated.”

“It did occur to me.”

“There is a reason for that. It is not whim or fancy, or eccentricity, as you may have thought. It is because my brother believes that we are the reincarnation of a husband and wife who lived over a hundred years ago,” she said, wringing her hands. “And since our souls are essentially theirs, it is not only right but necessary that we live as husband and wife.”

“Who are they?”

She waved her hand again. “That is not important right now.”

“I see. How long has he had this … notion?”

“For the past fifteen years. Ever since he received the Gift.” “What gift?”

“The Gift of Second Sight—the ability to see through the mists of time.”

“I see. And what do you think about all this?”

“I don’t know
what
to think. I have always believed my brother to be the wisest and most honorable of men, but now …”

“Has something happened to change your mind?”

She shook her whole body, as if trying to cast off her worries. “I told you before that I had no contact with my brother’s patients.”

“Yes.”

“I was being less than honest. In fact, I tend to his appointment book and often admit patients for their visits.” “Why did you lie to us?” “Because he told me to.”

“Why?”

She looked at him, her eyes anguished. “I don’t
know
—when I asked him, he told me to mind my own business.”

“And why would he do that?”

She bit her lip until a small pinpoint of blood appeared—she was clearly struggling with her conscience.

“Because,” she said, the words wrenching themselves out of her, “I am certain he was having … relations … with one of his patients.”

“I see. And who was it?”

But even before she spoke, Lee knew the answer.

“Ana Watkins.”

Patiently you wait for me to come home to you—with such care I’ve collected you, my only true friends, beautiful and pure in your shiny glass bowl.

Caleb opened the door softly so as not to disturb his father. His treasure was tucked away carefully in his coat pocket, wrapped in plastic to keep it pure until he could add it to his collection. He closed the door behind him and tiptoed across the living room to the back bedroom. His keys rattled as he took them from his pocket—his hands were trembling a little. Sliding the key into the lock, he gave a quick twist and pushed. The door slid open on its oiled hinges, revealing his sanctuary, his secret lair, his holiest of holies.

He took a step into the room and closed the door behind him. It would not do to let his father wander in here, so he kept the door locked at all times. No one must come in here—this room was for him and his treasures only, so he could admire them at his leisure. It was his little secret.

He pulled the tightly wrapped parcel from his coat pocket and carefully undid the rubber band around the plastic bag. Holding his hand out flat, he slid the contents of the bag onto his bare palm, shivering at the feel of them—soft and smooth and wet as eels. He examined them—each pair was different, and the more he collected the more he came to appreciate the subtle variations—the singular shades of blue, or brown, or—his favorite—hazel.

He looked at the pair in his hand. They were blue, but not a deep ocean blue—more of an aquamarine blue, with a greenish tinge to them. They were on the large side, and if he looked closely enough he could see tiny flecks of gold at the edges of the irises. Yes, these were nice, very nice—definitely a worthy specimen to keep the others company.

He sighed with pleasure. Carefully he lifted the lid of the glass jar on the middle shelf of the bookcase and added his trophies to the ones floating in the jar.
Come to me, my pretty ones, my little jewels, my windows to the soul.
They stared out at him—perhaps they were severed now from their souls, or maybe—just maybe—the souls lived behind them still.

He heard his father coughing in the other room—a bitter, grating sound. He replaced the lid on the jar and slid it back into the bookshelf. He would go to his father now, safe in the knowledge that he had yet another secret to keep from him.

“Oh, Dr. Campbell, do you think my brother is capable of—of murder?”

Charlotte Perkins stood in front of the French window overlooking the street, her damp hair plastered to her head, awkward in ill-fitting clothes, hands hanging at her sides in surrender.

“What do you think?” Lee said.

“Until now I would have said no, but then I would not have thought him capable of desecrating the doctor–patient relationship either. To say nothing of the … union … between us.” She looked at Lee with pleading eyes. “Before you judge us too harshly, let me tell you that there was never any question of our having children. Of course, now we are too old, but it was never a possibility in the first place.”

Lee didn’t ask for details.

“So you see, what we did—who we were—caused no harm to anyone else.”

“What about you? Did it cause harm to you?”

She drew her sweater tighter around her shoulders. “I used to believe everything my brother told me, but now …” Her voice trailed off, as if she couldn’t bear to continue the thought.

“Why do you believe your brother was … intimate with Ana Watkins?”

“You may perhaps think me foolish,” she said. “But I had my suspicions for some time. Then one day I lingered outside the office during one of her sessions, and I heard—” She paused to blink back tears. “I heard sounds that could only mean one thing. Later, I was standing outside in the hall when she came out. She caught my eye, and gave a triumphant little smile, as if to say,
‘See, he’s mine now.’
I hated her then, and I hate her still.”

“If you hate her, then why come to me to help catch her killer?”

“Because if you don’t find him, other women will die. And I could never live with that on my conscience.” “Even if the killer turns out to be your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate him, too?”

“I tried to hate him—oh, how I tried! But I couldn’t. It seems I am incapable of hating him—weak, pathetic creature that I am.”

“You are neither weak nor pathetic, Miss Perkins,” Lee said. “In fact, you are very determined and brave, coming here through a storm like this to tell me something that is obviously so difficult for you to talk about.”

In response, she walked over to the piano, its shiny wood gleaming in the lamplight, and touched the keyboard lightly. Her back to him, she said, “There’s something else I should tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“I wrote the threatening note Ana received in the mail.” “You? But the magazine was found at her house.”

“Yes—because I left it there. After she died I wanted the police to think she had written it herself.” “How did her prints get on it?”

For the first time since she arrived, Charlotte Perkins smiled—a sly, prideful smile. “I saw her reading that same magazine in the waiting room—that’s why I chose it when I made my note.”

“You would make a very good criminal, Miss Perkins,” Lee said.

“But I only did it to scare her! I wanted her to stay away from my brother, not only for my sake, but for her own.”

“Did it occur to you that you could be arrested and prosecuted for your actions?”

“There is something else I doubt my brother told you,” she said, ignoring the question.

“What’s that?”

“He sees patients at a public clinic in the city twice a month. He doesn’t want people to know because it hurts his pride that he can’t make his living entirely from private practice.”

“Where is this clinic?”

“It’s the mental health outpatient clinic at St. Vincent’s.” At the sound of the words, Lee’s mind momentarily froze. “What is it?” she said. “Is something wrong?” “Oh, no,” he said. “You know of it?”

“Yes.”

He knew of it more than he was willing to tell her. He had spent a week there as a patient following his sister’s disappearance, suffering from a clinical depression so severe that he was considered a suicide risk.

“Do you think one of his patients there could be violent?”

“Possibly. But I thought I ought to tell you, in any case.”

She looked at him with an anxious expression, her thin lips compressed, worry lines crisscrossing her forehead like railroad tracks at a busy junction.

“I’ll look into it. Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“There was an entry in Ana’s diary about confronting someone. Do you think that could have referred to your brother?”

She bit her lip again. “I suppose so. One day a few weeks after I realized they were … together … I heard what sounded like an argument in his office, and when she came out after her session, I could see she had been crying.”

“So you think she might have wanted to break it off with him?”

“Perhaps. It was a violation of the doctor–patient relationship, after all.”

Lee thought about how he had nearly violated that relationship himself, and a thin shiver sliced its way up his spine. He put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and was surprised when she reacted by leaning into him. He stepped away and coughed to cover his own reaction. “Thank you for everything you’ve told me.”

“What happens now?” she said.

“Does your brother know where you are?”

“No. He thinks I’m at the hospital all day.”

“Do you have someone there to cover for you in case he calls?”

She smiled sadly. “He won’t. He never calls me at work. He doesn’t care for the telephone—he likes to point out that when we were first ‘alive,’ it had not yet been invented.”

“Does anyone besides you and your brother know of your … relationship?”

“I used to think no one did. But now I am not so sure. I

think it’s entirely possible that Ana Watkins knew—based on that smile she gave me when she left his office that day.”

“So you think he may have killed her to silence her?”

She rose and began to pace the room.

“Oh, Dr. Campbell, I don’t know what to think! I pray that is not the case—I pray it with all my heart and soul!”

“Clearly you can’t return home. You’re not safe there.”

“Oh, but I must. If I don’t, he’ll suspect something, and then who knows what he’ll do?”

“You can’t. I don’t care if he suspects or not.”

She startled him by taking his hands in hers. To his surprise, her hands were warm and soft.

“Dr. Campbell, you must let me play this game out as I see fit.”

“If you insist on returning, at least let me put a police guard on your house.”

She laughed for the first time since he had known her. It was an odd, strangled chortle, the laugh of someone unfamiliar with joy.

“My brother is very observant. He would sniff out a police presence immediately.”

“I can’t let you—”

“You can’t stop me,” she said. “And now, if I might request my clothes back again, I must be on my way.”

He thought wildly of holding on to her clothes as a way of preventing her from leaving, but he knew it was useless. She would leave anyway, and when she turned up in a stranger’s clothes, her brother wold be even more suspicious. He went to the laundry room to fetch her clothes. When she was dressed again, she pulled on her curiously old-fashioned boots and threw her cloak around her shoulders.

“At least let me give you an umbrella,” he said, looking out the window at the rain, which, though no longer torrential, was still falling.

“I will have to leave it on the bus,” she said. “He will see at once that it isn’t mine.”

“Fine—leave it on the bus. I’m sure someone will find it useful,” he said, handing her his sturdiest umbrella.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling the hood over her head.

“No, thank you. You’ve helped us enormously. Wait!” he said, getting an idea. “Do you have a cell phone?”

She shook her head. “My brother—”

“Take mine.” Grabbing it from the hall table, he pressed it into her hand.

“I don’t—”

“Have you ever used one?” “Yes, at the hospital—”

“All right. Now, here’s my home number,” he said, showing her the entry in the contact list, “and here is Detective Butts’s cell number. I want you to call either or both of us if you find yourself in any kind of trouble.”

She turned her eyes up to him, and with the soft yellow hall light shining on her sharp, earnest face, she looked quite pretty.

“All right—thank you.” She hesitated, looking down at the phone clutched in her hand. “At the very least Martin knows more about Ana Watkins than he is admitting. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“You’ve done quite enough, Miss Perkins. Please promise me you won’t put yourself in jeopardy.”

“I can only promise to do my best. The rest is in God’s hands.”

“If you can’t think of your own safety, then think of how I would feel if anything happened to you.”

“Very well,” she said with a little smile that, on anyone else, would have been flirtatious.

And with that she slipped out into the night. As the door closed behind her, he was reminded of the night Ana left in much the same way—and of the terrible fate she met. He looked out the window at her retreating form, watching her sidestep the puddles forming on the sidewalk as she hurried down the street toward Third Avenue.