The Dead Room

for him. When she was used up, he threw her away. But remember, Valerie Kram was part of his work by then, something akin to sacred, so she was placed in the water where he found her and cleansed.”

“What about Holmes?” Nash asked.

“Based on your profile, I’d say he’s outside the model or field of inquiry. Of course I’ve never spoken with the man and there’s always the chance that I’m wrong. What interests me most is the condition of the body found in the river.”

“The cut down the middle of her chest,” Teddy said.

The psychiatrist nodded and turned to Nash. “Teddy brought the toxicology report with him,” he said. “Cutting the victim open could have more meaning than it seems. The medical examiner found drugs in her system. It’s a safe bet they’re in his system as well. You’re looking for a user and your profile should be amended to reflect that. Valerie Kram may have died from strangulation. But she was on the verge of overdosing on Ecstasy as well.”

This was new. Teddy hadn’t looked at the toxicology report Powell had given him earlier. He was too upset with her, too upset with himself for treating her the way he did, and he’d been running late. But Teddy knew something about Ecstasy. It was pretty much the drug of choice with his classmates in school. He’d used it a handful of times himself, but stopped when he woke up one morning overwrought with depression. He knew the drug’s effects, though. He knew its power and what a single dose could do.

“He’s using Ecstasy as a way of controlling his victims,” Teddy said. “He’s using the drug to soften them up.”

Westbrook glanced at Nash again, then turned back. “But Ecstasy has a nasty side effect, Teddy. Particularly in high doses. Beyond what chronic use can do to the brain, the drug causes a marked increase in body temperature. In an overdose like this, Valerie Kram was literally cooking from the inside out.”

“Then this could be another explanation for dumping her body in water,” Nash said.

Westbrook sat back in his chair. “And for cutting her open. Steam would have been venting from her body. Her internal organs would’ve felt hot to the touch. Don’t forget the sexual implications of the knife.”

Teddy grimaced as the horror settled in. The sickness. The idea that the murders were a result of the killer’s twisted sexual fantasy.

As Westbrook showed Nash the toxicology report and discussed the results, Teddy looked up at the photographs tacked to the wall-the girl’s faces watching them from the other side. They seemed so familiar, so innocent. He noted the time and began to feel anxious again. He turned back to the psychiatrist.

“Tell us who we’re looking for,” he said. “Give us your best guess.”

Westbrook lowered the toxicology report and folded his hands on the jury table. “You’re looking for a mad- dog killer,” the psychiatrist said. “A real motherfucker with delusions of grandeur. Someone whose paranoia is off the charts. Someone who suffers from hallucinations, not necessarily from the drugs he’s taking, but because of his illness and the way he was mistreated as a child. If you were ever to meet this individual, you’d know instantly that something was wrong. If you were ever to meet this individual, I’d make sure you knew how to handle a gun. You’re not looking for a human being, Teddy. He’s past that now. You’re looking for an animal.”

This time it was Nash and Teddy who traded looks. Ominous and sobering looks. The situation appeared so grim, Teddy could taste it in his mouth.

FORTY-TWO

Eddie Trisco peeked through the curtain, wondering if it was safe to go outside. The sun had set an hour ago, yet the windows in the corner house remained dark. He checked the roofline and saw the satellite dish pointed toward him. He couldn’t tell if the strange device was working or not, but the man he’d seen making repairs this morning was long gone. So were the cars parked along the street. Maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. Maybe they were between shifts.

He turned away from the window, staring at Mrs. Yap’s body on the living room floor as he considered his options. He needed to get rid of her car. He could deal with her body later. Still, he didn’t want to leave Rosemary alone.

He went downstairs and found her sleeping in the chair before the easel. He checked the clasps on the handcuffs and ankle irons-the chains running through the arms and legs of the chair. She’d been sleeping for most of the day. He didn’t want her to wake up like this. She might be hungry or need to use the bathroom.

The decisions in an artist’s life could be so hard.

He opened the bottom drawer in the cabinet, pulled a blanket out and draped it over her. Then he turned his back on her and marched upstairs.

Although the lights were out, he could tell that Mrs. Yap had lost her feathers. She wasn’t a bird anymore. She wasn’t peppy. He stepped over the body and opened the closet by the front door. Pulling on a hooded ski jacket, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and grabbed his gloves. Then he picked up her purse and went through it in the darkness. This was her fault, he reminded himself. She’d stuck her nose in his business and almost ruined his life’s work. What did she expect?

He found the keys to her new Mercedes and dropped the purse on the floor. Cracking the front door open, he checked the street. Christmas lights adorned most of the houses in the neighborhood. All except his and that house on the corner where the watchers lived.

The coast looked clear.

Eddie slipped out of the house, pulling the door shut and locking it with a key. But as he hurried toward Mrs. Yap’s Mercedes, he heard something in the air. A chopper in the black sky. Ignoring the arctic breeze, he bolted for the car with the key ready, then yanked open the door and jumped inside.

It was them. He could see the searchlight panning over the houses on the next street. They were getting their bearings. They were working their way toward his house. He’d better hurry.

He looked at the dashboard, getting a feel for the controls. The car started on the second try. Backing out the drive, he pulled down the street at an easy, I’m not the one you’re looking for pace. When he reached the stop sign, he ignored the corner house and waited for a Ford Explorer to pass. It was another woman on a cell phone. Eddie made a right, heading for the city and thinking all Explorers came equipped with women jabbering on cell phones. It was so ugly. So telling.

He glanced out the window, digging into a bag of chocolate chip morsels. The chopper was behind him now, the sound of its rotors fading in the distance. There wasn’t time to make an airport run, he decided. Dumping the car in long-term parking would mean having to take the bus back to the airport, then a train into the city. He knew from experience that the process took hours.

He yawned and smacked his lips as the chocolate chips melted in his mouth. He hadn’t slept for two days. The thought of sipping a delicious caffe latte crossed his mind. He wondered if the window table might be open at Benny’s Cafe Blue. Maybe he’d cruise by.

FORTY-THREE

Teddy met the messenger on the street outside Nash’s office, handed him a copy of the profile sealed in an envelope, and told the driver Barnett was in room 314 at Bryn Mawr Hospital. As he watched the messenger take off for the suburbs, Teddy got in his car and drove back into Center City.

Although Nash had invited him to dinner with Dr. Westbrook at his club, Teddy declined. It had been a long day trying to plug the leak. All he wanted to do was check in at the office and head home. Maybe give Barnett a call and see how he was doing. Teddy had written a note to Barnett and placed it in the envelope with the profile, wishing him well and giving him the news Teddy had been hoping for. The FBI was in. By tomorrow morning, agents would be meeting with District Attorney Alan Andrews and ADA Carolyn Powell for a full review of the Holmes case. Teddy wondered how Powell would handle it. Whether she’d become defensive with the agents and take Andrews’s side, or consider the possibility that maybe she was seeing things wrong.