Before his arrest five years ago, Edward Trisco III had been a promising artist of some talent. His name was mentioned in several art journals, and the reviews in most cases were better than good. But as his insanity burgeoned, Trisco seemed to lose his edge. His last one-man show had been a disaster, and the articles began to dwindle off. When he kidnapped the model, they stopped all together and his career was over.
A copy of the model’s initial statement was here. The one she had made before Trisco’s parents choked her with fistfuls of cash. Teddy picked it up and began reading. When Trisco wasn’t painting the girl, he kept her in his bedroom closet, bound and gagged. He’d broken three of her fingers and managed to sprain her wrist. Bite marks were visible on her body and photographed by a police photographer after her escape. As Teddy studied the photos, it didn’t seem as if she and Trisco met at a party, got high, and had a falling out.
He turned away and glanced out the window. The streets were empty, the hour late. He couldn’t shake the image of Trisco’s face. The one haunting Holmes in his dreams. There was something familiar about it. He’d seen him before, but couldn’t remember where. That off-center look in his eyes. His madness in full bloom. Teddy couldn’t believe that Andrews hadn’t seen some trace of his insanity five years ago. Even if he was blind, Teddy wondered how Andrews could give Trisco a pass after reading the victim’s statement. And what about Trisco’s family? What were they saying to Andrews as they handed him a check written in blood for his campaign?
Nash hung up the phone and sipped his drink. He looked pale and subdued, more worried than Teddy had ever seen.
“They want the DNA,” he said.
“Are they pissed?”
“They want it. Let’s leave it at that. Two agents in plain-clothes are driving out to your house. They’ll take a look and keep an eye on things.”
“What about the license plate?”
“They’re working on it,” Nash said. “But the results are in from earlier this evening and they aren’t good. They’ve run Trisco through their computers in Washington. They’ve checked telephone records and looked for a street address. Trisco doesn’t have a bank account or a single credit card issued in his name. He lives without health insurance or even an auto policy. According to the IRS, he hasn’t filed a tax return in five years. After his release from Haverhills, Edward Trisco dropped off the map.”
“What did they say?”
“That he fits the profile. And he’s living under another name.”
Teddy felt the push of anger rising up his throat. If Andrews had done his job five years ago, none of this would be happening. When Teddy noticed that his hand was shaking, he hid it behind him as he leaned against the wall. He thought about Trisco wearing socks over his shoes in order to mask his footprints in the snow. Trisco’s brain damage might be measurable, but on what scale? Teddy guessed that the license plate number he’d seen on the back of his car was nothing more than another dead end.
“What about the hospitals?” he said. “He’s wounded.”
“Every agent is on the street.”
There was a videotape on the desk, something Dr. Westbrook had sent them from Washington. As Nash slipped the tape into the VCR and hit PLAY, Teddy leaned against the jury table and looked at the image fading up on the screen.
A twenty-year-old boy was on a stretcher, overdosing on Ecstasy outside a nightclub. Nash appeared deeply troubled as he watched, and for good reason. The boy’s body shuddered, then buckled like a fish pulled from the cool sea and thrown down on a hot frying pan. Twisting from side to side, he arched his back, fell down and bounced up again in a tortured flexing motion he couldn’t control. Instead of quietly passing away, the kid was making an extended run into the black.
“He’s burning up from the inside out as if someone cooked him in a microwave,” Nash said in a somber voice. “He never made it to the hospital, Teddy. Eight hours after his death, his body temperature was still over a hundred and six degrees.”
Teddy turned away, unable to watch. After a while, he heard Nash click off the TV, the sound of ice clinking as he picked up his glass.
“Why do you think Trisco stepped out into the open tonight?” Nash asked.
It was the right question. The one that changed everything.
Teddy started pacing in frustration. “He knows we’re on to him.”
“I agree,” he said. “But I find it troubling. Particularly when you consider what’s in one of those plastic bags.”
Teddy followed Nash’s eyes to the semen sample on the jury table. He knew where Nash was headed. The thought had crossed his mind as well-the possibility that Trisco was tiring of Rosemary after only five days.
“We need more help, don’t we,” Teddy said.
“I think so, too.”
“But what about Andrews?”
Nash lowered his drink and pushed it aside. “I wasn’t suggesting that we turn to the district attorney,” he said. “I had ADA Powell in mind. I think you’ll find she’s ready to listen to you now.”
Their eyes met. As Teddy grabbed his jacket and pulled his arms through the sleeves, he couldn’t help but agree.
FIFTY-EIGHT
It was three-thirty in the morning. Teddy threw his briefcase into the car, got the engine started and the heat on. He didn’t have Powell’s home number, but knew she carried a cell. If she didn’t answer, he had her address.
He flipped open the phone and noticed that it was switched off. When he turned it on, he saw the message icon blinking on the screen and entered his code. There was only one call, but it had been left by Powell at ten-thirty that night. After initiating the search for Harris Carmichael, the missing persons unit found out that Teddy had returned to Benny’s Cafe Blue with a photograph of someone. Powell wanted the name and sounded angry.
He punched her number into the phone. Powell picked up after five rings, sounding tired.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Yes, we do.”
“I met the man who followed Rosemary out of the cafe.”
“Where?” she asked, her voice picking up speed.
“My house,” he said. “He knows where I live.”
A moment passed. A long silence followed by the sound of a police siren in the background, and Teddy wondered if she slept with the windows open even in winter.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In the city. Outside Nash’s office.”
“I’m working, Teddy. I’m not at home.”
He lit a cigarette, the faint image of Powell in bed tumbling down the empty street with a gust of wind.
“Is Andrews with you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m with Detectives Vega and Ellwood. We found Harris Carmichael.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Not much.”
It hung there. Teddy cracked the window open, realizing Carmichael was dead. Nash had been right. Powell would finally be ready to listen.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“The west end of Spruce Street. There’s a park by the river.”
