“See ya.”
There was a long beep, then the phone went quiet. Two seconds later Charlaine Shultz’s sweet, Southern voice came on the line.
“Hey, boss! How are you? Please tell me they’ve pulled their heads from their asses and are letting you back? This place sucks without you.”
“Charlaine, dear, thank you. No word yet, but I know Garrett’s doing everything he can.”
“Is Taylor okay?”
“We may have a new situation on our hands, she’s off chasing it down now. Before I go into that, let me ask you something. No one seems to know what Ewan Copeland looks like. There were pictures in the files from when he was a kid, but nothing that anyone can agree upon as an adult. What do you think that means?”
Charlaine didn’t hesitate. “It’s so funny that you asked that. I was just working on a theory. He’s moved from city to city for at least a decade, right? Holds no job that we know of. His sister is making money, but enough to support herself and her brother as he traverses the country? That would be hard to pull off on a city forensic analyst’s salary. There was a small life insurance policy that the baseball folks took out on Roger Copeland, emphasis on the small, so that money has to be long gone. He died over fifteen years ago. The mom was a guest of the state, died about six months ago. Breast cancer. Nothing suspicious, doctors ruled it natural causes. The last visitor she had was three years ago.” He heard her shuffling papers. “His name was Thomas Keck.”
“Son of a bitch. That’s the name of the husband of our celebrity blogger. There’s no way he visited Ewan Copeland’s mother three years ago, he’s been dead for over four.”
“Another fake ID. Not a surprise. This Copeland guy is a piece of work.”
“No kidding,” he replied.
“That’s not all. About an hour ago, I started going through the files we have on Copeland’s previous crimes. All of the victims were single, and very much alone. The men, the women. He never chose anyone who had people. A couple of his victims were from upscale neighborhoods, we’re talking wealthy, highend places. So I started thinking, maybe he stole from those people. And guess what I found?”
“Dazzle me. Not that you aren’t already.”
“There’s a name that’s been linked to the escrow payouts on five of his victims. A lawyer named Roger Anderson. He’s the beneficiary.”
“Roger for his dad, and Anderson for his sister. Ewan got himself into their wills. Now that’s impressive.”
“It gets better. The money that was paid into Anderson’s accounts was definitely enough for Copeland to live on, for years. Garrett pulled some strings and got a guy from the forensic banking department to get the account information released. He’s living on the interest, he’s made some very smart investments. All he needs are small withdrawals here and there, on a debit card, and one set of checks. The checks get interesting though, they’re all made out to the same person over the course of ten years.”
“Who is?”
“A doctor in McLean, Virginia. Plastic surgeon. Specializes in facial reconstruction after accidents, removal of burn scars, those kinds of things. He’s on the up and up, a regular Ward Cleaver of a guy. Donates his time to fix cleft palates in South America, does a bunch of pro bono work here in the U.S.”
“Charlaine, Ewan Copeland has a mess of scars on his stomach from his multiple surgeries as an young boy. We’ve known he was hiding something, I’ve always thought he had some sort of physical deformity that was readily apparent. What if he went to this doctor to have those scars removed, or skin grafts to help minimize them, and got addicted to surgery?”
“Exactly. You know how pain can work for Munchausen’s by proxy victims. Pain equals love and acceptance, so even if it’s self-inflicted, it becomes a necessity. Body dysmorphic disorder could explain why no one knows what he looks like. He’s addicted to changing his surface. His skin, his face, his bone structure. He’d never be satisfied with how he looks, he’d be compelled to continue changing himself. Unlimited budget, an insatiable need for change and a lot of murders to cover up add up to one very sad, sick puppy. Probably with impossibly perfect skin. The bastard.”
Baldwin gave this idea a moment to process. “That’s why he doesn’t care if he leaves DNA behind. He’s altered his appearance between major kills. The odds of finding him through photos or witness identifications are slim to none.”
“And Slim’s out of town. Exactly.”
“I assume you’re going to talk to the doctor?”
“Already have an appointment, Baldwin. He cleared his schedule when we mentioned the name Roger Anderson. Guess he has an idea that there’s a problem already.”
“He could be just as much of a victim as the rest of Copeland’s dead. Go careful. I’d assume Copeland has a warning system to let him know if anyone comes calling on his doctor.”
Baldwin heard Charlaine slap shut her laptop, envisioned her getting to her feet, a crusader on a hot trail.
“Probably. But I’m hoping he’s too engaged in his game to notice we’ve snuck in through the back door.”
Forty-Two
C olleen was starting to get royally pissed off. Flynn was fretful, hungry for smiley-face pancakes, though Detective Ross said that leaving the CJC was an absolute no. They were making do with McDonald’s that one of the patrols had brought in, pancakes and sausage patties, but Flynn wanted smiley faces, and just about everyone in the Homicide offices knew about it.
She was lost without her computer. Ross had taken it from her when she tried to leave the first time, before he’d locked her and Flynn in an interrogation room. She wasn’t under arrest, but she wasn’t free to leave, either. She couldn’t believe that they thought she had something to do with this crazy killer’s game.
Ewan Copeland.
The name made all the hairs on her arms stand on end. So long as she kept denying she knew him, kept playing dumb, she’d be fine. They’d catch him. She and Flynn would be able to go back to their lives.
She tried to quiet her cranky son, and waited. There was nothing for her to do. She worked on her breathing, her yoga breaths. Square. In for four counts, hold for four counts, release for four counts, still for four counts. She made a game of it for Flynn. Watch Mommy, baby. After five rounds, he began to relax. After eight, he fell asleep against her shoulder, his soft hair spiked with sweat. She held him tight against her chest, felt his small body go limp and warm as he slid into sleep. Wished she could go back to his age and do the same thing.
There was a soft knock at the door. It opened slowly and Lincoln Ross stood in the frame, a wistful smile on his face. She felt her heart leap when she saw him. She was crazy, going mad, but when his smile turned from wistful to engaging, she couldn’t help herself, she smiled back.
“The pancakes worked, I see,” he said.
“I think I hypnotized him,” she replied, and he stifled a laugh.
“It worked on me, too. I’ve rarely felt so calm while at work.”
She realized he’d been watching, waiting for Flynn to settle, before he came back to the room. She appreciated that. Ross came all the way into the room, shut the door quietly behind him.
“I need to talk to you, Colleen. Is he totally asleep?”
“He’s out. What is it? Can we leave now?”
Lincoln sat carefully in the chair across the table from her.
“Not just yet. Colleen…” He took a deep breath. She got a terrible feeling in her chest. Like something was going to pop.
She steeled herself. She’d already received the worst news a wife could get, that her husband was dead well before his time. The only thing worse would be hearing something terrible about Flynn, but she had her son in her arms, and no one else to worry about. She would be fine.
“What is it, Detective?”
He fidgeted with his hair for a moment.
