“There much longer till you’re through it all?”
“Maybe forty-eight hours. There’s a trio of us. We’ve been going around the clock except for last evening.”
Veck looked over the collection of things that had been cataloged and sealed up, as well as the massive tray of preliminarily logged items that were still to be examined and properly bagged.
The investigator used tweezers to take what turned out to be a hair tie from underneath the magnifying sight. After he placed the black twist in a plastic bag, he took a long, thin neon yellow sticker, and went up and over the opening. Then he made a notation with a blue pen on it, signed his initials, and tapped on a laptop’s keyboard. Final step was to pass the bag’s bar code over a reader, the beep signifying that the object was now officially in the system.
Veck took a sip of his coffee. “So I’m working a missing persons case. Young girl.”
“You want to take a gander at what we got?”
“Would you mind?”
“Nope. Just don’t take anything out of here.”
Veck started at the far end of the low-slung shelving that had been temporarily set up. None of the collection had been given a permanent home yet, because everyone from CPDers to the FBI were going to be all over the objects.
Skipping the jars of skin samples—because Cecilia Barten hadn’t had any tattoos—he focused on the multitude of rings, bracelets, barrettes, necklaces. . . .
Where are you, Sissy? he thought to himself.
Bending down, he picked up a clear plastic bag that was sealed with the signature of one of the other investigators. Inside, there was a stained leather wristband that had a skull’s head for a “charm.” Not Cecilia’s style.
He moved on, picking up a silver hoop that had been logged in. In all the pictures at the Bartens’ house, the girl had been wearing gold.
Over at St. Francis Hospital, Reilly was all business as she strode down one of the hospital’s thousands of corridors. As she marched along, she passed white coats and blue orderlies and green nurses and casually dressed patients and families.
The ICU she was looking for was all the way down to the right, and she took her badge out as she approached the nurses’ station. A quick conversation later and she was directed down farther, to the left. As she turned the final corner, the guard by the glass cage got to his feet.
“Officer Reilly?” he said.
“That’s me.” She showed him her badge. “How’s he doing?”
The man shook his head. “Just had breakfast.” The clipped answer dripped with disapproval—as if the guard wished the suspect would go on a hunger strike. Or maybe be starved to death. “Guess they’re moving him out of here soon because he’s doing so well. Do you want me in there with you?”
Reilly smiled as she put her badge away and took out a small pad. “I can handle him.”
The private security officer seemed to measure her, but then he nodded. “Yeah, you look like you can.”
“It’s just not appearances. Trust me.”
She opened the glass door, pushed back the pale green curtain—and froze at the sight of a nurse leaning over Kroner. “Oh, I’m sorry—”
The brunette looked over and smiled. “Please come in, Officer Reilly.”
As Reilly stared into eyes that were so black, they appeared to have no iris at all, she felt an irrational bolt of terror: Every instinct in her body told her to run. Fast as she could go. As far away as she could get. Except Kroner was the one she needed to be wary of—not some woman who was just doing her job.
“Ah . . . why don’t I come back,” Reilly said.
“No.” The nurse smiled again, revealing perfect white teeth. “He’s ready for you.”
“Still, I’ll just wait until you’re—”
“Stay. I’m happy to leave you two together.”
Reilly frowned, thinking, What, like the pair of them were dating?
The nurse turned back to Kroner, uttered something in a quiet voice and stroked his hand in a way that made Reilly slightly nauseous. And then the woman came forward, growing more and more beautiful—until she was so resplendent, you had to wonder why she wasn’t a model.
And yet Reilly just wanted to get the hell away from her. Which made no sense.
The nurse paused at the door and smiled once more. “Take your ti. TrusHe has everything you need.”
And then she was gone.
Reilly blinked once. And again. Then she leaned out and looked around.
The guard glanced up from his seat. “You okay?”
The hallway was empty except for a crash cart, a rolling bin full of soiled linen, and a gurney with no one and nothing on it. Maybe the nurse had just gone into another room? Had to be it. There were units on either side of Kroner’s.
“Yup, just fine.”
Ducking back in, Reilly pulled it together, and focused on the patient, locking stares with a man who had killed at least a dozen young women across the country.
Bright eyes. That was her first thought. Smart, gleaming eyes, like you’d find on a hungry rat.
Second? He was so
Her final thought was . . . Man, that was a lot of bandage. He was all but mummified, strips of gauze wrapped around his skull and neck, square pads taped to his cheeks and jaw. And yet even though he looked like a work in progress out of Frankenstein’s lab, he was alert, and his skin color was positively radiant.
Unnaturally so, actually. Maybe he had a fever?
As she approached the bed, she held up her identification. “I’m Officer Reilly from the Caldwell Police Department. I’d like to ask you some questions. I understand you’ve waived your right to have counsel present.”
“Would you like to sit down?” His voice was soft, the tone respectful. “I have a chair.”
As if she were in his living room or something.
“Thank you.” She pulled the hard plastic seat over toward the bedside, getting close but not too close. “I want to talk to you about the other evening, when you were attacked.”
“A detective already did that. Yesterday.”
“I know. But I’m following up.”
“I told him everything I remembered.”
“Well, would you mind repeating it for me?”
“Surely.” He pushed himself up weakly and then looked over as if he wanted her to ask whether he needed help. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat. “I was in the woods. Walking slowly. Through the woods . . .”
She wasn’t buying the acquiescence and accommodation for an instant. Someone like Kroner? No doubt he could turn on the poor-me for as long as it suited him to do so. That was how psychopaths like him worked. He could be normal, or certainly convince others, and maybe even himself for periods of time, that he was just like everyone else: a composite of good and bad—where the “bad” didn’t go further than fudging on your taxes, or speeding on the highway, or maybe talking smack behind your mother-in-law’s back.
Not killing young girls. Never that.
Masks never lasted, though.
“And you were headed where,” she prompted.
His lids lowered. “You know where.”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“The Monroe Motel and Suites.” There was a pause, his lips growing tight. “I wanted to go there. I had been robbed, you see.”
