Will took six long steps and entered the room. Faith stayed in the hall. She watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. The Olaf bandage flapped back. He’d sweated through the adhesive. “Mr. Caterino, is that a gun by your bed?”
Gerald said, “Oh, yeah, I’ll—”
“I’ll get it.” Will left her sightline.
Faith’s revolver was out of the bag, in her hand, and ready to go. She was about to swing into the room when Will reappeared in the doorway.
He had a Browning Hi-Power 9mm in his hands. Faith wasn’t up on weaponry the same way that Will was, but she knew the pistol had a tricky magazine disconnect. Either Gerald Caterino knew his way around a firearm or someone had sold him more gun than he needed.
Will dropped the magazine. He switched on the overhead lights.
Faith put her revolver back in her purse, but she kept her hand inside. She visually swept the room as she crossed the threshold. Windows clear. Doorways clear. Hands clear. This was obviously where Gerald slept. The decorations were non-existent. Unmade king-sized bed, mismatched night tables, a television on the wall, the Ikea cubicles, a master bath through one door. The door to what she assumed was a walk-in closet was shut. A key stuck out of the deadbolt lock.
Gerald told Faith, “Close the door.”
Faith pushed the door just shy of closing.
Gerald said, “I don’t like to talk about this in front of Heath. And I’m not sure what Beckey knows or what she can retain. She doesn’t remember the attack, but I worry about her hearing things. Or seeing this.”
He turned the key and pushed open the door.
Faith felt her jaw drop.
The walls of the walk-in closet were lined with newspaper articles, printed pages, photographs, diagrams, notations. Colored thumbtacks held everything in place. Red, blue, green and yellow string connected various pieces. File boxes were stacked floor to ceiling along the back. He had turned his closet into a major incident room, and he was terrified that his children would find it.
Faith’s heart broke for the father. Every single sheet of paper, every thumbtack, every string, was a symbol of his torment.
Gerald said, “I keep the key to the closet hidden in the attic. Heath likes to play with my key ring. He almost got in here once. I trust Lashanda, but she can get distracted. If Heath ever saw this—I don’t want him to know. Not until he’s ready. Please, let me show you.”
Faith closed and locked the bedroom door. She took out her phone as she followed Will into the closet. She turned on the video. For the benefit of the recording, she asked, “Mr. Caterino, is it okay if I document this with my phone?”
“Yeah, sure.” Gerald started pointing, first at the photographs. “I took these the first day Beckey was in the hospital, about twelve hours after she was attacked. This incision here is from the tracheostomy. This is where her sternum was broken to save her life.” His finger moved down. “These are her X-rays. You can see the skull fracture very clearly in this one. Look at the shape of it.”
Faith zoomed in on the X-ray, which was pinned beside an older-looking crime scene photo. “Did you get copies of your daughter’s case files from Brad Stephens?”
Gerald’s mouth opened, then closed. “I got them. That’s all that matters.”
Faith let it go. He’d saved her some time, at least. She zoomed in on the witness statements, investigation notes, coroner’s reports, resuscitation notes, scene of crime diagrams.
Will had his hands in his pockets. He was leaning forward, looking at a photograph of a young woman standing near the Golden Gate Bridge. He asked, “Is this Leslie Truong?”
“I was refused access to her file because it’s still technically an open case,” Gerald said. “Her mother, Bonita, gave me that picture. We used to talk all the time. Not so much anymore. After a certain point, it just eats you up, you know? Your life gets …”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. The walls told the story of his life after Beckey’s attack.
Faith turned, working in a grid to slowly video the wall behind her. Gerald had printed out pages and pages from the internet. She saw Facebook posts, Tweets, emails. She zoomed in close to make sure she got the senders. Most of the emails were from dmasterson@Love2CMurder.
She asked Gerald, “Did you get access to any of the case files from the newspaper articles?”
“I filed requests through the Freedom of Information Act, but there was nothing in the files, barely more than a few pages on each woman.” He pointed to the corresponding section of wall. “All of them were classified as accidents, the same way Beckey’s would’ve been if she hadn’t lived. Not that her life was what it was before. Not that it ever will be again.”
The desperation in his voice was like a vise closing down on the room.
Will said, “Mr. Caterino, you mailed those specific newspaper articles to Nesbitt for a reason. What made you choose them?”
“I talked to the families.” Gerald sprinted toward the back of the closet. He stood beside the filing boxes. “Look, here are my call notes. Get my notes.”
Faith swung the camera around. She wanted Gerald on the recording, too.
He said, “I made dozens of phone calls. Every time a woman was found, I tracked down the family and spoke to them. I was able to narrow down the victims to eight.”
He pointed behind Faith, but she didn’t turn. She recognized the women’s faces from the newspaper articles, but the photographs on the wall were different, more personal, the kind of thing you would keep in a frame on your desk.
Gerald pointed to each woman, calling out their names. “Joan Feeney. Bernadette Baker. Jessica Spivey. Rennie Seeger. Pia Danske. Charlene Driscoll. Deaundra Baum. Shay Van Dorne.”
Faith zoomed in on each, making certain to keep Gerald in the frame.
He pointed again, saying, “Headband. Comb. Barette.
