Blair, and Enoch and then what happened to Anne Kendall and Leonard Nagel. None of that makes sense. I don't suppose it ever will no matter how much money I spend.'
I gripped the back of a chair to steady myself as a burst of shakes ripped through me, hinging me at the waist, dropping my chin to my chest. I managed my symptoms by staying in a comfort zone of modest and moderated activity. I'd been out of that zone for six days, taking a pounding that would grind me into the ground if I didn't back off soon. I took a long breath as the tremors passed, righting myself as Harper watched.
'And look what's happening to you,' Harper said. 'I don't know how you do it.'
I wouldn't let Harper lump me together with murder victims. I wasn't dead and my movement disorder wouldn't kill me. And I wouldn't let his attempt at sympathy throw me off track.
'What about Kate Scranton's business?' I asked, one arm wrapped around my middle, one hand still gripping the chair, the words stacking up in my throat before stuttering out. 'Is that just another one of those things that doesn't make sense?'
He went back to his chair, slumping then sitting up. 'I'm a lot of things, Jack. Some I'm proud of and some I'm not. I'm smart, I'm lucky, and I'm a lousy loser. To be honest about it, I wanted Kate for more than her mind. She said no. I'm not used to rejection and I don't take it well. I admit it was a petty thing to do but I made a few phone calls, figured she might have second thoughts if she had fewer options. It was easy. I could fix it just as easily. You tell her that.'
I took another deep breath, straightening and steadying myself, letting go the chair. 'I'll let you tell Jason Bolt. I think he just got a new client.'
He waved a hand, dismissing the prospect. 'It's only money. Besides, by the time her case goes to trial, I'll be too far gone to know or care.'
'For a lucky guy like you, that may be the best piece of luck you ever have. One last thing.'
'What's that?'
'I quit.'
He shook his head. 'I doubt that. You're not the type even if you go off my payroll. You won't quit until it's over. That's why I hired you in the first place.'
Sherry Fritzshall was waiting outside Harper's office, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were puffy, her mascara reduced to black smudges. She walked away and motioned me to follow her, waiting until we'd rounded a corner before she stopped and handed me her business card.
'Give this to Kate Scranton. Tell her to call me next week and we'll work something out and we won't need lawyers to do it. I only met her once but I liked her. Tell her I'm sorry about what happened.'
'You can make that happen?'
'Milo agreed to give me power of attorney. By the end of the week, I'll be able to make anything happen.'
'What happened to doing whatever it takes?'
She folded her arms across her chest, shuddering. 'Sometimes it takes too much. After all this, after poor Anne and the others, after finding out what my brother did to Kate Scranton and how he kept his condition from me, sometimes it just takes too much.'
'You surprise me.'
She smiled, her face still sad. 'I told you not to underestimate me. I hope I haven't underestimated you.'
'What do you mean?'
'I'm not accepting your resignation.'
Chapter Fifty
I was still employed, the building was empty, and I had a key card that opened every door in the place. The retired cops lunch started in a little over an hour. I could be late as long as I got there before Tom Goodell left.
Everything that I had learned pointed to Anthony Corliss. Both Walter Enoch and Tom Delaney had let him in their homes, making it likely they would have let him in a second time when he killed them.
Harper had threatened to cut off Corliss's funding if he didn't produce results, taking me back to my earlier speculation that Corliss might have killed Delaney, Blair, and Enoch in a twisted effort to use their deaths as proof that his lucid dreaming methods worked. Suggesting to Harper that he watch their videos fit with that scenario even if nothing else about it made sense, as if serial killers were models of rational thinking.
Corliss may have expected to get away with those murders or he may have been playing a game with the police, upping the stakes with Anne Kendall's murder, as Lucy had theorized, Anne's murder the only one that fit the rape-torture-murder stereotype that had made serial killers so feared and so famous. That Corliss's pattern didn't fit the serial killer stereotype reminded me of Maggie Brennan's caution not to confuse the unfamiliar with the improbable.
I took the elevator to Corliss's floor, making a quick and careful circuit. The ceiling florescents were off, the only illumination from faint wall fixtures that cast more shadows than light. Doors to private offices were closed, cubicles empty, no printers, faxes, or copiers humming in the background, no classic rock battling country music from desktop radios, no hallway chatter about last night or next weekend. I knocked on Corliss's door, listening for any sounds from the other side, waiting long enough for him to answer. It was locked. I waved my key card across the sensor, hearing the lock release and opened the door.
Though I didn't need probable cause and a warrant to search Corliss's office, I didn't want to toss it like Kent and Dolan had done when they searched my house. If Corliss were the killer, he'd be alert to anything that was out of place or out of order and I wanted him to keep thinking he was smarter than everyone else. I studied the room, taking note of how his books were arranged on their shelves, how close his chair was pushed in against his desk, how three black pens were scattered at random across the desk while two highlighters, one yellow and one orange, were aligned side-by-side.
I started with the desk, working my way through the three drawers on the right, finding nothing of interest. I slid the desk chair out of my way and opened the pencil drawer in the center of the desk. It was a junk drawer, crammed with pens, Post-it pads, paper clips, rubber bands, and loose change. I massaged the mess, finding a small, single sheet torn from a notepad, folded in half and buried under a tin of peppermint Altoids. I spread it open on the desk reading a handwritten list of initials: RB, TD, WE, AK, the initials too easily translated as Regina Blair, Tom Delaney, Walter Enoch, and Anne Kendall. It was a dead man's list.
I took a picture of the list with my cell phone before calling Quincy Carter, getting his message to leave a message, telling him that I was e-mailing him Exhibit A for the case against Anthony Corliss. I picked the list up by one corner and slid it into an envelope I found in the pencil drawer, sealing the envelope and sticking it in the inside pocket of my jacket. It wasn't a pristine chain of custody but I couldn't take the chance of leaving the list behind and hoping that Carter got a search warrant before Corliss got rid of it, even if taking it meant that Corliss might realize that someone had searched his office.
There were two file drawers on the left side of the desk, files hanging from front to back on runners sitting in grooves on either side of the drawer. The top drawer contained copies of journal articles. I sifted through them, not finding anything secreted between the pages.
The bottom file drawer contained thick files on Corliss and Maggie Brennan, each filled with copies of their resumes and articles they had written, together with thinner files on Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman, whose resumes and publications were shorter and fewer. All their credentials were impeccable and all their articles were inscrutable.
At the back of the drawer I found files for Regina Blair, Tom Delaney, Walter Enoch, and Anne Kendall. I grabbed Anne's first, looking for the connection between her and Corliss. The file was arranged chronologically, the oldest material at the top. The first item was a printed exchange of innocuous e-mail Anne had initiated last week with Corliss asking if he had time to see her without explaining her purpose, Corliss setting their appointment for last Wednesday at four o'clock.
The e-mail was followed by a dream project intake questionnaire Anne had completed and signed, also dated last Wednesday, which focused on biographical information and medical history, all of which was unremarkable except for the last question that asked why she wanted to participate in the project. She wrote that she was having
