Dead Sleep

“And Gaines?”

“Gaines and his girlfriend woke up at ten a.m., started drinking, then arguing. They stopped long enough to have sex, then passed out. They’ve been sleeping ever since.”

“Any of them make suspicious calls?” John asks in a frustrated voice. “Contacts?”

“Nothing.”

“Screw this,” mutters Bowles. “I say we have NOPD pull in all three and sweat them till somebody cracks.”

“I’m worried they may do just that,” says Baxter. “At this point, we have no more leverage to make them talk than we did yesterday. We have to ID the UNSUB and find a connection to one of the three.”

The ISU chief expels air from his cheeks and looks from John to Lenz. “I want to hear thoughts. Anything. Gut feelings, twitches, psychic waves, whatever you’ve got. Now’s the time. What are we dealing with here?”

Neither John nor Lenz seems inclined to speak first, so Baxter points to Lenz. “Arthur? Go out on a limb.”

Silent until now, the psychiatrist leans forward on the sofa. “I see a paradox. One of the UNSUB’s remarks to Jordan could indicate that the previous victims have been raped by the UNSUB, then passed on to the artist to be painted. Yet our art experts say the Sleeping Women weren’t painted by Wheaton, Smith, or Gaines. If you look at what the UNSUB said, it doesn’t exclude the possibility that he himself was the painter.”

I feel compelled to jump in. “I don’t think a man capable of painting the Sleeping Women would refer to them as ‘pretty pictures.’ And when he told me, ‘you’ll still make a pretty picture for the man,’ he could have been talking about a buyer rather than the painter.”

“Marcel de Becque,” says John. “The guy is deep into this thing. I’m not sure how. Maybe three or four guys share a similar paraphilia. I don’t know.”

Baxter’s impatience crackles off him like static electricity. “I can’t believe this is all we have!”

“What about Jordan’s split-personality idea?” John asks. “We didn’t get anything out of Wheaton or Smith on childhood abuse, but that concept has stuck with me. Is it possible that an artist with a split personality could paint in two completely different styles? Undetectably? I mean, how different can the personalities be?”

Lenz steeples his fingers and leans back. “They can be so different as to have different physical manifestations. There are cases of MPD on record where one personality required heart medication to survive, and another did not. One may require corrective lenses and the others not, or need different prescriptions. And there are many lesser manifestations.”

“Come on,” says Bowles.

“Documented fact.” Lenz’s voice has taken on a patronizing tone. “So – two completely different painters occupying the same body? It’s technically possible. But given the scale of this case, the number of victims, the extraordinary lengths to which the dominant personality would have to go to conceal his acts from the others-”

“Wait,” says John. “Not all the personalities know what the others are doing?”

“Correct. Generally one is dominant and knows everything, while the others remain partially in the dark.”

“Jesus,” says Baxter.

“It’s a fascinating premise,” says Lenz, “but it verges on pure fantasy. The image laypeople have of so-called ‘split personality’ comes from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. That construct appeals to our sense of evil masked behind a benign public face. But clinically that’s not the way MPD manifests itself. You don’t get a benign public person with a diabolical intelligence concealed behind it. You get pathetic fragments of personality, most of them manifesting as damaged children arrested in development at the age sexual abuse was visited upon them. The dominant personality is the one best able to adapt and cope under extreme stress. That’s all.”

John is nodding. “A lot of the serial offenders we’ve caught or interviewed have endured sexual abuse as children.”

“But how many had multiple-personality disorder?” asks Lenz.

“None.”

Lenz smiles like a chess master who has led an opponent into a trap. “Before we seriously consider this theory, we should fire our art experts and bring in a new group.”

“Let’s do that,” John snaps. “We’re not getting anywhere with the ones we’ve got. Goddamn it, everyone in this mess knows more than he’s saying. The suspects, de Becque, even us.”

“Wingate knew a lot too,” I tell them. “I could feel it.”

Baxter looks hard at me. “Have you changed your mind about telling us Frank Smith’s explanation for his visits with Wheaton, or for their arguments?”

An image of Smith confiding Wheaton’s desire for assisted suicide flashes through my mind. “No. You’ve just got to trust me on that.”

“Does the reason reflect on their psychology?” asks Lenz. “That could be just as important.”

“There’s nothing unique about it. It’s something normal people would argue about.”

The phone on Bowles’s desk rings. The SAC answers, then holds out the phone to Baxter. “ERF at Quantico.”

The ISU chief gets up and takes the phone, his jaw braced for bad news. As he listens, his face gives away nothing.

“Got it,” he says. “I understand.”

“What?” asks John as he hangs up.

Baxter lays his hands flat on Bowles’s desk. “It was a stolen cell phone, reprogrammed. No way to trace the UNSUB from that. But ERF salvaged the chips. They got the speed-dial numbers programmed into the phone. One belonged to Marcel de Becque.”

As John pumps his fist in a victory sign, a memory of the old French expatriate standing before his great window comes into my mind, his cultured voice telling me about my father and the glory days in Vietnam.

Baxter presses a button on the phone. “EOC? This is Baxter. Tell me where Marcel de Becque is right now.” We sit in silence as Baxter waits. Then his face goes ashen.

“When?… Call the FAA and the foreign legats. Then call me back.”

He hangs up and rubs his hand hard across his chin. “Six hours ago, de Becque’s jet left Grand Cayman. The pilot filed a flight plan for Rio de Janeiro, but he never arrived. De Becque could be anywhere.”

“Goddamn it,” says John.

Before anyone else can comment, Bowles’s phone rings again. Baxter activates the speakerphone.

“Baxter here.”

“We’ve got Chief Farrell on the phone for you.”

“I’m ready.”

“Daniel?” says a rich African-American voice.

“Afternoon, Henry. What’s up?”

“We just got a call about the photo running on TV. A widow lady out in Kenner says she rents a room to the guy. She’s dead sure. Says he goes by the name of Johnson, and he’s hardly ever in town. Says he’s a salesman. The address is Two-twenty-one Wisteria Drive. That’s the south side of I-10, right by the airport. Jefferson Parish.”

Even Baxter’s poker face betrays excitement as he scrawls on a file folder. “Has the sheriff sent anyone out there yet?”

“He doesn’t know about it yet. I thought I’d call you boys first.”

Baxter looks heavenward with grateful eyes. “We’ve got the forensic unit ready to roll. We’ll take care of the interdepartmental relations.”

“Good luck, Daniel. The lady’s name is Pitre.”

“We owe you, Henry.”

“I’ll get plenty of chances to collect. Good luck.”

Baxter hangs up and looks at SAC Bowles. “Five years ago, would we have got that call?”

“Not a chance in hell. Farrell’s tough. He’s fired or jailed hundreds of cops in the past five years.”

Baxter punches a number into the speakerphone.

“Forensics,” says a female voice.

“Two-twenty-one Wisteria Drive, Kenner. Take the whole unit.”