“He’ll be in contempt of court.”
“Immediate jail?”
“No, there’d have to be a hearing first. But he will go to jail.”
“Do they set bail in cases like that?”
“No. Because on a contempt charge, the prisoner can walk out of jail any time he wants to. All he has to do is comply with the court’s order.”
“Do you think Malik will do jail time to protect his patients’ names?”
Sean gives a knowing smile. “I think we’ll have those names by tonight.”
“Good. Hey, did you guys search Malik’s office, too? For guns, I mean?”
“Yeah. Malik was present during the search, and he made sure no one looked at his records. The records were specifically excluded in the warrant. We didn’t want to waste time arguing that with a judge.”
“But were there records there? Did you see actual files in the cabinets?”
“I wasn’t on the scene. I’ll check, but I’m sure someone would have mentioned it if they were missing.”
“Don’t assume anything, Sean. I’ll bet Malik’s already moved those records off-site. Have you kept men at his office to pick up any patients who show up for appointments?”
“Hell, yeah. But nobody’s shown up. We can’t figure it out. How do they know not to come? We’ve tapped Malik’s phones since we suspected him, and he hasn’t called anyone to cancel. He doesn’t
“And of course you’ve gone to the victims’ families and asked point-blank if anyone is a patient of Malik’s?”
“Yeah, but we’re being cautious about that. Just in case Malik’s right about his patients being in danger. It wouldn’t look good if Malik warned us that his patients could be harmed, and then we got one of them killed in some kind of domestic dispute.”
“Cautious how? Are they trying to get female family members off by themselves?”
“Yeah. But it’s hard to know who they all are, what with marriages and divorces and all.”
My mind drifts back to mid-July, after the second victim was killed. Andrus Riviere, the retired pharmacist. I went with Sean to interview the Riviere family, and there I saw a strange sight. A granddaughter of Mr. Riviere’s was running joyously through the house as though preparing for a birthday party rather than mourning her grandfather. And it wasn’t a momentary burst of energy. She continued to behave that way throughout our visit. About seven years old, she stuck in my mind because she didn’t seem like an insensitive child. In fact, when I spoke to her, she seemed quite the opposite. The calm regard in her eyes made me feel as if I were talking to an adult.
“How do you feel about a woman committing these crimes?” I ask.
Sean stands and goes to the refrigerator, but instead of opening it, he looks back at me. “I like the revenge- for-abuse idea, but it’s hard to see a woman doing what we’ve seen. There’s almost no precedent in the literature. Female serial killers? Aileen Wuornos is about it.”
“That’s not strictly true. Almost five percent of serials are female.”
Sean looks expectantly at me. He’s an instinctive investigator, and while he is very good, most of his knowledge is based on his own experience or that of other detectives around the country-usually men with whom he has a personal relationship. I’ve made it a point to educate myself in the professional literature of serial homicide, and my knowledge is far broader. This often irritates Sean, but he’s pragmatic enough to make use of what I know.
“Female serials operate for an average of eight years before being caught,” I tell him. “That’s twice as long as male offenders. And one of their hallmarks is a very clean crime scene.”
“Okay,” he allows, “but don’t most of them have a male accomplice?”
“Eighty-six percent use an accomplice, but it’s not always male. What works against a female here is the type of crime. Most female serials are so-called ‘black widows,’ who kill their husbands, or angels of death, who kill hospital patients. Often the victims are family members. The only female serial classified as committing sexual homicide against strangers and acting alone is Wuornos.”
Sean looks almost smug.
“But I think she was wrongly classified,” I go on. “Aileen Wuornos killed to punish men for sexually abusing her. One of Malik’s patients could be doing the same thing.”
“I’m not saying it’s impossible,” says Sean. “But the crime signature weighs against it. The marksmanship, the nudity, the torture-”
“Revenge,” I argue. “You have very little cooling-off period in revenge killings, and that fits this case. And the bite marks are almost certainly made after the incapacitating gunshot. A woman would have to disable her victims before getting close enough to bite like that.”
“Do you really see a woman ripping these guys up with her teeth?”
“Yeah, but women turn rage inward. That’s why they commit suicide, not homicide.”
He’s right about that. “What about Colonel Moreland’s daughter? Stacey Lorio? Army brat, tough-looking woman. You said she had alibis for all the murders?”
“Yep, all corroborated. Couple of times with friends, couple of times with her ex-husband. Her ex doesn’t even like her, but he confirmed. Talked to him myself. He said, ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the bitch, but I still like to screw her now and again.’”
“Sounds like a great guy.” Frustration is making me crave alcohol. “Okay then, a male patient of Malik’s. Abused as a boy. A large percentage of convicted serial killers were abused as young boys.”
“Now you’re talking,” Sean says, his tone warming. “The second we get that patient list, I’ll start working that angle.” He bends over and stretches his back, the vertebrae popping like Chinese firecrackers. “You want to take a break?”
My body tenses. Normally, when given an opportunity to be alone for an extended period like this, we would spend much of it in bed. But today the bedroom door is closed, and it’s going to stay that way.
My eyes must have betrayed my thoughts, because Sean quickly says, “I was thinking of running over to R and O’s, getting a couple of oyster po-boys.”
I relax-a little. “That sounds good.”
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Look, you don’t have to stay here all day. I want to read Malik’s book.”
Sean looks at me with calm sincerity. “I want to stay. If that’s all right with you?”
I can’t help but smile. “Okay. Why don’t you get the food, then?”
He gets his keys and heads out to the garage. No kiss good-bye, just a light touch on my forearm.
I go into the bedroom and strip the vodka-soaked sheets, then carry them to the washing machine. The alcohol evaporating from the cotton is enough to ignite a craving that itches in every cell of my body. My mind goes to the Valium in my purse, but it’s time to start weaning myself off that. A birth defect isn’t the first gift I want to give the baby growing inside me.
To take my mind off my craving-as if anything could-I go back to the kitchen table and pick up Nathan Malik’s book, which Sean borrowed from the Tulane Medical School library. Titled
The book jacket has the opposite effect on me. Despite my desire to learn more about the inner workings of Nathan Malik’s mind, the prospect of wading through 130 pages on child abuse is too much to handle right now. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. Besides, Sean will be back soon. Better to start the book later, when I can read it in a single sitting.
While I wait for Sean to return, I scan a list of Malik’s professional publications. His earliest articles focused on bipolar disorder, summarizing extensive work he did with manic-depressives. Then came a study analyzing post- traumatic stress disorder in Vietnam veterans. Judging by the abstracts of the articles, Malik’s work on PTSD in veterans is what led him to study the same phenomenon in survivors of sexual abuse. This, in turn, led to
