“I’ll talk to him,” said Dillon. “He won’t give you anything.”
“And you’ll share?” asked his brother.
“Of course.”
Connor nodded. “The police have the house and Emily’s possessions as evidence, but I’ll follow up with her friends, her school, her affiliations, anyplace and anything to find out who she might have talked to about her feelings toward Victor. Verify her whereabouts yesterday, her state of mind. I’ll call around to see what kind of evidence Will and Gage have. I still have a few friends on the force.”
“We should regroup tonight and compare notes, go from there.”
“Can I see her now?” Julia asked, only half-listening to Dillon and Connor’s plans.
Dillon nodded. “Yes, but then go home and get some sleep.”
She just shook her head, then glanced at Connor. “Thank you.”
Connor watched Julia enter Emily’s hospital room. The two men observed the young girl carefully. Her response to Julia was warm and tearful. They embraced and both women cried. Connor felt distinctly uncomfortable. He’d never thought Julia Chandler capable of real emotion. He knew she cared about Emily, though she’d played the runaway situation a lot differently than this.
“Emily has been very forthcoming,” Dillon continued, “but there’s something she knows and either can’t remember or doesn’t want to say.”
“I think you’re right.”
Dillon said, “I was surprised to see you, considering your history with the counselor. Why are you doing this?”
“I like the kid.” When Dillon didn’t say anything, Connor added, “I found Emily when she ran away. I didn’t know-she never let on what Victor had done to her.”
“What was her state of mind back then?”
“She was living on the streets. She was scared, tired, and using drugs. She cleaned up, promised she wouldn’t…” Connor sighed. “Maybe I just didn’t see the signs. I knew she didn’t want to go home. I should have found out why.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Connor. Julia’s guilt is enough for everyone.” Dillon paused. “Tread carefully.”
“Don’t I always?” Connor smiled.
“Can you say that with a straight face?”
The outside door opened and Officer Diaz stepped into the observation room. Dillon asked, “What’s wrong?”
“The press is all over the building. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks,” Dillon said. “We’ll go out the doctors’ garage. It’s secure.”
Connor watched Julia and Emily talking. He could barely make out what they were saying, but Julia was trying to convince the girl that she should have told her about the rape.
“I would have taken care of it, honey.”
“I was scared, Jules.”
But Emily hadn’t confided in anyone, and the pretty teenager was now the prime suspect in a murder case.
EIGHT
Dr. Garrett Bowen was a renowned leader in anger management. Expert witness and oft-appointed court psychiatrist, he handled an array of celebrity and charity cases, from the rich to the poor and every stripe in between.
Dillon didn’t have time to read Bowen’s numerous publications in every major psychiatric journal, but he wasn’t surprised to see Bowen was a minor celebrity in his own right with a two-book deal, the first of which was being published in three months:
While Bowen handled some charity cases-and made a big deal about them-his client list favored the wealthy. Upon arriving at Bowen’s suite of offices, Dillon took note of the opulence, the fine art and rare antiques complementing the predominately modern decor. The only personal effects on Dr. Bowen’s desk were several framed photographs of his family-a lovely wife with a teenaged son. Dillon remembered reading a while back that Bowen was a widower. Another picture was of a beautiful woman of about forty and Bowen on a yacht, another an older picture of Bowen as a very young man with who appeared to be his parents and sister.
Dr. Bowen himself looked the part of quiet wealth-in his midforties, manicured hands, expensive yet business-casual attire, hair graying perfectly at the temple. Dillon wondered if he dyed it to appear distinguished.
At that moment, Dillon completely understood why Emily didn’t trust this man. Teenagers, as did most people, got their first impressions based on appearance, but unlike people with more experience, teenagers routinely stuck with that impression, good or bad. Emily hadn’t said anything to that effect, but she certainly hadn’t told Bowen about her stepfather’s sexual abuse. Dillon made a mental note to check the judge’s contributor reports and charity listings for cross-references between Bowen and the Montgomery family.
Crystal Montgomery was attracted to the trappings, the feeling of wealth and confidence. These same things repulsed Emily. If Emily had been allowed to pick her own psychiatrist, perhaps she wouldn’t be in the position she was today.
Or perhaps not. Victor Montgomery was still a child predator and rapist, and Dillon couldn’t muster a whole lot of sympathy for his death. The main thing that disturbed him was that someone had either taken justice into their own hands-never a good thing-or Montgomery’s murder had nothing at all to do with Emily. That meant running through the judge’s criminal court cases one by one.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me today, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.
Bowen steepled his fingers. “I was on my way over to the hospital to talk with Emily when you called. I was…surprised, to say the least…when you told me you were her doctor.”
Dillon didn’t want to let on exactly what his role was. He didn’t like Bowen’s tone. “We both have Emily’s best interest at heart.”
“I didn’t know you worked for the police department.”
“I’m in private practice. A consultant, not on payroll. Much like yourself. I’m low profile.”
“Don’t be humble. You’ve handled several cases that garnered extensive media attention. The recent killer- the guy who glued his victims’ mouths shut-wonderful profile and analysis. I saw that interview with Trinity Lange. And the Lorenzo case a year ago, the Steiner trial-your analysis there was particularly fascinating, by the way-then the Brooks suspected murder-suicide. Your testimony turned the case. You have a knack for speaking straight with the average person.”
Dillon disliked the press attention he’d received, mostly because of the media’s propensity to sensationalize every detail, often to the detriment of victims and survivors. “The press just made it seem that way.”
“You’re their golden child.”
Dillon was becoming uncomfortable with this conversation, and couldn’t help but think Bowen was intentionally baiting him. He was about to get the conversation back on track when Bowen said softly, “You’re the only psychiatrist I know who can comfortably work for both the prosecution and the defense.”
It was the passive-aggressive tone, trying to elicit a reaction from Dillon, to see what buttons might be pushed. If Bowen treated his clients like this, it’s no wonder they grew to distrust him.
Dillon knew he’d waited too long to answer and had given Bowen some indication of his anger threshold. Wasn’t that his specialty? Anger?
“I wanted to discuss Emily Montgomery with you, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.
Bowen nodded, didn’t say anything. He didn’t take his eyes off Dillon. Did he think the scrutiny would unnerve
