Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [119]
She pulled the note toward her and frowned down at it. “Our trust. They weren't worthy of our trust.”
“Maybe he really is schizophrenic,” Mallory said.
“Yeah, but even so, the first note made a clear distinction. He wasn't killing them because they were blondes. This note links the one who wrote the note and the killer. They weren't worthy of our trust. If he's schizophrenic, then I'd say he's on the edge of a major identity crisis.”
“He didn't have one before?” Hollis murmured.
“I don't think he knew he had one. I mean, I think there was a part of him listening to whatever it was urging him to kill, and another part of him that had no idea that was happening.”
“A split personality?” Hollis asked.
“Maybe. They're a lot more rare than people realize, but it is possible that's what we have in this case. One part of his mind, the sane part, may have been in control most of the time.”
“And now?” Rafe asked.
“Now,” Isabel said, “I think the sane part of his mind is getting lost, submerged. I think he's losing control.”
“It's all about control.”
“No, it's all about relationships. It's still all about relationships. Look at this note. He believes these women have violated—or, in my case, will violate—his trust. There's a secret he's protecting, and he's convinced the women he kills threaten to expose that secret.”
“So they know him.”
“He thinks they do.”
Rafe looked at Isabel steadily. “Then he thinks you know him.”
“I think I do too.”
The looming storm only fed their sense of urgency, at least in part because it seemed to surround them all day long without actually hitting Hastings. Tree limbs were blown around, power crews were kept busy repairing downed electrical lines, and thunder boomed and rolled while lightning flashed in the weird twilight.
It was as if the whole world was on the verge of something, hesitating, waiting.
By five o'clock that afternoon, they had paperwork scattered across the conference table, pinned to the bulletin boards, and stacked on two of the chairs. Forensics reports, background checks on the victims, statements from everyone involved, and postmortems complete with photographs.
And still they didn't have the answers they needed.
When Travis came in with the last batch of reports from area banks, Mallory groaned. “Christ, not more paper.”
“And not even helpful,” he told her as he handed the notes to Rafe, then leaned his hands on the back of an unoccupied chair. “Nobody recognized the name or photograph of Jamie Brower—except to say they'd seen her picture in the newspapers and on TV.”
Isabel waited out another rumble of thunder, then said, “We need a fresh mind. Travis, if you wanted to bury a secret someplace you could be sure it wouldn't be found, where would you put it?”
“In a grave.” He realized he was being stared at, and straightened self-consciously. “Well, I would. Once somebody's buried, they're not often dug back up. So why not? It'd be easy enough to strip the turf off a grave, bury whatever it was I was trying to hide between the surface and the casket—assuming it was the right size—then cover it back up and re-lay the grass. As long as I was careful, nobody'd even notice.”
“Son of a bitch,” Rafe said.
Isabel was shaking her head. “Why isn't he a detective?”
Travis brightened. “I was right?”
“God knows,” Hollis said, “but you're sending us in a new direction, so I say good for you.”
“Hey, cool.” Then his smile faded. “We got lots of cemeteries in Hastings. Where do we start looking? And what're we looking for, by the way?”
“We're looking for a box of photos,” Rafe said, feeling the younger cop had earned the knowledge.
Isabel added, “And it has to be connected with Jamie Brower. We need to know where any deceased family or friends are buried.”
“I'll go back to my phone,” Travis said with a sigh. “Start calling all the local clergy and asking them. I do not want to have to call the Browers directly, not today. Or tomorrow, or next week.”
“Yeah, let's avoid that if possible,” Rafe told him.
When he'd gone, Isabel said,