Dead of Night

Page 43

What would drive a man to do that to his own child?
Make him unnaturally love one daughter while shunning the other? Shun her as if she weren’t his own.
The thought stopped Sarah completely. She tried to shove the suspicion away. Told herself she was grasping at straws. But the notion wouldn’t be dismissed, because it explained too much.
It explained everything.
Chapter 23
“Looks like somebody’s finally claimed our Jane Doe,” Danny said as he hung up the phone on Monday morning. He and Sean sat across from each other in a cubicle that was just large enough to accommodate two desks shoved against each other and an overflowing file cabinet.
Danny reared back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Her name’s Amber Gleason. She worked as a cocktail waitress at a dive on Airline Drive called the Neon Lounge. One of the other girls saw the article in the paper and called in. She said Amber hasn’t been in since a week ago Saturday night.”
Sean looked up from the report he was typing on the computer. “And they’re just now missing her?”
“Hey, this is New Orleans, the Big Easy, remember? Eccentric behavior is the norm not the exception. A waitress blows off work for a few days, nobody’s going to get all cranked off about it. And anyway, this girl says Amber had a pretty bad sauce problem. They just figured she’d tied one on and was holed up somewhere drying out.”
“We’ll need to get over there and talk to the people on her shift. Maybe somebody saw something.” Sean hit the save button on the computer and picked up his coffee. “Is this girl willing to go down to the morgue and ID the body?”
“She’s on her way. I’m heading over there to meet her. You want to ride along?”
“To the morgue? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
“Thought you might.”
“Besides, I have an appointment with a shrink.”
“Well, it’s about damn time,” Danny said as he grabbed his jacket. “Why don’t you run my little theory by him while you’re there? You know, the one about your issues.”
“Yeah, Danny, I’ll be sure and do that.”
A few minutes later, Sean headed out for the Garden District. The address he’d been given was on Chestnut Street. The house was a two-story brick home with a wide veranda, ornate grillwork, and a narrow walkway that led back to a walled garden draped with wisteria vines. It was the kind of place the Garden District was famous for—lush lawns, shimmering swimming pools and hidden courtyards all wrapped up in the unmistakable air of Southern gentility.
Michael Garrett had told Sean when they spoke earlier to come through the garden and up the back stairs where he would be waiting in his office.
Sean let himself through the gate and glanced around, feeling vaguely resentful. At the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door, and when he didn’t get an answer, he walked on in. He found himself in a small sitting area with leather chairs and important-looking artwork on the walls, none of which he recognized.
“Hello?”
“Come on in, Detective,” the voice called from the next room.
Sean opened the door and stepped inside. A man stood at the window staring down into the garden. When he turned, the light streaming in behind him created a halo effect that vanished the moment he walked toward Sean.
“Detective Kelton? I’m Michael Garrett,” he said, extending his hand.
He didn’t look at all the way Sean had pictured him. His image of a middle-aged therapist in a cardigan and loafers was forced to give way to the reality of a sleekly dressed man in a dark suit, blue shirt and silk tie, all of which looked expensive. And when they shook hands, Sean noticed a gold watch.
“Thanks for making time to see me,” he said.
“No problem.” Garrett waved Sean toward a chair, then went around to sit behind his desk. “I’m happy to help you out in any way I can, but as I told you on the phone, I’m not sure how much I can tell you from looking at crime-scene photos. I’m not a forensic psychologist, and I assume the police department has their own consultants for such matters.”
“We’re on a pretty tight budget these days,” Sean said as he sat down across from Garrett. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
Garrett watched him impassively.
“I’m worried about Sarah.”
“I can’t discuss Sarah with you.”
“I’m sure she’s told you plenty about me,” Sean said dryly. “Whatever she’s said, it’s probably true.”
The therapist’s implacable demeanor made Sean uncomfortable. He didn’t feel in charge in this environment and he didn’t like it.
“The thing is, I still care about Sarah. I’ll do anything I can to protect her.”
One brow lifted slightly. “Have you told her how you feel?”
“Yes, but I don’t think she’s in the right frame of mind to hear it right now.”
Garrett sat perfectly still. His posture was remarkable, Sean thought. “You were recently married, weren’t you, Detective?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps that’s why Sarah feels a little reticent about discussing your feelings for her.”
The guy’s expression never changed, and yet Sean felt as if he’d been sucker punched. “You know about Sarah’s past, right? The murdered sister?”
“As I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. You can’t discuss her with me. Then just listen, okay? I’m beginning to have a bad feeling that Sarah’s past may be connected to the cases I told you about earlier.”
“Go on.”
Sean scrubbed a hand across his mouth, hardly knowing where to start. “When Sarah and I first got together, I looked into her sister’s murder. I was arrogant enough to think I could find something the local cops had missed.”
“Did you?”
Sean hesitated. “I found a lot of things that disturbed me about that case, not the least of which was the satanic symbolism left at the crime scene. Because of those symbols, the police focused their attention on only one suspect, and they spent weeks trying to break his alibi. It occurred to me, as I studied the case, that if the killer’s intent was to use that symbolism to misdirect the investigation, it worked like a charm.”
“Is that what you think is happening with the cases here in New Orleans?”
Sean shrugged. “I don’t know yet. What I do know is that the first crime scene was loaded with satanic symbolism, like that old house in Arkansas. And the victim had fresh tattoos. Two things that would lead me to think Sarah might be the one person who could help with the case. She’s always been fascinated by the occult, and she’s familiar with every tattoo artist in the city. So I get her over to the crime scene and the first thing she asks about is footwear evidence. She wants to know if we found any unusual prints around the crime scene. Two days later, the coroner shows me cloven-shaped bruises on the victim’s torso. That has me wondering how Sarah knew about those footprints before we did.”
The implacable eyes met Sean’s across the desk. “Did you ask her?”
“She said there was an old legend in the town where she grew up about the devil’s footprints. It was rumored that those marks were found near her sister’s body. The symbolism at the crime scene triggered the memory, and her question about the prints was an unconscious response.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe she wants to believe that’s a plausible explanation.”
“But you don’t.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure what to think. The similarities to her sister’s case worry me.”
“Do you think Sarah is somehow involved in these killings?”
It was Sean who stayed silent this time.
Garrett leaned forward. “If I were to determine that any of my patients provided a significant threat to others, I would be required by Louisiana law to report my judgment to the proper authorities. I’ve made no such report, Detective.”
Sean nodded. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying.” He wanted to be relieved, but there was still too much about this case that he didn’t understand. Too much about Sarah’s past that kept niggling at him.
“The cloven-shaped bruises are interesting,” Garrett said. “Did you find similar marks on the second victim?”
“No, and that bothers me, too,” Sean said. “The killer went out of his way to stage everything about the first crime scene, right down to the numbers in the street address. The symbolism was almost overkill. Everything he did was precise and full of meaning. But there was very little of that at the second scene. It was like he’d already made his point. He killed the second victim somewhere else and then dumped her where he knew the body would be found. But he still tattooed her back and carved up her face to make sure we’d know he did it.”
“Carved up her face?”
“That’s another one of his calling cards. He slits the corners of the victims’ mouths and removes their eyelids. It distorts their features into a macabre death mask.” Sean removed photographs from an envelope and walked over to Garrett’s desk. “These are from the first crime scene. The symbols on the walls are called udjats. The eye of Lucifer. You can see he drew both the right and left eye, which I’m told is rare. The right eye represents the sun, the left eye, the moon. Day and night. Good and evil. The symbol in the palm is a thaumaturgic triangle, which is used to summon demons. Like I said, overkill. He wanted to make sure we got his point.”
“You think the symbolism is misdirection?” Garrett turned on the lamp and reached for a magnifying glass.
“I don’t know yet. Sarah suggested the tattoo on the palm and the one on the back were made by two different artists. The triangle is noticeably inferior to the inkblot. But it’s easy to buy a tattoo machine off the internet. With a little artistic talent and some practice, he could probably create a pretty decent tattoo, especially if he took his time. But if he was in a hurry or if he got nervous, his inexperience could cause the quality of the second tattoo to slip.” Sean stared down at the images. “What I need to know from you is whether the tattoo on her back is based on a genuine Rorschach inkblot. That could indicate he’s had a psychological evaluation at some point in his past.”
Reaching into a desk drawer, Garrett pulled out a leather portfolio, then removed a set of Rorschach prints which he shuffled through like a deck of cards. Finding the one he wanted, he placed it beside the crime-scene shot and studied them together.
“Do you have the photograph from the second victim?” he asked.
Sean took it out of the envelope and tossed it onto the desk. “The tattoos look identical at first glance, but they’re not.”
“I can see that.” Garrett took his time examining the photographs. “Both tattoos are definitely inspired by the same Rorschach image.” He pointed to the card he’d removed from the portfolio. “He’s modified the design, however, to represent something specific to him.”
“Can you tell what that is?”
“It could be anything. The inkblots are ambiguous. They mean something different to everyone who looks at them, because each individual brings his or her own set of unique circumstances into the interpretation.” Garrett looked up. “The only thing I can tell you is what the killer seems to want us to see.”
“Which is?”
“Faces.” He pointed to the photograph. “In his modification, the face on the right is in the light, while the face on the left is shaded. The left side, just like the left udjat, is the night side, the dark side. Let’s say it represents the mirror image. But the tattoo on the second victim is the opposite. The face in the light is the mirror image. The hidden side.”
“So what the hell does any of this mean?” Sean asked impatiently.
“He’s using these images to communicate. To send a message. But that’s actually not the salient point here. With whom is he trying to communicate?”
“The police, I guess,” Sean said. “These guys like to flaunt how clever they are. And the tattoos aren’t the only messages he left for us. At the first crime scene, he wrote something backwards on the wall so that it had to be read in a mirror. At the second scene, he left it on the mirror.”
“What did he write?”
“‘I am you.’ Maybe he’s trying to tell us he’s one of us. A cop.”
Garrett frowned. “I am you,” he murmured, and then his expression subtly altered. “I...am...you.”
“Does that mean something to you?”