Repressed Read online

  Were they using that weapon on his wife? His daughter?

  “Still no hits on our photos either,” Petrosky continued and Morrison imagined the suspects’ car in his neighborhood, a killer taking photos of his house, of his family. Were they still watching his place? No … they had what they wanted. They had his whole world.

  Petrosky coughed once, pointedly, and Morrison focused on his partner’s troubled gaze. “The entire city’s out looking, Cali. Including Decantor and your buddy Valentine.”

  Decantor. Valentine. Fuck. “Decantor say anything about Shannon? I mean, he already knows that her car’s been found and—”

  “I told him we had it under control, nothing to worry about. That Alex went to get her and it was all a big misunderstanding. Unless he actually calls Toledo and talks to the techs over there, Decantor won’t know any different until they show up here to investigate. And I made sure the Toledo PD has my name as their go-to.”

  “And Valentine?” Valentine and Lillian would be all over Morrison and Petrosky if they thought something was wrong.

  “Told Valentine the same. He might call out of concern, but he’d talk to you about it before he acts. And I gave him The Face.”

  Morrison nodded. The Face was usually reserved for perps, but it was just as effective for getting other cops to walk away. He’d call Valentine later if the man didn’t come to him first.

  “Detective?” Crystal. Curly black hair, eyes like midnight, sketchpad in hand.

  “Thanks for coming,” Morrison said.

  She smiled—“Anytime”—and brushed past him into the room with Kathryn, and closed the door.

  Petrosky gestured in the direction of the bullpen. “You know the FR software best. Get that going on all three sketches, see what you come up with.”

  FR. The facial recognition software, the one thing the chief had made sure they had a budget for. He’d start with Zachary Reynolds’s rapist—but he really needed to ID the people Kathryn had seen in front of his house. Please let us get a hit. “Might just be people trying to find a house to buy,” Morrison said.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Call if you get something.” Petrosky headed for the stairs.

  Morrison hovered outside the room, willing Crystal to hurry, rubbing a throbbing nodule in the crook of his arm. Find the killer. Find the woman. Find my family.

  With their facial recognition software, each photo came back with a list of the top fifty potential matches. Not the best program, but it was what the powers that be said they could afford. Usually half of the matches were dubious at best or just felt wrong. The closest to Jenny’s picture was a man who’d been killed in a car wreck two years back, so he hadn’t attacked Acosta—and even with that one, the nose was a touch too pointy. Either the guy they were looking for hadn’t ever been in trouble or he’d been in trouble somewhere that the database wasn’t active.

  Morrison tossed aside the sketch and headed for the conference room in time to see Crystal emerge, shoving a pencil into her handbag.

  “Thanks again for coming.” His words sounded insincere even to him, though he thought he meant them.

  “Sure thing.” She handed him two pages and took off down the hallway as Morrison peeked into the room to see Kathryn, still at the conference table, Shane asleep on her shoulder. Comfortable. Safe.

  He backed away from the door before the clenching in his gut became an ache and glanced at the first picture—the man. Nose too thin for his round face, skinny shoulders, fragile-looking jaw. Sunglasses that covered half his cheeks. And the rash on his neck: not chicken pox … acne. Were they really looking for a kid or did he only look like one from afar? If he was the kid Morrison had seen on the bike Monday morning, the guy would have had to kill Acosta and hightail it all the way over to Morrison’s place immediately. Was he watching to see if Morrison caught the homicide call? Or just watching? Did that mean Natalie Bell was in the wrong place at the wrong time—an impulse decision when the killer saw her get out of her car?

  He flipped the page and frowned at the black-and-white image of the woman Kathryn had seen: wide, light eyes, freckles over the bridge of her nose, and a tiny crescent scar on her chin, though that might have been a shadow or a dimple.

  Something about the photo niggled at the back of his brain. He tried to picture this woman with the reddish hair Kathryn mentioned. He imagined her with glasses, with darker eyes. Imagined her without the scar. None of these mental pictures seemed quite right, but still an insistent awareness was creeping up the back of his neck like ghostly fingers trying to break through to the living’s plane of existence.

  I know her.

  Kathryn exited the conference room with Shane on her hip, his head lolling on her shoulder, and he felt a pang of jealousy. Her eyes were tight, mouth drawn. “Listen, I thought of one other thing. The woman … she said something about our neighborhood being close to her job, said that was the reason she wanted to move there. If she has a job around there, it’ll be easier to find her, right?”

  If she worked nearby, there was a good chance someone knew her. Maybe that was why she looked so damn familiar. But if she was scoping out his house with intent to harm, she wouldn’t have told Kathryn the truth. Hey, just stopping in to stalk a woman so I can kidnap her and her child someday. And, by the way, let me tell you about my job.

  “Yeah, that helps. Thanks so much for coming down.”

  She nodded, said nothing. Morrison left her standing in front of the door to the interrogation room, cradling Shane to her chest.

  Back at his desk, he loaded Crystal’s rendition of man number two into the system. Their pedophile’s slightly taller buddy yielded another fifty photos. He pulled the top ten, then ruled out half due to stature because of the footprint indentations left at the crime scene—their killer was only five nine at best, and thin. Probably why he went after Bell and not Patricia Weeks: that stocky old broad would have kicked his ass.

  Morrison ruled out another set of suspects due to incarceration and one due to death. But the remaining two—either could have been their guy. He pulled up birth certificates, driving records, last known addresses. One, Walter Gomez, had been given a ticket three days ago, the day of Natalie Bell’s murder, in Arizona.

  And then there was one.

  Richard Carleson stared back at him with beady eyes and a grin too easy for someone having their mug shot taken. His face wasn’t a perfect match—he looked too old, for one thing—but he’d been arrested twice for fraud, once for identity theft, and once for assault and battery during a bar fight. Last known address was in Florida, nearly ten years ago, so he could easily have moved here and committed the attacks while flying under the radar. Didn’t need much else if you had cash—just don’t get arrested for anything. With his identity theft history, it wasn’t unreasonable to think he was living here under an assumed name.

  Which meant he’d be hard to find unless someone recognized his photo.

  Morrison watched Carleson’s information print achingly slowly, and stared again at the woman’s image. Even if she’d told Kathryn the truth, she could work pretty much anywhere. He'd get her loaded into the computer, check for any hits and then start showing her picture to local businesses, maybe near his house again. But how long would that take? I’m grasping at straws.

  He needed help. He needed more cops to canvass. But even Decantor and Valentine would want to call in the Feds. He couldn’t get assistance without admitting what was going on and putting his family in more danger—by the time they had anything to go on, Shannon and Evie could be dead. He ripped the sheets from the printer, headed back to his desk, and loaded the woman’s photo into the facial recognition database.

  Nothing fit well; the pictures weren’t quite right. If she’d been arrested, she’d have been in the database, so she couldn’t be a perp Roger had put away. How did she know him? He squinted at the photo. Different hair? Skin tone? He looked
back at the screen. She seemed familiar in a way that neither of the men had. Then he changed the brightness on the screen, and something snagged inside him, jolted his memory. He bolted upright in his seat.

  No. No way.

  Karen? The nose was different—too wide here—and he didn’t recall her having freckles, but maybe she wore makeup. Did she have a scar on her chin? He’d seen her numerous times over the last year, outside the courthouse, at the restaurants near the precinct, and once in a dark bar, back when she was still dating Griffen.

  He traced the line of her jaw on the screen. Probably her. But … why?

  Griffen had been sick, obsessed with Shannon to the point of hurting her and those around her, but he’d had a brain tumor. Delusions. He’d heard voices and his actions were a desperate cry for help. What were the odds that his girlfriend was just as crazy? And Griffen had never hurt a child. If Karen had taken Shannon and Evie … Maybe she was more ruthless than Griffen had ever been.

  “What’ve you got?” Petrosky’s voice didn’t jar him as it had earlier and Morrison tapped the screen. Unreal ...

  “Griffen’s girlfriend, maybe? It isn’t the best rendition, but—”

  “Now wouldn’t that be something?” Petrosky’s jaw worked overtime in his fleshy face. “Can’t imagine that she just happened to pick up where Griffen left off.”

  “Maybe she snapped.”

  “Or maybe she was the voice in Griffen’s journals.”

  Morrison tried to conjure images from the notebooks Griffen had left behind. Griffen had mentioned hearing voices. Doing things … for her. Said that her voice was stronger than all the others. They’d assumed it was nothing but hallucinations, all of it, but what if some of it had been real? What if her voice had actually been— “You think Karen manipulated him? To go after Shannon?”

  “I can’t imagine why that would be true. Just throwing out ideas, California.”

  But there’d been no trace of her at Acosta’s rape-homicide, nor at Bell’s house. The men were the ones who’d killed, who’d raped. Not Karen. Had she become involved with one of them inadvertently? Morrison flipped to Carleson’s picture. Or maybe she’d sought them out on purpose, knowing they were as sick as she needed them to be. Knowing that she could mold them. Maybe she’d wanted someone harder, more psychopathic, than Griffen, since he wasn’t able to pull off what she wanted—since he hadn’t been able to kill Shannon. But why?

  Feeding people ideas. Something she’d know how to do from years of working in the rehab center. But what did she want now? To hurt Roger, but—

  “I’ll grab Griffen’s file. Wish I could remember Karen’s last name.” Petrosky already had his phone to his ear. He headed for the stairs and Morrison threw the papers together and followed him through the bullpen. “Good afternoon, I’m looking for Karen,” Petrosky said. “I believe she’s one of your therapists?” He paused. “Oh really? That’s too bad. Thank you.” He turned to Morrison. “She doesn’t work there anymore.”

  But Morrison had seen her at the courthouse. He saw her all the time. Maybe she was only there because he was. His heart shuddered to life.

  Once you remember me, you’ll know exactly how to find me.

  Petrosky shoved the phone into his pocket. “Looks like we’ll be grabbing that file—see what we have on Karen. Then we’ll pay a little visit to the rehab center’s HR.”

  The receptionist at the rehab center had a sore on her lip, a dour expression, and skin nearly as sallow as the Formica countertops. She grimaced when Petrosky flashed his badge, but called her boss and gestured to a waiting room outfitted with vinyl chairs and green linoleum. They stood against the wall beside a framed print of a pasture.

  “Some shrink probably said, ‘You know what would calm these addicts down? Pictures of fucking meadows,’” Petrosky muttered as the head of HR emerged from the back. Black suit. White blouse. Straight, fifties-style bangs.

  Marie Silva’s office was decked out with the same green floor, though some effort had been made to pretty the place up with an Aztec wall covering. “So what can I help you with?”

  “Looking for a Karen Palmer.”

  “Oh. Well …” Her gaze darted around the room. “What’s this regarding?”

  “We just have some questions for her in an ongoing investigation,” Petrosky said. “No bearing on the facility, mind you, but without your assistance, we might be forced to look more deeply into your organization to rule out culpability.”

  Her lips formed a tight line as she appraised them. “Her reasons for dismissal are not protected by law. But I must say that—”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but time is of the essence. We’re on the same side here.” But Petrosky’s tone was more confrontational than friendly.

  She crossed her arms. “She was let go for a violation of ethics.”

  “The Griffen case.”

  “She was dating a patient during the course of treatment.” Her words were clipped. “Clearly a violation of ethical boundaries and contradictory to the agreements she signed at the outset of her employment.”

  Petrosky nodded noncommittally and opened the file. “Can you take a look at these photos? Tell us if any of these individuals have been in treatment here?”

  Silva shook her head and pursed her lips. “Now, that I cannot do. Patients are protected heavily by HIPAA laws. I’d lose my job and my license.”

  Petrosky pulled the male suspects’ pictures out anyway and set them on the desk side by side but she pushed them back toward him without so much as a glance.

  “You can help us, or we can come back with a court order.”

  They didn’t have time for a court order.

  She leveled a hard stare at Petrosky. “Do that.”

  Fuck.

  “Can you tell us whether they’ve ever worked here?”

  “Half the people who work here have been in treatment. Peer support is great for addiction centers, and our programs push rehabilitation and job seeking as a part of continuing sobriety.” Her back straightened, proud. “We practice what we preach, which means we pay now-sober ex-patients to provide mentoring, and to help with groups. That makes what you’re asking a gray area for us and ethically I cannot—”

  “What about the basics? Recent terminations? Anyone else that Karen took a special interest in?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No. If I’d seen her taking an interest in anyone else I would have put a stop to it immediately.”

  Petrosky leaned in and spoke quietly. “Ma’am, we all have the same goal here.”

  She sighed. “Listen, I can give you dates of employment, titles and salaries, but I’m not comfortable giving out every employee’s confidential information without a warrant.”

  “A list of employees for the last year. I’ll get those before we leave and we can come back with follow-up questions.”

  She glared at Petrosky like she wanted to slap him.

  “For now, let’s stick to Karen Palmer,” Petrosky said.

  Her mouth stayed tight but she leaned back in her chair as he slid the pictures back into the folder.

  “How did Karen meet Frank Griffen?”

  “I can’t comment on Griffen.”

  “He’s dead, ma’am.”

  “That doesn’t mean he has fewer rights, Detective.”

  Petrosky’s jaw was as hard as the stone crushing Morrison’s chest. Petrosky was trying not to push her—trying to get what they needed without losing his shit. But the boss was getting angry. The next words from Petrosky’s lips would probably get them thrown out, and they needed to ask about Karen anyway, not patients.

  “What did Karen do here?” Morrison’s voice sounded strange to him, as if it had come from someone else. Silva seemed equally surprised to hear him speak, her head jerking his way as if she’d forgotten he was there in the presence of Petrosky’s bluster.

  “Mostly intake,” she said.

  “Was she a clinical therapist?”

  “No. She was in
her last year of school for her bachelor’s in social work, some online program. Had me fill out forms saying she was here as part of an internship.” Probably for a school that didn’t exist. “All she did was the initial contact and the first set of paperwork: financials, legal issues, basics on what they came in for. Shortly after Mr. Griffen’s … uh … death, an act unrelated to this institution, our investigation found that she had been dating him. Which was quite surprising to those of us who knew her and not only because of her position with the center.”

  “Why was that, ma’am?” Morrison asked.

  She leaned over her clasped hands. “Because last we knew she was dating Roger McFadden.”

  28

  Every bump in the road sang through Morrison’s body like a voltaic jolt. Behind him, the sun sank into the blackening troposphere and dusk crept over the road now washed in amber from the streetlights.

  You’d better be home, you fucker.

  He tried to calm the heat in his chest as he pulled up. Roger’s lakefront property was more ostentatious than it should have been for a public servant’s salary. Red brick columns flanked a deep front porch with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of an oak door. Above, the second story balconies provided cover for the porch, reaching from one side of the home to the other. Trees lined the edges of his property, their trunks silent and gray as prison bars in the gloom. And so quiet. Even the water behind Roger’s house had ceased to lap the shore, though it still shimmered red and orange like fire under the setting sun.

  No one would know Morrison had been there.

  Roger answered the bell still dressed in his suit, though he’d loosened his tie. It lay against his button-down like a failed hangman’s knot. “Back again?” Smug as hell. “Ready to apolog—”

  “Do you remember Karen Palmer?”

  Roger’s eye twitched almost imperceptibly, but enough that Morrison knew the answer before he said it. “Vaguely.”

  Bullshit. Morrison sucked a breath through his nose. “You dated her last year. At the same time Griffen was dating her.”