"She ran, but there was no place to go, so she ran into the woods." Chase was leaning on the viewing glass now, face only inches from Jansen's.
"She was screaming: but there was nobody out there. He caught her by this big tree, and she tried to run around it, keep the tree between them. Then he caught her and there was a creek and she fell into it, and that's when he got her; right on her shoulder blades. She had this long black hair and he pulled it up and zip with the razor. Then you know what he did? He did like this victory scream, he screamed…"
And Chase screamed, his head thrown back, his mouth open, his eyes glazed… and then he staggered backwards onto his bed, as though he'd been struck by lightning, his tongue out now, his body vibrating, words bubbling out, all nonsense.
Jansen disappeared from the camera view, and they could hear his voice from down the hall. Calling for help?
Sloan said, "That's not something you see every day."
THEY WERE BACK in Cale's office: "They got the message somehow. In detail. There's nothing on the tape, so it wasn't oral. It must have been written and delivered with the food," Lucas said. "We've got a list of the people who were around when food was delivered. Seven orderlies, three therapists. There were also two doctors and two more therapists in and out of the hallway, who looked or spoke to the Big Three at one time or another."
"Goddamnit. I can hear them building the crucifix, up at the Capitol," Cale said. He spun his chair, looking out his window. "And it's so hard to believe. I've known Dr. Hart for ten years, and he's a fine man. So is O'Donnell, despite all the hair and the hip bullshit. Dr. Sennet has been controversial sometimes, but he's a good therapist."
"I'm most interested in O'Donnell, Sennet, and Halburton," Lucas said. "They were both nearby when the food deliveries were made, I mean, right there."
Cale spun back to face them and shook his head. "I can make one suggestion: we could hope that whatever went into the cell stayed there. They could have flushed it, or eaten it, but sometimes… people like this will hold on to something as an artifact. A trophy. If we lock them down and shake down the cells, we might come up with one of the notes. That might give us something."
"Do that," Lucas said. "There's nothing we can do to help you-but I want the personnel files on those fourteen people. I'll need to copy them and take them back to St. Paul; and I'd like to get copies of the tapes, if I could. I don't know-maybe we missed something, because we were going through them too fast."
"I'll get it started," Cale said. He pushed himself heavily out of his chair and said, "God Almighty."
LUCAS CALLED THE Blue Earth County sheriff's office and gave them the information about the murder having been done in a creek, in a place remote enough that Peterson could scream and not be heard; but because of the search for a white car, Lucas couldn't believe that the killer would drive far with the body.
So: a creek close to the point where the body was found.
That done, he joined Sloan in Xeroxing the fourteen personnel files, while Cale organized the shakedown. They were halfway through with the paper when Cale came back to say that they were doing all three cells simultaneously, and included body-cavity searches.
"We're taking out every piece of cloth in there, including the mattresses, all the books, the clothing, everything. We'll shred all of it."
"How long?"
"Another hour. We've got six people working on it. Biggie was very unhappy. Taylor acted like he didn't care, and Chase is gone. I'm thinking of moving him to the medical ward."
THEY WAITED THE HOUR, browsing through the personnel files. Cale came back shaking his head. "Not a thing."
"You couldn't have missed it."
"No. You don't even want to know where we looked."
Lucas exhaled, slapped his knees, and stood up. "Dr. Cale, thank you. You've been a big help. We've made serious progress here. We're gonna tear up these files and maybe call you back tomorrow with some questions."
"You're gonna get the guy?" Cale asked.
"Yeah. Soon, now. A few days, at most."
Cale looked down the hall, where a woman was pushing another woman in a wheelchair, both of them laughing. "I wish we heard more of that around here. Not enough of that."
THEY DROVE BACK NORTH through one of the long, beautiful summer twilights, a few stars poking out like theater lamps, a moon coming up in the east, lopsided but nearly full. They didn't talk much; they were both running through the tapes in their heads. Sloan would occasionally turn on the reading light and look at one of the Xeroxed files.
After a while, Sloan said, "Besides Hart, O'Donnell, and Sennet, I think we should take a close look at Grant and Beloit. For reasons that are a little stupid."
"How stupid?"
"They both get great ratings from the patients. I figure, that's maybe because they identify with them."
"Ah, Beloit's out. The guy I talked to the other night-that was a guy. Regardless of the voice, he talked like a guy would. Like a shitkicker, like you'd expect from Charlie Pope. And didn't Taylor, when he was yelling at us about the license, say him, or he?"
Sloan thought for a moment. "I think it was, 'Our boy.'"
"'That's right," Lucas said. "'Our boy' You think that might have been put on to steer us away from a woman?"
"It's possible, but… not likely."
"If he was, he was giving away the license thing at the same time. I don't think that was deliberate," Lucas said.
"Right. I knew that. So we scratch Beloit."
"About ninety percent," Lucas said.
A BIT LATER,Sloan said,"Cale was right about building a crucifix. He'd be a prime candidate for it."
"Or us, depending on where we are when the music stops," Lucas said.
LUCAS DROPPED SLOAN with a Minneapolis cop car on the south end of the city, went on to St. Paul, and picked up a tape machine that would work with his home television; took a long walk to a Baker's Square restaurant on Ford Parkway and ate dinner; stuck his head in a Half-Priced Books; window-shopped a jewelry store, thinking about a welcome-home gift for Weather; and ambled back home, hands in his pockets, a tattered, pirate copy of Ernest Hemingway's poems under his arm. Mulling, all the way, the assemblage of information.
They were like squirrels who kept coming up with nuts they couldn't crack, he decided.
They had a guy who'd deliberately faked DNA, knowing that it would point the finger in the wrong direction. Who'd know about that? When he thought about it, he decided that… just about everybody would know.
A medical doctor, for sure-and Beloit was a medical doctor, though, unfortunately, she was also female, and the voice wasn't female. And almost any of the professionals at St. John's would know, because the state DNA bank made a big deal out of getting samples from all convicted sex criminals. Besides, after the rash of crime-scene investigator shows on TV, half the TV watchers in the country knew about DNA. Hell, even George Bush would probably know about it.
So that went nowhere.
The killer used, or tried to use, Ruffe Ignace to point them in the wrong direction. Serial killers occasionally talked to the press or the cops, so that was nothing new, but usually they were looking for glory or turning themselves in. This guy pretended to be looking for glory, but he was actually trying to use Ignace in a manipulative way; or maybe he was doing both, but the manipulation was certainly there.
Lucas thought about the meth lab. Could the killer have met Charlie Pope there? It was one nexus of criminals… but he didn't really need that. He had a nexus of criminals in the security hospital, all that he required. The hospital was part of it…