“Jesus,” Schroder says. “What the hell are we digging up here?”
Nobody answers him. The person doing the digging has stopped digging for the moment while somebody else takes photos. The digger doesn’t pose against the shovel and smile. He just waits until he can carry on, much slower now. There’s an overwhelming feeling spreading through the group-nobody here thinks we’re going to be stopping at only three bodies.
Laying on a blue tarpaulin about ten meters from one of the fully open graves is a woman wearing a shapeless dress with a large bloodstain on the front. Karen Ford. Right now her friends and family are somewhere looking for her and praying she’s still alive, praying she’s gone away for a few days, but for a woman in Karen’s line of work, they’ll know she’s gone away forever.
“I fucking hate this job,” Schroder says, noticing me looking over.
“It would raise some serious red flags if you didn’t,” another man says, the man Schroder was talking to when I arrived.
“This is Benson Barlow,” Schroder says, introducing us. Barlow’s comb-over is being backlit from the sun, making it look even thinner than it is. His face is shiny from suntan lotion and looks red. He has a deep, smooth voice that could talk a suicide off a ledge. I shake his hand.
“I’ve heard about you,” he tells me.
“And you are?” I ask.
“He’s a consultant,” Schroder tells me.
“A psychiatrist,” Barlow adds.
“We worked together a couple of months ago,” Schroder says. “It made sense that since we’re dealing with patients from here, he may have some insight that could help us.”
“Some of them I dealt with over the years,” Barlow says.
“Adrian Loaner?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, no,” he says.
“Loaner does have a primary psychiatrist who he has to check in with twice a year,” Schroder says. “Doctor Nicholas Stanton.”
“I actually know Stanton,” Barlow says. “He’s a good man.”
“But unavailable,” Schroder says. “He’s on holiday somewhere in a different time zone where it’s cooler. We’re working on a warrant to get his patient files.”
“And how’s that going?” I ask.
“A warrant to get patient files from a psychiatrist? I’d have more luck talking my wife into giving up her credit card,” Schroder says.
“Loaner only had to check in twice a year?” I confirm. “That doesn’t sound like much.”
“It’s not much,” Barlow says, “but it is what it is and, remember, it’s not my fault, it’s not Doctor Stanton’s fault, it’s the number the courts and the government doctors came up with.”
“So tell me,” I say, “where would Adrian have taken Cooper now?”
“Somewhere familiar to him,” he says. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s not much,” I say, “and not something we hadn’t figured out.”
“Listen. .” he says, but I put my hand up and stop him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive,” I say. “It’s just been a long day.”
“It’s okay,” he says, nodding slowly. “It’s something all psychiatrists have to get used to when we’re dealing with cops.” He looks at me to say something else and I have an idea what it is, but I don’t give it to him. He carries on. “First some ground rules,” he says. “This is all speculation. It’s science, I’m nothing like one of those psychic assholes you see on TV. What I’m saying has merit. In my opinion there’s a chance he’ll come back here. First of all this is his home. He won’t want to leave it behind for too long. He’s been forced to leave his home and therefore he’ll be feeling stressed and upset, and stressed people like to return to the things that comfort them. That means anybody involved with the case should keep their pets locked inside tonight. You may consider posting some unmarked cars outside each of your own houses since each of you make targets, though in your case, Mr. Tate, it’s perhaps too late. That aside, I think you’ll also find he’s eager to return here. This has been his home for many years and he’ll be watching closely. In fact, he may even be out there now,” he says, and we all look out to the trees and the road looking for a madman looking in. “I would set up some patrol cars to intercept anybody who comes this way.”
“Have you read Cooper Riley’s book?” I ask.
“Just how did you manage to get a copy of that, Tate?” Schroder asks.
“Yes, Detective Schroder gave me a copy when he updated me on the case,” Barlow says. “It’s very poorly written,” he adds, “and inconsistent. The man believes he knows much more than he does, and he gives that away with his conclusions. I can do a much better job. In fact it’s something I’ve been thinking about for the last few years, and perhaps, well, I hate to sound like an opportunist, but perhaps there may even be some material here for it.”
“Jesus. .” I say.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but without people like me studying people like Adrian and Cooper, people like you wouldn’t have a clue where to begin.”
“Okay, point taken,” I say, annoyed that he’s made a good one. I’m just thrilled that at least somebody can make money from all this death and misery. “But there is something I still don’t get.”
“Just the one thing, Tate?” Schroder says.
I ignore the jibe. “Adrian wanted revenge on Pamela Deans and he killed her,” I say. “If he wants revenge on Cooper Riley, why not just kill him too?”
Barlow raises his eyes and his forehead twists into a string of wrinkles. “And that’s the big question, isn’t it? Yes, I’ve been giving it some thought. I don’t believe revenge is the motivation behind Cooper Riley’s abduction.”
“No? Then what?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I think it’s fascination.”
“Fascination?” Schroder repeats.
“I think when Cooper Riley was coming out here conducting his interviews and his tests, I think Adrian became obsessed with him.”
“You think he’s taken Cooper to own him?” I ask.
“It makes sense.”
And it does make sense. I should have seen it earlier. Should have figured it out from the moment I saw the cell downstairs.
“If he’s that obsessed, why wait three years?” Schroder asks.
“He will have needed to build the courage to act,” Barlow says, “and needed to acquire the tools. If it was about revenge then Cooper would already be dead. I’m certain of it. You say Adrian used a Taser? Why not use a knife, or a gun? No, it’s not about killing. It’s about collecting.”
Ritchie Munroe said he taught Adrian to drive. That had to be part of it. Until recently, Adrian didn’t have the means to bring somebody out here. It’s not like he could have put Cooper into the trunk of a taxi.
“You think Adrian knew Cooper was a killer?” I ask.
“It would suggest a greater degree of intelligence than we first thought,” Barlow says. “It’s more likely a great degree of luck.”
“You think he just happened to be following Cooper and found out he was a serial killer?” Schroder asks.
“The alternative would mean he’s better at doing our job than we are,” I say. “There’s no way he could have figured out Cooper was a serial killer.”
“Our job?” Schroder asks.
“You know what I mean.”
“I agree,” Barlow says. “The question now is just how much longer is Adrian’s luck going to hold out?”
Only it’s not Adrian’s luck I’m thinking about. It’s Emma Green’s. She was lucky Cooper was abducted, but it could mean she’s been without food and water since Monday night. I know on average a person can last around four days, give or take, without water, but these aren’t normal conditions. With the heat wave. . well, it comes down to how hot it is where she is. The pile of dirt at the latest grave gets bigger as more skeleton is exposed. I look out at the grounds and the graves still yet to be found, praying to a God who abandoned them to not abandon Emma Green and to let me find her alive.