Jenny nodded. “They’re empathically and emotionally stunted, but even so, they often do have an uncanny ability to suss out someone’s weak spot. It’s a survival skill for them, and they start honing it from an early age. When most children are learning how to get along with others, make friends, and show affection, the psychopaths-who are emotionally incapable of those things-are figuring out how to manipulate others in order to get what they want.”
That certainly fit our letter writer to a T. “But if that’s the case, then how come no one saw all that in Logan? Wouldn’t it be pretty obvious?”
“No, not necessarily. The smarter they are, the better they are at observing how others respond to social cues and mimicking normal behavior. That doesn’t mean some people won’t figure out that there’s something ‘off’ about them. You can’t fool all the people all of the time. And in any case, we can’t be sure that Logan wrote this letter. It seems to me that the letter writer was the alpha in this duo, but there are no absolutes.”
“So the person who wrote the letter might be the second shooter,” I said.
“It’s possible.” Jenny frowned and picked up the letter. “But about this parting shot, ‘Do your job, you’ll stop us. Fail and we will go on. And on.’ I don’t want to overstep my bounds. I’m not your therapist, Rachel. But I want to be sure that you don’t get taken in by this effort to blame you for anything that might happen.”
I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware that my back hurt. “I’m not.”
Jenny observed me silently for a few moments. “I believe you have a particular…sensitivity when it comes to guilt.” I started to respond, but Jenny held up a hand. “Yes, I know it’s common. Many people-especially in law enforcement-carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. But given your background, I’d guess that you have a particularly acute tendency to believe you’re responsible whenever something goes wrong. So please try to remember that you’re not to blame for what these shooters do. Only they are.”
Her words reminded me of the feeling I’d had when I’d read the letter-an all-too-familiar heaviness in my chest, the coil of anxiety that wound around my gut. But I was in no mood to share. “I don’t have any doubt about that, Jenny.”
“Not consciously, no. But subconsciously, you might. And that alone I don’t worry about. It’s not the worst thing anyone’s ever had to deal with. But you’re under enormous pressure to catch these killers. When that pressure is added to your subconscious motivators, you may find yourself impelled to take undue risks.” Jenny gave me a stern look. “And that’s what I worry about.”
I tried for a smile to lighten the moment. “So I’ll move my toaster off the edge of the bathtub.”
No one laughed.
43
After Jenny left, Bailey reported on the uni interviews with Logan’s outer circle of friends. “None of them ever heard of anyone named Shane, and the unis had zero impression they were holding anything back. We can catch Caleb at home right now. I’ve got a call in to Kenny to see if he’ll meet us there.”
I filled her in on my call with Ed. Bailey agreed that the way the serial numbers had been burned off pointed to someone like Shane. Nice to know, but a minor detail that only left us more frustrated and miserable. With no line on either Shane’s or Logan’s whereabouts and disaster drawing closer with every second, it was all we could do to keep from punching the walls.
We headed back to my office so I could pick up my coat and scarf. I locked the door behind me, though I don’t know why. It obviously didn’t do any good.
“So we’re not going to use your office for the duration?”
“No way. Not until they figure out who planted that thing.” It depressed me, so I turned my thoughts back to the case at hand. As we headed out to the elevators, I thought of another question I meant to ask Jenny. “Why do you suppose they addressed the letter to me? Why not you? Or Dale Campbell?”
“Because you’re the famous one.”
It kind of made sense. The geeky nerd who wanted the world to know he was all-powerful. And Shane, the rebel without a clue, out to thumb his nose at authority in every way possible. Yeah, that could work.
We made it to Caleb’s house in record time. His mother, a pleasant-looking brunette on the attractively plump side, greeted us with a worried look. “Has something else happened?”
“No, ma’am,” Bailey said. “We’re just gathering information. Thank you for letting us impose on you like this-”
“Oh, my goodness, of course. Anything I can do. Kenny just got here. They’re in the living room. Can I get you anything?” We declined and she led us to a cozy room, where an inviting fire was crackling in the fireplace. Seeing it made me aware of how bone weary I was. I pushed the feeling aside.
Caleb, the pocket-protector nerd, and Kenny, a tall, handsome boy with shoulder-length blonde hair, were a study in contrasts. But seeing their easy body language, I got the impression they were pals.
We cut to the chase. “Do either of you know a person named Shane Dolan?” I asked.
“No,” Caleb said. “Why?”
“Kenny?”
“I know a guy named Shane,” he said. “Not sure about the last name. Maybe if you had a picture-”
Bailey held out her cell phone. The boys studied the photo.
Caleb shook his head. His expression said we may as well have asked if he’d been hanging around with Kim Jong Un.
Kenny didn’t hesitate either. “No,” he said. “The dude I know is my age. Who’s this?”
“We think he might be a friend of Logan’s,” Bailey said. “Do you remember ever hearing him mention the name?”
“No,” Caleb said. “Never.”
Kenny shook his head. I had no sense they were hiding anything. I had one last question. “Have either of you talked to Evan lately?”
Kenny said he hadn’t, but Caleb licked his lips and began to rub his palms on his pant legs.
“Caleb?” I asked.
He looked down. “He called me yesterday. Said you guys took his laptop and kept bugging him even though he told you he didn’t know anything.”
“How did he sound?” I asked.
“Stressed. Freaked.”
“And what did you tell him?” Bailey asked.
Caleb shrugged. “I told him you guys were talking to everyone. Seems like there are cops at someone’s house every day. So I told him he’s not the only one.”
That was certainly true. “What did he say to that?” I asked.
“Not much. I thought maybe hearing about how everyone was getting the same treatment would make him realize it was no big deal. But then I saw his tweets about you guys harassing him, so…”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe not.”
We asked how they were doing-not great, but as well as could be expected-and ended the interview.
Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore, and I decided a hot bath might relax me enough to take a full breath. The double shot of Dalwhinnie didn’t hurt either.
Graden called around nine o’clock sounding every bit as tightly wound as I was. We tried to keep it light, but the conversation kept stalling as our minds wandered back to the case, so we gave up and said good night. For the thousandth time, I thanked the gods that I’d found someone who understood the all-consuming nature of the job.
I set out my clothes so I could jump into them in the morning, and put myself to bed by ten o’clock with a murder mystery set in London. All the descriptions of fog and damp made me slide farther and farther under the covers, till I was practically holding the book above my head. Finally, I got sleepy enough to put it down and turn off the light.
When the hotel phone rang Saturday morning, I looked at the clock. Six a.m. What the hell? I’d told Bailey I’d be downstairs waiting for her at seven thirty. I snatched up the phone. “I said I’d be on time-”