Greg Iles: Blood Memory

“The teeth,” Sean prompts me. “Are you awake, Cat?”

I turn from the table to the dark blue square of my picture window. Night is falling fast. “We all have large numbers of bacteria in our mouths,” I murmur. The primary one is Streptococcus mutans, which produces the acid that causes cavities.”

Sean taps a yellow highlighter against the tabletop. “And the culture of the saliva from the bite marks on Quentin Baptiste had none of this bacteria?”

“Right. At twenty-four hours, no growth. Very unusual.”

“Could someone have made a mistake taking the saliva sample?”

“It wasn’t some flatfoot who swabbed those wounds, Sean. It was the FBI’s forensic expert. We have to assume he did his job right.”

“I don’t like assuming anything.”

I look back at Sean and try to keep my voice even. “Me, either. It was an assumption that kept me from figuring out who the killer was yesterday. When Kaiser first showed me that lab report, the strep thing was a flag. A couple of possibilities hit me-like someone on antibiotics-but I was totally distracted at the time. I’d just learned that my aunt had committed suicide, and I was trying to escape the FBI building. I knew the saliva might have come from someone without teeth, but the possibility of it being a baby…I just automatically ruled it out. I mean, we’re dealing with serial murders here. The image of a six-month-old just doesn’t go with that. I feel like an idiot now. I’ve just been so out of it for the past few days. Alcohol withdrawal, off my meds, Valium-” Pregnant, I add silently. “It took me seeing that drooling baby at the funeral home to put it together.”

“And this is what you came up with?” Sean says, tapping the photo at the center of the row. It shows a dark-haired girl of twenty-two. “Evangeline Pitre?”

“It’s her, Sean.” Evangeline Pitre is the daughter of Quentin Baptiste, the murdered homicide detective-victim number six. “That random meeting at the funeral home associated saliva and babies in my mind. After that it was simple elimination. I knew that none of the victims’ female relatives had sons younger than eighteen months old. But Kaiser had told me one of Baptiste’s daughters worked at a day-care center. The only question was whether that day care handled any male children under six months old, the age at which teeth erupt. I confirmed it by phone after I left the island, but I knew, Sean. I just knew.

“You can’t convince me that this girl committed all six murders on her own,” Sean says.

I study the photo, searching for signs of homicidal ability-as if such things were visible. Evangeline Pitre’s eyes are deep set and dark, contrasting sharply with her pasty skin. She has a certain prettiness, but also a guardedness in her face, like the look on a stray cat that expects a kick before a scrap of food.

“Her father was a homicide cop,” I point out. “There’s no telling what kind of skills and knowledge she might have.”

“And you think this girl is killing everyone’s abusers for them? Punishing them?”

“It might be just that simple. Or it might not. Pitre could be killing them without anyone else in the group knowing what she’s doing. But that’s not what my gut tells me.”

Sean makes a wry face. “My gut tells me that Nathan Malik developed the whole fucking plan. Pitre may have got the saliva to put into the bite marks. She might even have pulled the trigger, if she knows how to shoot. But where did she get the idea to use a human skull to make the marks? No, this chick didn’t come up with the crime signature we’ve been seeing. Hell, she didn’t even finish high school.”

“I agree, okay? But that doesn’t mean Malik was behind it. It could be any one of the other women in the group. One or all.”

“You’re forgetting Margaret Lavigne’s suicide note,” Sean reminds me. “‘May God forgive me. An innocent man is dead. Please tell Dr. Malik to stop it.’ Malik was controlling those women, Cat. Running them like robots, using their emotions to drive them.”

“He probably knew what was happening,” I concede. “That doesn’t mean he planned it or helped carry it out.”

Frustration tightens Sean’s face. “Why are you so hell-bent on defending him?”

“Because Malik was doing all he could to help women in severe pain. Women that nobody else knows how to save.”

Sean sighs. “We can debate this all night. What are we going to do ?”

“I told you. I want to talk to Pitre.”

“You want to go see this woman alone and-”

“Not alone. With you.”

“Without backup.”

“You’re my backup.”

He groans in exasperation. “You want to go in without backup and talk to a woman you think viciously murdered six men?”

“That’s right. We won’t be in any danger. She’s only interested in killing child abusers, not cops.”

“Margaret Lavigne’s stepfather didn’t abuse anybody, but he’s just as dead as the other five victims.”

“That killing was obviously a mistake, caused by a false memory recalled by Margaret Lavigne.”

Sean nods like I’m making his point for him. “Yeah. And who killed Dr. Malik? Who set that skull on his lap? The Hair Club for Men?”

“I’m hoping Evangeline Pitre can tell us that.”

Sean doesn’t reply. He’s staring at me intently, but he no longer sees me.

“What is it?” I ask, knowing an idea has hit him. “What do you have?”

“Maybe nothing. Hang on.” He picks up his cell phone and punches in a number. He’s calling the Second District police station, where Quentin Baptiste worked as a homicide detective. He asks to speak to O’Neil DeNoux, a detective I’ve never heard of.

“Who’s that?” I whisper.

“Baptiste’s partner. Hello? O’Neil? Sean Regan. I need to know something about Quentin. Cop to cop…Yeah, I know I’m working with the task force. But this isn’t going to the Bureau, okay?…Did Quentin carry a throwdown gun?…Fuck, man, this is serious…. Yeah?…” Sean nods at me, his eyes wide. “What caliber?…Thanks, man. I owe you…. I know you won’t forget it.”

He hangs up, his face pale. “Quentin Baptiste sometimes carried a Charter Arms.32 as a throwdown.”

My cheeks are cold. “Jesus.” I look down at the photo of Evangeline Pitre, suddenly unwilling to accept what I know to be true. She is the killer.

“What do you have against bringing in the task force?” Sean asks. “Do you have to be the one who personally breaks this case open?”

I look at him in disbelief. “Can you say projection, Sean? Shit. I don’t want this case to break open at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure the person behind these killings should go to prison. Not yet, anyway.”

His mouth drops open. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

“Six men are dead!”

“Child molesters. All but one.”

“The punishment for sexual abuse isn’t the death penalty.”

“Maybe it should be. For repeat offenders, anyway.”

He slowly shakes his head. “That’s for the legislature to decide. And a judge and jury after that, if it becomes the law.”

“The legislature doesn’t understand the magnitude of this crime. Look, I killed Billy Neal a few hours ago, and you didn’t have a problem with that.”

“That’s totally different! He was raping you. And he was going to kill you.”

“Granted. But child molesters aren’t just committing rape, Sean. They’re committing murder. The victims keep walking and talking, so we think they’re still alive. But their souls are dead. That’s one thing Dr. Malik had right.”