Alex Kava - The Soul Catcher

“Any famous shots I may have seen?”

“Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of Time. The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”

“Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”

Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”

“What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”

“Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”

“I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she was in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”

The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”

“Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”

Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up, Maggie knew she was right. Racine added, “He’s starting to forget a lot of stuff lately.”

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Early symptoms, but yeah.”

She looked away again, but not before Maggie caught a glimpse of vulnerability in the tough, wise-cracking detective’s eyes. Then she began sorting through Garrison’s stuff as if looking for something and asked, “What do we do about Everett? Everett and his little gang of boys?”

“Are the photos enough for an arrest warrant?”

“For this Brandon kid, I’d say definitely. We have these photos and an eyewitness that puts him with Ginny Brier in the hours before her murder.”

“If we can get a DNA sample, I bet we’ve got a match to the semen.”

“We’ll need to have the warrant served at the compound,” Racine said. “We might not have any idea what we’re walking into out there.”

“Call Cunningham. He’ll know what to do. It’ll probably require an HRT unit.” As soon as she said it, Maggie thought of Delaney. “Hopefully this won’t get messy. How long do you think it’ll take to get a warrant?”

“For the possible murder suspect of a senator’s daughter?” Racine smiled. “I think we should have one before the end of the day.”

“I need to make a quick trip down to Richmond, but I’ll be back.”

“Ganza said he needed to talk to you. He left a message earlier.”

“Any idea what about?” But Maggie was already headed for the door.

“Not sure. Something about an old police report and a possible DNA sample?”

Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time. Besides, maybe it was a different case. “I’ll call him from the road.”

“Wait a minute.” Racine stopped her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To try to talk some sense into a very stubborn woman.”

Gwen slid into the window seat while Tully shoved their bags into the overhead compartment. During the cab ride to Logan International Airport, they had managed to fill the awkward silences with niceties about the weather and some details about the crime scene. So far they had avoided talking about last night and what Nick Morrelli’s phone call had interrupted. She caught herself thinking that it might be best if they pretended it had never happened. Then she realized how stupid that probably was for a psychologist to even consider. Okay, so she wasn’t good at practicing what she preached.

He took the seat next to her, fumbling with his seat belt and watching the other passengers file onto the plane. It looked like it wouldn’t be a full flight. With no one to occupy the aisle seat there would be more opportunity for them to talk. Oh, wonderful!

Tully mentioned that he hadn’t gotten back to the hotel until almost sunrise. Maybe he would want to sleep. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened between them last night.

She knew it wasn’t unusual for two people who had just gone through a crisis to be drawn together in a way they ordinarily would never consider. And yesterday’s attempt on her life could certainly be considered a crisis. Of course that was exactly what had happened.

The flight attendants began the preflight procedure, and Tully watched as though he was captivated and had never flown before, an obvious giveaway that he, too, was uncomfortable. Now Gwen wished she had bought a paperback at the airport bookstore. At this rate, the sixty-minute flight would be excruciatingly long.

Once they were in the air, Tully brought his briefcase out from under the seat. With it in his lap, he suddenly seemed more comfortable, a sort of this-is-strictly-business security blanket.

“I talked to O’Dell,” he said while he flipped through a mess of papers, shoving pens, a day-planner and a clump of paper clips out of the way.

Gwen immediately wondered if he actually used the day-planner. Then she caught herself wondering what Maggie would think when she found out about last night, and about Gwen breaking her own golden rule of not getting involved with a man she worked with. But nothing had happened. They hadn’t had time to get…involved.

Tully brought out some copies of crime scene photos and was pointing out similarities. “O’Dell said that photographer, the one who sold the crime scene photos to the Enquirer, has photos of Reverend Everett’s boys mauling women in Boston Common yesterday.”

“You’re kidding. Yesterday?” Now he had her attention. “How did he just happen to be in Boston?”

“Supposedly, he overheard something about an initiation rite when he was shooting photos at the District’s prayer rally. O’Dell said last night’s victim is one of the women, and that it should be easy to identify the young men, too. Several of the boys show up in photos with Everett at the prayer rally, so there’s our connection.”