Carol O’Connell - Find Me

A young man introduced himself as the author’s personal assistant, and he made a lackluster defense to the agent’s overheard remark. “She is a forensic psychiatrist. Accredited and board certified.” He presented Cadwaller with a handout sheet. “See for yourself.”

“Already saw it,” said the FBI agent, waving the sheet away with one hand. “She was accredited by a board of clowns, the group with the lowest standards. So, it might be legal, but that doesn’t make it right.”

Charles was also familiar with this board. It took a more in-depth course of study to become an accredited plumber. And now the author was advancing on other parents. He leaned toward the FBI profiler. “Uh, don’t you think this is a bad idea, given the subject of her book-serial killers?”

“I tried to stop it,” said Cadwaller, using his knife blade reflection to straighten the knot of his tie. “The reporters are running the show today. They want a few sound bites from the author, something colorful and bloody. And Berman won’t do anything to piss them off.”

Charles was appalled. The reporters were snapping photographs while the faux psychiatrist hugged a stunned parent against the man’s w ill. “What else do you know about her?”

“She’s a hired gun for defense lawyers. If your client’s a murdering rapist and he needs a bad-potty-training defense, she’s your girl.” The agent held up the flyer and pointed to a line of type. “Now this is a lie. She never worked on a police investigation. Her books profile the perps after they’re caught and jailed. And even then she screws it up.”

When the author and her followers moved in a straight line for the Finn family, Charles stood up, knocking over his chair in his haste to cross the room and plant himself in her path, saying, “You don’t need your picture taken with those children.”

With the air of royalty confronted with a filthy commoner, the author only glanced at her liaison to the masses, a young man, who pranced up to Charles and puffed out his little bird’s chest. “Are you a cop?” He folded his puny arms. “I didn’t t hink so.”

“I’m a cop,” said Riker, moseying into the fray. He only had to touch the smaller man’s c hest with one light finger to deflate it. “T a k e it outside, pal.”

The dinning room quickly became an author-free zone, and three men sat down to lunch.

Cadwaller looked around, saying, “I thought Dr. Magritte was going to join us.”

Riker turned a disinterested eye to the parking lot window. “I left him with Dale, down by the bison pens. He’ll be along. I don’t t hink the old man can take much more of your boss’s idiot ideas about security.”

Cadwaller smiled, obviously enjoying this slam on the special agent in charge. Charles found that odd, but just now his attention was focused on the agent’s hands as the man unconsciously aligned the salt shaker with the pepper shaker.

Mallory would have done that if she had been here.

Dr. Paul Magritte had found a quiet place with the cover of shrubs and trees, and he was deep into his daily ritual.

Unwinding time was a habit with him, and he did it with ease, as if merely fiddling the hands of a clock. Call it penance-undoing the onslaught of hours, days and decades, until all but one of the dead were un-killed. Next came the reconstruction of an afternoon, one detail by another.

He closed his eyes the better to see.

The old Egram place perched close to the highway that ran far beyond Illinois, and some called it the Main Street of America. The lines of the house were not true; the porch sagged and its posts leaned forward, fair warning to every visitor who ventured into the yard. His view was partially blocked by a truck parked in the driveway. The householder’s t rade was boldly but badly lettered on one broad side: Short Hauls and Long Ones- not a profitable business.

The police had never expected a ransom note.

He pictured the Egrams’ oldest child standing outside on the lawn. The younger one was dead and in the ground that day.

Paul Magritte opened his eyes. His hand closed tightly upon a small velvet pouch, the repository of tiny bones, one hand only, the hand of Mary Egram, five years old. She had been the first to die.

Yes! Blueberry pie. Riker sank his fork into the warm flaky crust.

Charles Butler had finished eating a civilian’s idea of food: meat, vegetables, and no sugar. Who could live on that? And now he was using a cell phone and losing his war against modern technology. “I have a new theory on the killer,” he said to Detective Kronewald. “I think this man-”

“Or woman,” Riker interjected.

Charles covered the phone for a moment to say, “No, I’m off that now.” He lowered his hand and resumed his conversation with the Chicago detective. He had to repeat himself. Apparently Kronewald had also reminded him of that earlier theory. “Yes, I know,” said Charles, “but I’ve just learned that he kills the children where he finds them. It would make more sense to scoop them up and take them to a covert location. He doesn’t w ant to handle them while they’re alive, but dead bodies are no problem. You see, what I took for timidity in regard to physical contact with his adult victim- Oh, I see… Yes… Well, thank you.”

Handing the cell phone back to Riker, he said, “It seems that Mallory’s already thought of the phobia angle.”

The detective smiled. “She’s good, isn’t s he? Crazy or not, she’s a hell of a cop.”

“Sorry,” said Charles. “I’m sure Mallory never doubted that the killer was male.”

“Probably not. So our boy is phobic. When I told you about my little problem with airplanes, you said that phobia was treatable.”

“Oh, yes. I could suggest a-”

“And this serial killer? His phobia?”

“Is it treatable? Well, it might have been possible with early treatment. Perhaps a course of drug therapy and psychiatric counseling.”

“Suppose he did get treatment. Maybe this slaughter fest is backsliding. Say he met up with the right doctor in his younger days. You think he could’ve fathered a child?” Riker had only to watch the man’s e yes to see the connections being made at light’s speed. This poor bastard had just realized that question was about Cassandra’s c hild-Mallory. And now the detective knew that his scenario was possible. It was all there in Charles Butler’s s o rry eyes.

Riker’s attention shifted to one of the parents, a woman who was shying away from the cameras, using her long hair as a veil to hide her face. It was odd behavior for this group. And now a cameraman was walking toward her, pointing his lens at her, and this was every caravan parent’s golden moment.

She left her table and headed for the restroom-to hide?

The detective opened his notebook to jot a few lines on his shortlist, where he had crossed out Darwinia Solho’s name and replaced it with another, the one she had been born with. He added a star, his personal method for ranking murder suspects. He looked up as Dale Berman entered the dining room in company with the redheaded profiler. “So, Charles, now that you’ve had a little chat with Cadwaller, what do you think of the guy?”

“I’m not sure.” Charles smiled, so happy with this change of topic. “For someone from Behavioral Sciences, that man is surprisingly ignorant.”

Jill’s D ad walked by. The bowl of water in his hands was no doubt meant for the wolf, but Riker thought this lethargic man was suddenly in too much of a hurry, and the detective left his pie unfinished to walk outside. Agent Nahlman was standing by her car. He only had to lift one finger to tell her that something was up, and she nodded to him as he crossed the lot to the pickup truck.