Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“Is that what happened to this victim?” O’Donnell’s face had taken on a disturbing alertness, her eyes bright and feral. “Was she dismembered?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’d just like to know.”

“Professional curiosity?”

O’Donnell sat back in her chair. “Detective Rizzoli, I’ve interviewed a lot of killers. Over the years, I’ve compiled extensive statistics on motives, methods, patterns. So yes, it is professional curiosity.” She paused. “Dismemberment is not that unusual. Especially if it’s to aid in disposal of the victim.”

“That wasn’t the reason for it in this case.”

“You know that?”

“It’s pretty clear.”

“Did he purposefully display the body parts? Was it staged?”

“Why? You happen to have any sicko pals who’re into that kind of thing? Any names you want to share with us? They write to you, don’t they? Your name’s out there. The doctor who loves to hear all the details.”

“If they write me, it’s usually anonymous. They don’t tell me their names.”

“But you do get letters,” said Frost.

“I hear from people.”

“Killers.”

“Or fabricators. Whether they tell the truth or not is impossible for me to determine.”

“You think some of them are just sharing their fantasies?”

“And they’ll probably never act on them. They just need a way to express unacceptable urges. We all have them. The mildest-mannered man occasionally daydreams about things he’d like to do to women. Things so twisted he doesn’t dare tell anyone. I bet that even you entertain a few inappropriate thoughts, Detective Frost.” She kept her gaze on him, a look that was meant to make him uncomfortable. Frost, to his credit, did not even flush.

“Has anyone written you about fantasies of dismemberment?” he asked.

“Not lately.”

“But someone has?”

“As I said, dismemberment is not unusual.”

“As a fantasy or a real act?”

“Both.”

Jane said, “Who’s been writing you about their fantasies, Dr. O’Donnell?”

The woman met Jane’s gaze. “That correspondence is confidential. That’s why they feel safe telling me their secrets, their desires, their daydreams.”

“Do these people ever call you?”

“Rarely.”

“And you talk to them?”

“I don’t avoid them.”

“Do you keep a list of these callers?”

“Hardly a list. I can’t remember the last time it happened.”

“It happened last night.”

“Well, I wasn’t here to answer it.”

“You weren’t here at two A.M., either,” said Frost. “We called then, and got your machine.”

“Where were you last night?” Jane asked.

O’Donnell shrugged. “Out.”

“At two A.M., on Christmas Eve?”

“I was with friends.”

“What time did you get home?”

“Probably around two-thirty.”

“They must be very good friends. You mind telling us their names?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t I want my privacy violated? Do I actually have to answer that question?”

“This is a homicide investigation. A woman was slaughtered last night. It was one of the most brutal crime scenes I’ve ever walked into.”

“And you want my alibi.”

“I’m just curious why you won’t tell us.”

“Am I a suspect? Or are you just trying to show me who’s in charge?”

“You’re not a suspect. At the moment.”

“Then I’m under no obligation to even talk to you.” Abruptly, O’Donnell rose to her feet and started toward the door. “I’ll walk you out, now.”

Frost, too, started to get up, then saw that Jane wasn’t budging, and he sank back down again.

Jane said, “If you gave one damn about the victim, if you saw what he did to Lori-Ann Tucker-”

O’Donnell turned to face her. “Why don’t you tell me? What, exactly, was done to her?”

“You want the details, do you?”

“It’s my field of study. I need to know the details.” She moved toward Jane. “It helps me understand.”

Or it turns you on. That’s why you suddenly look interested. Even eager.

“You said she was dismembered,” said O’Donnell. “Was the head removed?”

“Rizzoli,” said Frost, a cautionary note in his voice.

But Jane did not need to reveal a thing; O’Donnell had already drawn her own conclusions. “The head is such a powerful symbol. So personal. So individual.” O’Donnell stepped closer, moving in like a predator. “Did he take it with him, as a trophy? A reminder of his kill?”

“Tell us where you were last night.”

“Or did he leave the head at the scene? Someplace where it would elicit maximum shock? Someplace it would be impossible to miss? A kitchen counter, perhaps? Or a prominent place on the floor?”

“Who were you with?”

“It’s a potent message, displaying a head, a face. It’s the killer’s way of telling you he’s in complete control. He’s showing you how powerless you are, Detective. And how powerful he is.”

“Who were you with?” The instant the words were out, Jane knew they were a mistake. She’d allowed O’Donnell to goad her, and she had lost her temper. The ultimate sign of weakness.

“My friendships are private,” O’Donnell said, and added, with a quiet smile, “Except for the one you already know about. Our mutual acquaintance. He keeps asking about you, you know. Always wants to know what you’re up to.” She did not have to say his name. They both knew she was talking about Warren Hoyt.

Don’t react, thought Jane. Don’t let her see how deeply she’s dug her claws into me. But she could feel her own face snap taut and saw Frost glance at her with concern. The scars that Hoyt had left on Jane’s hands were only the most obvious wounds; there were far deeper ones. Even now, over two years later, she flinched at the mention of his name.

“He’s a fan of yours, Detective,” said O’Donnell. “Even though he’ll never walk again because of you, he bears you absolutely no grudge.”

“I couldn’t care less what he thinks.”

“I went to see him last week. He showed me his collection of news clippings. His Janie file, as he calls it. When you were trapped in that hospital siege, over the summer, he kept the TV on all night. Watched every second of it.” O’Donnell paused. “He told me you had a baby girl.”

Jane’s back went rigid. Don’t let her do this to you. Don’t let her dig those claws in deeper.

“I believe your daughter’s name is Regina, isn’t it?”

Jane rose to her feet, and though she was shorter than O’Donnell, something in Jane’s eyes made the other woman abruptly step back. “We’ll be calling on you again,” said Jane.

“Call me all you want,” said O’Donnell. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

“She’s lying,” said Jane.

She yanked open the car door and slid in behind the wheel. There she sat, staring at a scene that was Christmas card-pretty, the sun glistening on icicles, the snow-frosted houses decked in tasteful wreaths and holly. No garish Santas and reindeer on this street, no rooftop extravaganzas like the ones in Revere, where she had grown up. She thought of Johnny Silva’s house, just down the street from her parents’, and of the long lines of rubberneckers from miles around who’d detour onto their street, just to gape at the eye-popping light show that the Silvas put up in their front yard every December. There you’d find Santa and the three wise men and the manger with Mary and Jesus and a menagerie of so many animals it would’ve sunk Noah’s ark. All lit up like a carnival. You could have powered a small African nation with the electricity the Silvas burned through every Christmas.