At the Stroke of Madness (35 page)

R. J.
Tully cleared away the dirty dishes, putting them in the sink, and wiped up the crumbs. He pulled out the laptop computer and set it on the kitchen table, connecting the power cord to the outlet and the cables for Internet access. The lid showed a trace of dusting powder, otherwise the lab guys had been tidy, quick and efficient.

Bernard was still trying to track down the e-mail address, though it looked like Tully had been right. SonnyBoy used only public computers. They had tracked him back to the Meriden Public Library and the University of New Haven. At this rate they might never be able to identify him or narrow down a user profile. It looked like he used this address strictly for chat. There were no accounts, no member profiles, no credit cards or online purchases. Nothing except dead ends.

Tully accessed Joan Begley’s AOL account, using the password and going through her file cabinet. He read the e-mails that hadn’t been opened yet, but saved each, clicking on “Keep as new” just in case someone else was checking them, too.

Harvey jumped up from under the table, startling Tully. He had forgotten the dog was there. Within seconds he heard the front door unlock. This dog was good.

“Hi, Dad,” Emma said, coming in the front door, her friend, Aleesha, her constant companion, following.

“You’re home early,” he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he was feeling. These days he barely saw her and that was only in passing.

“We thought we’d study here tonight. Is that okay with you?”

She had already thrown her armful of books on the sofa and squatted down to hug Harvey’s thick neck. She laughed at her friend, who had to move or risk getting swatted by the dog’s tail.

“You can pet him,” she told Aleesha, who seemed to be waiting for permission. “Could we order a pizza later for dinner?”

She let Harvey lick her hand while she looked up at Tully. He thought he saw something in his daughter’s eyes—a sparkle, a glint—something that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. And that was pure and unadulterated happiness.

“Sure, sweet pea. But only if I get to have some.”

“Well, duh, of course you get some. Especially since you’re paying for it.” She rolled her eyes but was still smiling.

If only he had known that all it took to make his daughter’s eyes sparkle was the simple lick and wag of a dog. Who’d ever have guessed? Teenaged girls—he’d never be able to figure them out.

Sometimes it didn’t surprise him so much that Emma was almost sixteen as much as it surprised him that he was supposed to be the father of a sixteen-year-old. What did he know about teenaged girls? He had no experience in this category. The father of a little girl, now, that he could handle. He was good at protecting, providing and admiring, but those all seemed qualities his teenaged daughter considered lame.

“Come on, Harvey.” Emma called the dog from the hallway. “Watch him, Aleesha,” he heard Emma tell her friend as they went back to her bedroom. “This is so cool. He lies at the foot of my bed like he’s watching out for me. And those big, sad brown eyes. Aren’t they the best?”

Tully smiled. Evidently protecting and admiring were annoying characteristics in a father, but prime qualities for a dog. Was he being replaced in his daughter’s life? Better by a dog than by a boy.

He went back to Joan Begley’s e-mail. O’Dell had said that the rock quarry killer may be paranoid and delusional. She suggested that he hid the bodies because he didn’t want anyone to see his handiwork, unlike some serial killers who put the bodies on display to show their control, their power. So this killer, according to O’Dell, got what he wanted from something other than torturing and killing his victims. There may be no gratification in the actual kills for him. If she was correct, the killing was only a means to the end result, what O’Dell called his trophies. But if this was the same man who had taken Joan Begley, what did he want from her?

Tully scanned the contents of one of SonnyBoy’s e-mails to Joan Begley. He sounded genuinely interested and concerned about her. Yes, it might be necessary to lure the victim, get her to trust. But this seemed more than that.

The e-mail read, “You need to let yourself mourn. Let yourself be sad. It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to be embarrassed. No one will think of you as being weak.”

Did SonnyBoy connect with his victims in some way, actually feel for them? Or perhaps feel sorry for them because of their imperfections? Was it part of his game? Or was Joan Begley different?

Tully wondered if O’Dell was right. If on some level, the killer hid the bodies because he was embarrassed by what he was doing. Could that be? A killer embarrassed by his need to possess these deformities that others had? Perhaps even embarrassed that he must kill? Was that possible? It would make sense that he started out with people who were already dead. According to O’Dell, there was an old guy with a brain tumor who had been embalmed and buried. Maybe SonnyBoy started with the dead and worked up his courage. Or maybe his need to possess what they had finally overrode any qualms he may have had about murder.

Tully sat back and stared at the computer screen, the last e-mail that SonnyBoy had sent Joan Begley still open on the screen. Just how paranoid and delusional was good ole SonnyBoy? Tully was tempted to find out.

He probably should check out his theory with O’Dell. Probably shouldn’t do anything silly or reckless. And yet, what did he really have to lose? Maybe O’Dell was rubbing off on him. Maybe she was a bad influence on him, tempting him to stray from his by-the-book approach.

He scooted the chair closer to the table. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What the hell. He hit the reply icon, which brought up Joan Begley’s response screen. Before he could change his mind he typed in the message and hit the send icon. What if SonnyBoy did have Joan Begley, bound and gagged? Or what if he had already killed her? Then wouldn’t he be surprised to receive an e-mail from her, even if it was just one word:

“Why?”

M
aggie left Bonzado’s lab. It had been another warm day, but crispness filled the air as the sun began setting. She walked across campus, trying to enjoy the sights and smells of fall despite her mind flipping over the puzzle pieces Bonzado had added. She pulled out her cell phone as she checked the directions she had scrawled in her notebook. The building had to be close by. As she dialed, she looked around, wondering if perhaps it was on the other side of campus.

“Dr. Gwen Patterson.”

“Gwen, it’s Maggie. A quick question. Does Joan have anything wrong with her, like a physical handicap of any kind?”

“A handicap? No, not at all. Why?”

“I’m still trying to figure out if there’s a connection between her disappearance and this rock quarry killer.”

“But you said none of the victims matched Joan’s description.”

“Okay, now is not the time to worry,” she said, hearing the panic in her friend’s voice. “I’m just wondering if it’s possible he may have taken her. You have to be upfront with me, Gwen. This is no time for secrets.”

“Secrets? You think I’ve been keeping secrets about her?”

“Maybe not secrets, but something she may have told you in confidence.”

“I’ve told you everything that could possibly help find her.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s this about, Maggie?”

“The rock quarry killer has been taking…pieces from his victims. Imperfections. Deformities.”

“Like what?”

“One woman’s breast implants were missing. There’s what looks to be a crippled leg bone missing from another. And a man’s brain with an inoperable tumor was also taken. But if Joan didn’t have any physical deformities or any disease, I don’t think we need to worry that she was taken by this killer.”

She pulled the envelope from her notebook, fumbled with the index card and double-checked the address. How could she not find this place? Gwen still hadn’t responded.

“Gwen?”

“There may be something, Maggie. Joan’s lost a lot of weight in the last two years, but when she talks about it she sometimes tells people her weight problems were due to a hormone deficiency.”

“What do you mean, a hormone deficiency? You mean a problem with her thyroid?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, it may be time to worry. I’ll call Sheriff Watermeier as soon as I get back to Meriden.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m sort of taking care of some personal business.”

“You’re finally going to see him?”

“No, I’m not in Boston, Gwen. I’m not seeing Nick Morrelli. I’m not sure I’ll be seeing him ever again.”

“Actually, I didn’t mean Boston. I meant West Haven.”

Maggie almost tripped over the curb. She had never told Gwen about her brother. “How did you know?”

“Your mother asked for my advice before she gave you his name and address last December.”

“You’ve known all along? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me. Why didn’t you tell me, Maggie?”

“I suppose I was waiting, too.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Courage.”

“Courage? I don’t think I understand. You’re one of the most courageous people I know, Margaret O’Dell.”

“We’ll see how courageous I am. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

She dropped the phone into her pocket and was ready to give up—so much for courage when she couldn’t even find the place. Then she saw the sign pointing to Durham Hall. She stared at the building, hesitating. What the hell. She was here. It was silly to not go in.

She stopped at the front desk where a brunette with a nose piercing and pink eye shadow held an open textbook in her lap, a phone in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

“I know it’ll be on the exam. He only mentioned it about a thousand times.” She looked up at Maggie and without putting down the phone, asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Patrick Murphy.”

The girl glanced at a sign-out sheet on the corner of the desk. “He’s out until late this evening, but umm…You know, I think he’s working. You might be able to catch him there.” She pointed across the street.

At first Maggie wasn’t certain where she meant. Then she saw it, Champs Grill. A job to work his way through college, of course. It was one of the details she didn’t have in any of her files.

Champs Grill smelled of greasy fries, was dark and noisy and smoky with tall-backed booths, all packed with students. Maggie found a stool at the bar and began her search, looking out into the dining area and watching the waiters, wondering if she would be able to recognize him. And if she did, what would she say? How did you tell someone you’d never met before that you were his big sister? Maybe she should have sent a Hallmark card first. Didn’t Hallmark have a card for every occasion?

She saw a tall, dark-haired waiter at the corner table, laughing with the group as he took their order. Did his profile look familiar? He seemed to be the one making them all laugh and Maggie smiled, remembering how her father had been able to make her laugh so hard it hurt. She hadn’t laughed as hard since. So many of her memories of her father were overshadowed by his death. Instead of remembering his jokes and his hugs, she woke up in the middle of the night able to smell the scorched scent of his flesh, despite all the efforts the funeral home had made. Instead of remembering that medallion he had given her to wear for protection, one that matched his, all she could think about was that his hadn’t protected him when he ran into the inferno, only to be carried out a hero.

She fingered her own medallion now, though she kept it under her blouse. There were memories she needed to allow, reminders that didn’t need to be painful. She watched the waiter in the corner and she wondered if Patrick even knew who his father was. Had his mother shared that with him? Or had that been part of the bargain Maggie’s mother had made with his mother after their father’s death?

“Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?” she heard the bartender ask.

“A Diet Pepsi, please,” she said, when what she really wanted was a Scotch. She turned just enough to glance at him.

“Would you like that with a twist of lemon?”

“No, I really don’t—” She stopped in midsentence, staring at the bartender as if she were seeing a ghost. She
was
seeing a ghost. It was as if she were looking at her father, the exact same brown eyes, the same dimpled chin.

“No lemon?” he asked, smiling at her with her father’s smile.

“No, thanks.”

She tried not to stare while he tossed ice into a glass and poured her soda, setting it in front of her.

“It’s a buck fifty, but no hurry. There’s free refills on soda.”

She seemed to have been rendered speechless and could only smile and nod. He left her to serve others and she watched, feeling like a voyeur, studying his every move, mesmerized by his hands, the long fingers. He wore his hair the same, a pronounced cowlick giving him few choices.

After three refills and a detailed rundown of the weather she finally left, needing to get back to Meriden to meet Bonzado for dinner. She hadn’t had the guts to introduce herself. Hadn’t been able to come close, and yet as she got into her rental car she couldn’t help feeling like she had found something, something she had lost a long time ago and didn’t realize was missing until now. And she knew she would be back.