At the Stroke of Madness (37 page)

M
aggie watched Sheriff Watermeier stomp around Luc Racine’s small kitchen, examining the calendar on the wall, the ratty towel hanging from the drawer handle, the dirty dishes in the sink. Watermeier seemed to be interested in anything and everything other than the human skull submerged in its own broth. The large pot on the stove still felt warm to the touch.

Adam Bonzado suggested Luc come with him outside for some fresh air, but not before Bonzado poured a glass of water and gulped it down. Then he poured another glassful, this time, Maggie knew, for Racine, and followed the old man out the back door.

“He’s really shaken up by this,” Maggie said.

“Of course he’s shaken up,” Watermeier answered with almost a snort. “I’d be shaken up, too, if I had a chunk of someone simmering on my stove and couldn’t remember putting it there.”

“You think he did this and just can’t remember?”

“His damn dog has been digging up pieces for months now. Who knows what Racine has kept for souvenirs and what might be under the fucking front porch.” He noticed Maggie’s skepticism. “What other explanation is there?”

“Wasn’t Racine one of the men who found the first body?”

“Sure was. And he didn’t waste any time getting on TV to talk about it. This is probably another attention-getter for the sorry son of a bitch.”

“He claims someone’s been following him.”

“Yeah, and next week he’ll probably claim to be Abe Lincoln.”

“Has he done this sort of thing before?” Maggie was growing impatient with Watermeier’s sarcasm.

“What? Boiled up fucking skulls?”

“No. Has he done anything eccentric to get attention in the past?”

“Not that I know of. But you know the old man has Alzheimer’s, right?”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” she said calmly, but it was becoming more and more of an effort. “From what I know about Alzheimer’s, it doesn’t usually manifest paranoia.”

“What exactly are you saying, O’Dell? You think someone’s following him around, sneaking into his house and leaving him little presents like this to freak him out?” Watermeier crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter as if challenging her. He made the small kitchen seem smaller. Even his size-twelve work boots took up too much room.

“What if the killer saw Mr. Racine on TV? What if he believes he’s to blame for discovering his little hiding place?” She paused for Watermeier’s response, but he was waiting for more, still unconvinced. “We talked about this killer being paranoid and delusional. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. You also said he might come after anyone he thought was out to get him, to destroy him. But why choose Racine to screw with? Why not Vargus? He’s the one who really discovered the barrels.”

“From what we can tell, this killer bashes in his victims’ skulls from behind and then hides their bodies. We’re not talking about a killer with a lot of arrogant false courage. If you were him, would you go after the strong, young burly construction worker or the old man with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease?”

“You also said that he could panic. That he might kill again.”

“Yes. And I think he may have taken the woman I’m looking for, Joan Begley. She may have driven to Hubbard Park to meet him Saturday night.”

“Hubbard Park?”

“I found a note in her hotel room with Hubbard Park, West Peak and 11:30 written on it. The time fits with when she was last heard from. Could you check the park?”

“For her car?”

“Yes. Or her body.”

Maggie could see Watermeier’s eyes narrowing. He shifted his weight and leaned against the counter again, only this time he looked like he was seriously considering what she had said.

“You know I was with the NYPD for more than thirty years?”

The question startled Maggie. Watermeier was looking somewhere over her head, out the window, maybe watching Bonzado and Racine. Maybe. And although he hesitated, she knew he wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“I’ve seen a lot of weird crap in my time, O’Dell.” He glanced at her, then the eyes went back out the window. “It was my wife, Rosie’s, idea for us to move out here. I didn’t like it much at first. Her idea that I run for sheriff, too. I didn’t like that at first, either. Too goddamn slow of a pace. Then 9/11 happened. I lost a lot of old buddies. In one day. Gone.”

He scratched at his jaw, but this time he didn’t look back at Maggie. “I could have been with them that day. And I would have been gone, too. Just like that. I ended up spending weeks there…there in that mess. Rosie hated it, but she knew it was something I had to do. I kept going back week after week. Had to. Had to help find my buddies. It was the least I could do.

“We kept searching every stinking day, as if we’d rescue them though all we’d find were scraps, bits and pieces. Thirty years on the force and I thought I’d seen it all. But there wasn’t anything could prepare me for that mess. Faces melted off. A foot left in a laced-up boot. A severed hand still gripping the melted impression of a cell phone. I’ve seen a lot of crap, O’Dell. So this,” he said, nodding at the roasting pot on the stove, “doesn’t shock me. Neither does anything we’ve found in those barrels.

“But the difference here—” and now he looked at Maggie, making sure he had her attention “—this here I’m being asked to explain. Like there
is
some fucking explanation. I’m expected to figure this out. And then I’m expected to stop this asshole.”

Maggie wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. Was she supposed to tell him it’d be okay? That, of course, they’d find the killer? That she already had a more detailed profile drawn up in her mind? That her profiles were always right? She wasn’t even sure they could protect Luc Racine.

Adam Bonzado came in the back door, checking over his shoulder. Racine stayed seated on a bench on the stone terrace, his Jack Russell on his lap. The two of them stared out at the pond, the dog’s head turning and following the geese as they flew overhead, but Racine continued to stare straight ahead.

Bonzado looked at Maggie and then Watermeier. “Mind if I take that back to the lab?”

“Help yourself. Stolz’s not gonna be much help with this one. I need to get one of the techs to bag the roaster. O’Dell here thinks it might have the killer’s fingerprints.” There was no sarcasm in Watermeier’s voice this time.

“What about the old man?” Bonzado asked the sheriff.

“What about him?”

“You have anyone to stay with him tonight?”

“My guys are pulling double duty as it is. I can’t be asking—”

“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Maggie said, surprising herself with the offer almost as much as she surprised the two men.

M
aggie watched Sheriff Watermeier stomp around Luc Racine’s small kitchen, examining the calendar on the wall, the ratty towel hanging from the drawer handle, the dirty dishes in the sink. Watermeier seemed to be interested in anything and everything other than the human skull submerged in its own broth. The large pot on the stove still felt warm to the touch.

Adam Bonzado suggested Luc come with him outside for some fresh air, but not before Bonzado poured a glass of water and gulped it down. Then he poured another glassful, this time, Maggie knew, for Racine, and followed the old man out the back door.

“He’s really shaken up by this,” Maggie said.

“Of course he’s shaken up,” Watermeier answered with almost a snort. “I’d be shaken up, too, if I had a chunk of someone simmering on my stove and couldn’t remember putting it there.”

“You think he did this and just can’t remember?”

“His damn dog has been digging up pieces for months now. Who knows what Racine has kept for souvenirs and what might be under the fucking front porch.” He noticed Maggie’s skepticism. “What other explanation is there?”

“Wasn’t Racine one of the men who found the first body?”

“Sure was. And he didn’t waste any time getting on TV to talk about it. This is probably another attention-getter for the sorry son of a bitch.”

“He claims someone’s been following him.”

“Yeah, and next week he’ll probably claim to be Abe Lincoln.”

“Has he done this sort of thing before?” Maggie was growing impatient with Watermeier’s sarcasm.

“What? Boiled up fucking skulls?”

“No. Has he done anything eccentric to get attention in the past?”

“Not that I know of. But you know the old man has Alzheimer’s, right?”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” she said calmly, but it was becoming more and more of an effort. “From what I know about Alzheimer’s, it doesn’t usually manifest paranoia.”

“What exactly are you saying, O’Dell? You think someone’s following him around, sneaking into his house and leaving him little presents like this to freak him out?” Watermeier crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter as if challenging her. He made the small kitchen seem smaller. Even his size-twelve work boots took up too much room.

“What if the killer saw Mr. Racine on TV? What if he believes he’s to blame for discovering his little hiding place?” She paused for Watermeier’s response, but he was waiting for more, still unconvinced. “We talked about this killer being paranoid and delusional. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. You also said he might come after anyone he thought was out to get him, to destroy him. But why choose Racine to screw with? Why not Vargus? He’s the one who really discovered the barrels.”

“From what we can tell, this killer bashes in his victims’ skulls from behind and then hides their bodies. We’re not talking about a killer with a lot of arrogant false courage. If you were him, would you go after the strong, young burly construction worker or the old man with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease?”

“You also said that he could panic. That he might kill again.”

“Yes. And I think he may have taken the woman I’m looking for, Joan Begley. She may have driven to Hubbard Park to meet him Saturday night.”

“Hubbard Park?”

“I found a note in her hotel room with Hubbard Park, West Peak and 11:30 written on it. The time fits with when she was last heard from. Could you check the park?”

“For her car?”

“Yes. Or her body.”

Maggie could see Watermeier’s eyes narrowing. He shifted his weight and leaned against the counter again, only this time he looked like he was seriously considering what she had said.

“You know I was with the NYPD for more than thirty years?”

The question startled Maggie. Watermeier was looking somewhere over her head, out the window, maybe watching Bonzado and Racine. Maybe. And although he hesitated, she knew he wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“I’ve seen a lot of weird crap in my time, O’Dell.” He glanced at her, then the eyes went back out the window. “It was my wife, Rosie’s, idea for us to move out here. I didn’t like it much at first. Her idea that I run for sheriff, too. I didn’t like that at first, either. Too goddamn slow of a pace. Then 9/11 happened. I lost a lot of old buddies. In one day. Gone.”

He scratched at his jaw, but this time he didn’t look back at Maggie. “I could have been with them that day. And I would have been gone, too. Just like that. I ended up spending weeks there…there in that mess. Rosie hated it, but she knew it was something I had to do. I kept going back week after week. Had to. Had to help find my buddies. It was the least I could do.

“We kept searching every stinking day, as if we’d rescue them though all we’d find were scraps, bits and pieces. Thirty years on the force and I thought I’d seen it all. But there wasn’t anything could prepare me for that mess. Faces melted off. A foot left in a laced-up boot. A severed hand still gripping the melted impression of a cell phone. I’ve seen a lot of crap, O’Dell. So this,” he said, nodding at the roasting pot on the stove, “doesn’t shock me. Neither does anything we’ve found in those barrels.

“But the difference here—” and now he looked at Maggie, making sure he had her attention “—this here I’m being asked to explain. Like there
is
some fucking explanation. I’m expected to figure this out. And then I’m expected to stop this asshole.”

Maggie wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. Was she supposed to tell him it’d be okay? That, of course, they’d find the killer? That she already had a more detailed profile drawn up in her mind? That her profiles were always right? She wasn’t even sure they could protect Luc Racine.

Adam Bonzado came in the back door, checking over his shoulder. Racine stayed seated on a bench on the stone terrace, his Jack Russell on his lap. The two of them stared out at the pond, the dog’s head turning and following the geese as they flew overhead, but Racine continued to stare straight ahead.

Bonzado looked at Maggie and then Watermeier. “Mind if I take that back to the lab?”

“Help yourself. Stolz’s not gonna be much help with this one. I need to get one of the techs to bag the roaster. O’Dell here thinks it might have the killer’s fingerprints.” There was no sarcasm in Watermeier’s voice this time.

“What about the old man?” Bonzado asked the sheriff.

“What about him?”

“You have anyone to stay with him tonight?”

“My guys are pulling double duty as it is. I can’t be asking—”

“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Maggie said, surprising herself with the offer almost as much as she surprised the two men.