Kissing Trouble (34 page)

She gestured at the glass she had set back on the nightstand, empty of its contents.

Mason shook his head. “Typical,” he muttered.

Moving across the room, Julie followed him out with the shirt still clutched in her hand. She felt bad for using it to clean spilled pop, but she hadn’t been thinking when she’d grabbed for it, only that she needed to get the stain before it set in. She took it downstairs with her with the intention of tossing it in the washer and putting it back before Shaun realized it was gone.

“How are things with the doctor and the sheriff?” she asked Mason, who followed her to the laundry room.

He shrugged as she tossed the shirt into the washer and closed the lid, not turning it on; she had clothes upstairs she could toss in with it later. “They’re talking it out in the kitchen,” he said, answering her question.

She faced him. “Do you think he’ll let us go?”

Mason chuckled grimly. “Probably not. I think the good sheriff is convinced it’s one of us. Well,” he scratched the side of his nose with a finger, “I’m sure he thinks it’s either me or Shaun.”

Julie shook her head. “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“See that’s what they want you to think. In reality, it’s actually guilty until proven innocent. Unless the good doc can convince the sheriff of our innocence, we’re stuck here.”

Groaning, she stepped around him and made her way back down the hall towards the kitchen. Reynolds and Nixon sat at the table. Nixon was talking. Reynolds was scribbling in his notepad.

“And you’re saying this Jimmy fellow is the one responsible?”

Nixon nodded. “He’s done this before in multiple cases. I would show you records, but everything I had is gone.”

The sheriff hummed. “And he was in your care when he disappeared?”

Again, Nixon nodded. “I believe now that he played me. He let me believe he had gotten better when, in fact, he was gaining my trust, allowing me to lower my guard. When the opportunity aroused, he drugged me and left.”

Reynolds looked up. “He drugged you?”

“It was step five in his rehabilitation,” Nixon explained. “To let him become self-sufficient by means of cooking meals for himself and I. We started out with small items like sandwiches and the occasional pasta. Later on, I allowed him to use the stove independently without my supervision. Clearly that was a mistake.”

“Uh huh,” the sheriff muttered, looking about as impressed by the explanation as a pile of dirt. “So you knew he was dangerous and yet you allowed him—”

“He had been making progress!” Nixon stressed. “He had been doing very well. It was incredible.”

“But as you said, he was playing you,” Reynolds muttered.

Dark patches appeared on Nixon’s cheeks. He dropped his gaze to the table. “Yes, well...”

Reynolds tapped his pen on his pad in a way Julie recognized as frustration. “Doctor,” he began slowly, “why do you believe these incidents are connected to your patient?”

“Well, I don’t,” Nixon confessed. “But the patterns are the same. In every case, Jimmy has reinvented himself to become the person he is playing. Jimmy Deschanel and Frank are only two of the ten or so personalities he has claimed during his crimes.”

“So he knows what he’s doing?”

Nixon shook his head. He leaned closer to the sheriff and lowered his voice. “He has no knowledge of his actions when one of the other personalities takes hold. During my observations, the other personalities remain dormant until the urge to kill becomes too much for him to ignore. I was able to muffle the voices with medication, but it has been years since...”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Just how long has this maniac been on the loose?”

Nixon stiffened. “I do not like that word, Sheriff.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes. “Pardon my frankness, Doctor, but that is what he is. Now, can you please answer the question?”

Nixon shifted in his seat. He picked idly at a piece of lint on his pants before responding. “Four, perhaps five years.”

He said it low, as though mumbling it to himself, but in the silence of the kitchen, there was no mistaking it.

“Are you serious?” Reynolds dropped back in his seat. “And you’re only now reporting this?”

“Of course not!” Nixon snapped at once, offense squaring his shoulders. “I have sent every scrap of information I have on Jimmy to every law enforcement department in Canada, warning them to call me the minute something comes across that might sound like him. I have been from coast to coast. I left my practice, my other patients, and my life to get Jimmy the help he needs, because I feel responsible for every life he takes.”

“No offense, Doc,” Reynolds folded his notepad and stuffed it into his pocket. “But this boy needs more than help.”

“Jimmy isn’t dangerous!” Nixon protested.

Clouds of fury darkened over Reynold’s face. “I have a girl in the morgue who would disagree with you.”

“That wasn’t Jimmy,” Nixon insisted. “That may have been his other personalities. Jimmy is incapable of harming anyone.”

The sheriff dug out his notepad once more, flipped it open. “Describe his MO.”

Nixon drew in a deep breath. “I can’t.” He splayed his hands open, palms up. “It all varies on which personality he’s playing. Each one is unique and very different from the others.”

“All right, tell me what he looks like.”

Nixon nodded. “Well, he’s about five-nine.”

“And?” Reynolds prompted when that was all Nixon said.

“And I don’t know what else.”

With an agitated huff, Reynolds smacked his pen and pad down on the table. “Doc, you need to give me something to work with here. You tell me there’s a mass serial killer on the loose, has been for the last five years, but you can’t tell me his patterns, his description, or where I can find him next.”

“His appearance changes,” Nixon explained. “Jimmy had dark hair, almost black and brown eyes. He was pale and about a hundred and fifty pounds. But all of that can be changed and he is an expert chameleon. He will change his hair, his eyes, and even gain weight if that is his character.”

Reynolds ground his knuckles into the back of his eyelids until Julie feared he would gouge his eyeballs out. There were red marks when he finally lowered his hands. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, tell me about his patterns. How does he kill? Does he have a specific tell? How does he find his marks?”

Nixon thought about this a moment. His dirty fingers drummed on the table. He stared off at something behind the sheriff, like all the answers lay written on the wall.

“Doctor?” Reynolds prompted when Nixon took too long.

Nixon sucked in most of the air in the room and observed Reynolds with the look of someone who knew they were about to get an earful and opted to just get it over with.

“I can’t.”

This seemed to amaze, baffle, and annoy Reynolds. He sat back, folded his arms, and scrutinized Nixon the way one would a bratty little dog that had just pissed in their shoe.

“Excuse me?”

Nixon sighed heavily. “I don’t really know unless I know which personality he’s inhabiting.”

Reynolds threw up his hands. “Fantastic. So what you’re telling me is that there is a killer out there and we have nothing.”

Nixon mulled this over slowly and then nodded. “Yes, basically.”

“Doc,” Reynolds leaned forward, folded his hands on the table and bore heatedly into Nixon. “How long have you been studying Jimmy?”

“Since he was seven,” Nixon answered immediately. “I found him at a children’s psych ward. He had been brought there by the police after they found him in bed with his parents.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes. “They were sexually assaulting him?”

“Oh, no, no,” Nixon said hurriedly. “They were dead. He had slit their throats while they were sleeping. Blood everywhere. It had been such a mess. And he’d been curled in the middle between the two, drenched in their blood. They’d been dead for about a week before anyone went over to check on them.”

“Oh!” Julie clamped a hand over her mouth, bile rising up her esophagus.

“Great,” Reynolds muttered. “How old is he now?”

Nixon’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling as he did the math in his head. “I would say early thirties, but he looks remarkably young.”

Reynolds jotted this down in his pad. “So you’re not sure what method, or personality he’s using, then how do you know he is responsible for this case?”

“Because of the fishing wire,” Nixon replied. “It seems to be the singular link that connects all his personalities, his fascination with strangulation, suffocation, or a blade to the throat.” He tapped the three fingers of his right hand to his own throat. “He’s fascinated by the jugular.”

“Wait!” Reynolds put his hand up, stopping the doctor. “You just finished telling me there was nothing linking his personalities.”

“There isn’t.”

Julie could have sworn Reynolds’s left eye twitched. “But you just said...” His hand balled into a fist. A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Okay, let’s start over.” He spoke with a calm that would have terrified Julie. “Is there anything linking Jimmy’s personalities that can help us find him?”

“No.”

Any minute now, Julie expected the sheriff to reach across the table and punch Nixon in the nose, just on principle alone. But that wasn’t what worried her. Her fear was that Reynolds wouldn’t believe Nixon and she would have to stay in that place even longer. She really needed Nixon to get his story straight and start giving the sheriff some solid leads to follow.

Mason took Julie by the elbow and guided her to the stools. They sat with the island at their backs and faced the pair at the table.

“And how did you learn about this one?” Reynolds pressed.

“I was following another lead,” Nixon said. “There was an incident further west in British Columbia. A girl was found with her throat slit in a back alley.” Nixon rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “The police think it was the boyfriend who seems to have disappeared from the apartment they shared.  I tried to tell them what I’m telling you, but they refused to take me seriously.”

Reynolds scoffed. “I can’t imagine why.”

Nixon appeared unperturbed by the rib. “Anyway...” He waved his hand dismissively. “A detective friend of mine told me about the murder here. The girl, Bethany Row. He thought it could be Jimmy because of the way she was killed.”

Reynolds’ jaw flexed. “Your ...
friend
, didn’t think to notify the department here of this possible suspicion?”

Nixon shrugged. “It was a personal favor.” He pursed his lips almost wistfully. “I am hoping to find him and bring him home.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Even Julie knew it. Reynolds looked livid.

“That, Doctor, is illegal, or were you not aware? Actually, so far, everything you’re telling me about how you’ve gone about handling this situation sounds illegal. This person is responsible for one murder that I am aware of and if it turns out that he’s also responsible for all the others you just confessed to, he will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, not be given a cushy life with you.” He eyeballed Nixon like
Charles Manson
himself had materialized across from him. Julie couldn’t blame him. “He is not a disobedient puppy digging in the neighbor’s yard, Dr. Nixon. He is a psychopath who has committed probably more crimes than even you know about. I would eat my badge before letting you take him anywhere, except to a maximum prison.”

Nixon seemed to bristle at the statement. “This is my life’s work, Sheriff. No judge would ever throw a sick man in jail and he is sick. I will swear to this in court. He will be released back to me by the end of the week.”

Reynolds rose very slowly. His nostrils flared as he closed his notepad and slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. All the while, he glowered down at Nixon like he wanted nothing more than to stomp on the man.

“I guess that is something we will have to let the judge decide,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “In the meantime, I would like you to come with me back to the station. I have a few more questions for you there. I would also like you to talk to a sketch artist and give me the name of this detective friend of yours.”

The doctor rose and the two men, Julie noted, were the same height. While Reynolds was larger in the chest and shoulders, Nixon was lean and built like a swimmer. But both men seemed taller in their anger.

Reynolds motioned for Nixon to start heading for the door. The doctor turned wordlessly and began the march. But Julie hurriedly leapt off her stool and stopped Reynolds from following.

“Does this mean we can leave?” Julie asked the sheriff. “I can’t stay here anymore. I need to go home.”

“It would be safer for them if they left,” Dr. Nixon agreed from the doorway. “This whole area needs to be searched. If Jimmy’s here, which I am sure of, they are in danger.”

Reynolds seemed to consider this. He eyed Nixon, then Julie, and finally settled on Mason who had yet to get up. His nostrils flared as he drew in air. His shoulders and chest rose before dropping just as rapidly.

“I will investigate the doctor’s claim first,” he decided. “If his story pans out, I will have your cars released.”

It wasn’t what Julie wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

With an inclination of his head, Reynolds followed Nixon out of the kitchen and down the hall. Julie hurried after them and shut the doors. She locked them and turned to find Mason leaning against the kitchen doorway.

“Okay?” he asked.

She gave him a small smile. “Don’t have a choice, do I?” She went over to him. “Just have to hang on a little longer.”

He pushed away from the frame and met her halfway. His fingers closed around hers in a comforting grip. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

With no choice but to accept his words, Julie nodded. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “So have you tried to get a hold of Luis and Shaun?”

Mason shook his head, a frown darkening his features. “I don’t know where they could be.” He tugged her into the kitchen and walked with her in tow to the phone. “I left my cell upstairs,” he told her as he picked up the receiver. “But I’m sure they’re fine.”