The Bone Fire: A Mystery (23 page)

“I’ll get you some water,” Gil said as he got up to leave. His mind was already on the next part of the interview, where he would find out if the grandfather was also the father.

Del was driving down Cerrillos Road as Lucy absentmindedly watched the buildings go by. Del was at the wheel of her car because just as they had been leaving Santa Fe Baking Company, Lucy’s brain decided to spin the world a little more quickly. She thought it best to
let him drive, but now it felt strange being a passenger in her own vehicle.

Neither of them spoke as Del slowed down for a traffic light. Lucy gazed out the window at a green street sign that stood on the corner. It read
SECOND STREET
in reflective white paint. Second Street, along with Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth streets, seemed to be the city’s one attempt at true grid planning, but the whole project included only five streets. There was no First Street. At some point, the industrious city planner who started the number system simply gave up. So where there should have been a Seventh Street, instead there was Llano Street.

The light turned, and the car ahead of them didn’t move. Del lay on the horn.

“Stop it,” Lucy said sharply without thinking, trying to pull his hands off the center of the steering wheel.

“What?” he laughed as the cars started to move. “Why?”

“People in Santa Fe don’t honk,” she said.

“Oh really?” he laughed again.

“It’s completely rude.”

“When did you become a Santa Fe expert?”

“I guess it was after I was forced to move here by my ex-boyfriend,” she said meanly.

“I didn’t force,” he said just as cruelly. “I believed you begged.”

Lucy snorted, shook her head, and looked out the window. She said nothing more until they got to Del’s house. He got out and said his signature postcoital phrase, “Thanks for the sex,” before closing the door. He had always thought it was so funny when he said it. Del could never get past the joke that only he appreciated.

Lucy got into the driver’s seat and went home, still fuming at Del. Once in the house she jumped in the shower. She was reading the directions on the shampoo bottle—which she did before every use—when she remembered she was supposed to be meeting Andrea at 10:00
A.M.
She had no idea what time it was. She rinsed off quickly and checked the clock: 9:49
A.M.
Damn. She called Andrea’s cell, hoping to catch her before she left the house.

“Hello?” said a male voice that answered Andrea’s phone. He sounded familiar.

“Tommy? Is that you?”

“Hey, boss. How are you?” Tommy said, chuckling.

“I assume this means that you’re with Andrea,” Lucy said, laughing.

“In every way,” he said.

“Eww, I don’t want to hear about it,” she said. “Can you ask Andrea if I can meet her at eleven instead? I totally lost track of time.”

“Sure, hang on.” She could hear Tommy saying something in the background before he got back on the phone. “She says that’s fine. Hey, did you hear the news?”

“What’s that?”

“They arrested somebody in the skull case. He’s schizophrenic or something.”

“What?” Lucy said, confused. She thought about all the planning it would take to put the skull in Zozobra. “That can’t be right . . . there’s just no way.”

“What do you mean?” Tommy asked.

“I just don’t see how that could be,” she said. She knew she must sound like an idiot.

“I don’t—” Tommy started to say. She could tell that now he was confused.

“You know what, Tommy? I’m not making much sense. Sorry. I’ll see you later.” She hung up before he could ask her more.

Lucy stood in her bedroom, with water dripping down her skin and onto the floor. She was too lost in thought to notice. They had arrested someone with schizophrenia in the skull case. It made no sense to her. The crime and the aftermath simply didn’t match the medical manifestation of the disorder.

Lucy popped open her cell phone again and dialed.

Gil was about to go back into the interview room with Rodriguez when the front desk told him that Alex Stevens had arrived. Stevens
came in looking tired with wrinkled clothes. Gil shook his hand and said, “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“Not quite yet. Ashley’s still got to get it out,” Stevens said with a yawn.

“How’s she doing?”

“Tired. She didn’t sleep at all last night and the contractions . . . she’s not handling it all too great.” Joe came over to join them. “So,” Stevens continued, “I hear you need some help with an identification.”

Joe nodded. “We just want to know if you recognize the guy from anywhere.”

“Who is he?” Stevens asked.

“We can’t really get into that,” Gil said quickly before Joe could answer. “We just want to know if you’ve ever seen him.”

They went into the viewing room, which had a two-way mirror that looked into the interview room where Geisler was being held. Geisler was now sitting cross-legged in the corner, talking to himself. Stevens furrowed his brow before saying, “I think I know that guy.”

“Really?” Joe said, surprised. “How?”

“I don’t know. I think I’ve seen him on the street by the house,” Stevens said. “Does he live in the neighborhood?”

Joe started to say, “Yeah, he—” but Gil interrupted with “Do you remember anything else?”

“I’m not sure,” Stevens said, “but there was this one guy who would stop and talk with Brianna pretty often and sometimes play with her. I think that’s the guy.”

“What?” Joe said, clearly surprised. “What are you talking about? Dude, how many times did we ask you about strangers who talked to her? It’s been a year and this is the first I’ve heard of it?” Joe shot Gil a worried look, like he expected to get reprimanded. Like it was his fault this had never come out before. Gil wasn’t sure if it was or not.

“I told the police about it,” Stevens said. “The other detective. The first one I met.”

“Fisher?” Joe asked with a hint of disbelief.

“Yeah,” Stevens said. “He said he’d check into it, but I never heard anything else about it.”

“Hang on,” Gil said, mostly to calm Joe. “This man you saw playing with Brianna. Is this him?” he asked, pointing at Geisler.

“I think so,” Stevens said. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but it sure looks like him.”

“How long did he play with her?” Gil asked.

“I don’t know,” Stevens said. “I saw him one day with Brianna in the front yard when I pulled up in my truck.”

“They were playing?” Gil asked.

“Yeah, it looked like they were playing with some dolls.”

Joe turned to look at Gil. Gil guessed what he was thinking about. The doll-head necklace found on the first statue of Mary.

“Did you speak to him?” Gil asked.

“No, he got up and ran away,” Stevens said. “I yelled after him, but then Ashley came out and said it was okay, that he was just a neighbor who sometimes stopped to say hi.”

“Did Ashley say anything else?”

“Only that the guy seemed a little off.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Gil asked.

“About a month before Brianna disappeared.”

“Alex, I have to admit that it concerns me that we’re just hearing about this now,” Gil said.

“Don’t blame me,” Stevens said, starting to get defensive. “I told that other detective. You’re the ones who dropped the ball, not us.”

Joe, looking furious, did the only right thing he could have done in the situation—he walked out of the room. Gil thanked Stevens and said they would stop by the hospital later to talk with Ashley and get a formal statement from him, after the baby was born. Gil knew Stevens would want to hurry back to the hospital and he hoped the gesture of goodwill would smooth over Joe’s attitude issues.

Gil was about to go find Joe and try to calm him down when his cell phone rang. He answered, but before he could say anything, he heard Lucy’s distinctive voice.

“You arrested someone in the skull case?”

“Lucy, I can’t—”

“Gil, look, I’m not asking you as a reporter or even as a friend,
or acquaintance or whatever it is that we are, I’m asking because I think you made a mistake.”

“It’s not—”

“Every news agency in the state, and maybe in the country, is going to be condemning this guy to death in a couple of hours. His life will be up on CNN, and then he’ll have no life. Just let me talk to you.”

“I don’t have time—”

“Great. I’m coming to the station. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Gil wondered if she was still drunk.

Gil planned to explain to Lucy that under no circumstances could he discuss the case, and he was sorry, but he could not share any information. So when she was escorted over to his desk by a uniformed officer he started to say calmly, “Lucy, I can’t—”

“Gil,” she said, interrupting him and looking surprisingly composed. He had expected histrionics and possibly more alcohol at work, but she looked put together and unruffled. She continued, “I’m sorry to barge into the station like this, and I know that you can’t give me any details of the case, but I heard that you arrested a man with schizophrenia, and I wanted to discuss with you the possibility that, due to his condition, he would be unable to do what he’s been charged with.”

“First of all,” Gil said, smiling. He could tell she had probably practiced that speech in the car. “I can neither confirm nor deny that we’ve arrested someone. Secondly, whether or not schizophrenia had a role in any crime
would be up to the doctors to decide. Not you.” He tried to add the last part gently.

She smiled and said, “Just consider me an expert on schizophrenia. Someone who can save you from making a potentially embarrassing mistake.”

Gil heard a throat-clearing noise behind him and turned to see Joe.

She stuck out her hand and said brightly, “Hi. I’m Lucy.” Gil could see the wheels turning in Joe’s head, and those wheels only turned in one direction. They shook hands as she said, “I was just discussing the case with Gil.”

Gil quickly corrected her, saying, “We are not discussing the case.”

“Jeez, Gil, lighten up,” Joe said. “Let’s hear what the lady has to say.”

“So,” she said with a smile at Joe. “I was just explaining to Gil that I know quite a lot about schizophrenia, and I thought before your investigation went any further it might do some good to look at your suspect’s situation.”

“His situation is that he’s nuts,” Joe said.

“Nuts how?” Lucy glanced at Gil and must have noticed his disapproving look. She put a hand on his arm and said, “I only want to hear a little about his behavior. I don’t care about anything else. How is that going to hurt your case?”

“Yeah, Gil,” Joe said. “How is that going to hurt our case?” Gil could feel himself relenting. He had to admit he was curious, mainly about how Lucy became a schizophrenia expert.

“Okay,” Gil said, “but when I say any information is off-limits you have to respect that. Let’s go sit in one of the interview rooms.”

When they were all seated around the table, Gil asked, “What do you need to know?”

“Tell me what he’s saying,” she said. When she saw Gil’s hackles go up, she added, “I don’t mean tell me if he’s confessed or said anything about the case. I mean how is he forming sentences? What kind of words is he using?”

“He’s confused. His sentences don’t make any sense,” Gil said.

“No,” she said. “I need to know exactly what he is saying.”

Gil pulled his notebook out of his pocket and read, “Rarely heaven is dog symptom” and “Giraffe spoiled drum pink.”

Lucy shook her head. “He’s in word salad. It’s the technical term. One of the hallmarks of schizophrenia is disorganized thinking, and word salad is about as disorganized as it gets. He’s probably delusional, has hallucinations. What else is he doing?”

“He’s constantly talking,” Gil said.

“That’s pressured speech,” Lucy said.

“Oh, and Gil, man, don’t forget the evil laughing thing,” Joe said. “He laughs and giggles when you talk to him.”

“Really?” she said, shaking her head. “No, see, this is the problem. This is why I wanted to come talk to you. People assume because schizophrenics act strangely that they are violent. A few might be, but the vast majority aren’t. Like this poor guy. It sounds like he has hebephrenic schizophrenia. You’ve got to get ahold of his psychiatrist and find out.”

“Why? What does that mean?”

“If he is hebephrenic, which I bet that he is, there is no way he could have had the ability to get all the stuff together that he needs, get downtown, get to Zozobra, put the skull in, and all that. That takes planning and purpose. Hebephrenics have no purpose.”

“Yeah, but still, the guy is nuts—”

“He’s out there, but he’s not your killer,” she said more strongly. “I mean, the way doctors diagnose hebephrenic schizophrenia is by two clear indicators: having no purpose to their movement and the laughing at inopportune moments. It’s classic.”

Gil shook his head. “Lucy, we have some fairly strong evidence against him.”

“What evidence?” she asked.

“We have an ID from the family,” Joe said, pretending not to notice Gil’s disapproving look. “He has a history of approaching neighbor kids, and he used to stop and talk with Brianna and sometimes play—”