The Colour of Death (24 page)

“Because I’m not sure if she is out of harm’s way.”

“Why?”

He laid out his files and photographs on the kitchen table and told her about what Connor Delaney had said about Regan Delaney, the cult and their obsession with the third eye.  “We all assumed the killer didn’t know Sorcha personally but was fixated on her public persona.  The cops were happy for her to leave Portland and return to some remote cult because they figured she’d be safer there, out of the way.  But what if the killer
does
know her?  What if he is or was part of the cult?”  Fox showed Samantha the picture on his cell phone and explained his theory of the colored letters.  “The colors of the letters at
all
the crime scenes correspond exactly with the ones used by Connor Delaney.  And with the letters Sorcha mentioned.”

She frowned.  “Matching colors might meant the killer’s got synaesthesia.  But even if he does have it, it doesn’t automatically follow he’s a member of the cult.”  She paused.  “Nathan, I know what you think about cults and why.  But I’ve dealt with a few New Age cranks in my time — you wouldn’t believe the New Age gurus and mystics who’ve jumped on  to the quantum physics bandwagon to give credibility to their theories about the duality of the body and soul — and Regan Delaney’s cult doesn’t sound any more sinister than the rest.”

“He’s certainly not the first person to interpret synaesthesia as a spiritual or psychic gift, either.  Back in the seventies, a synaesthete and self-styled psychic parapsychologist coined the phrase ‘Indigo Children’ to describe kids with indigo auras who allegedly possessed supernatural traits and abilities, including telepathy.  Despite widespread skepticism from the medical and scientific community, many parents, particularly of difficult children, were only too happy to have their little darlings classified as Indigo Children because it implied they were special.  Later, of course, most of the children were diagnosed as having nothing more glamorous than attention deficit disorder, or being plain spoilt.

“My point is, Nathan, Sorcha’s probably fine where she is, whatever the cult’s obsession with indigo auras, the sixth chakra or the third eye.”  She tapped her forehead as she said ‘third eye’, leaving a white mark, just as Connor Delaney had in Sacramento.  The gesture sparked a tantalizing connection in Fox’s mind.  He picked up the pile of crime scene photos on the table and began shuffling them like a deck of cards until he found himself staring at a graphic close-up of the severed head from the third crime scene.  His aunt turned pale when she saw the image.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly concealing the picture from her.  He had seen enough, however, to bring the connection into cold, sharp focus. 
How could he have been so blind?
  He riffled through the photos, focusing on pictures of the other victims.  “But the killer can’t have known…?” he started to say, before the connection led to another chilling insight.

“What is it?” said Samantha.

“I think the killer’s definitely connected to Sorcha.  Even more closely than I feared.”

“Why?”

He explained his insight and waited for Samantha to pick it to pieces.  But she didn’t.  “You could be right.  If you are, it would explain something that happened the other night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come.”  She led him to Howard’s study.  “The intruder was hiding in here when I walked past.  I only knew he was in here because he knocked something over and made a loud noise.  I should have been the one in shock when I confronted him but he seemed even more stunned than me.  I found this on the floor after he’d gone.”  She picked up the Mayan sacrificial stone from Howard’s desk.  It was broken in two.  “His fingerprints aren’t on it but that doesn’t mean he didn’t touch it.”

Fox understood immediately.  It confirmed his theory.  He reached for the phone and dialed Karl Jordache’s number.

“What are you going to do?”

“Try to convince the police that ghosts exist.”

Chapter 36

Fox knew it was going to be tough to win over Jordache.  Like all good detectives, Jordache believed in one thing only:  hard evidence.  The next morning, however, when they met in the homicide incident room deep in the warren of corridors that made up Portland’s Central Precinct police headquarters, Fox realized it was going to be tougher than he had thought.  The exhausted detective seemed more irritated at being called away from whatever he had been doing than interested in what Fox had to say.

“You got a
new
theory?”  Jordache sighed, gesturing to the notes and crime scene photographs plastered over one wall of the incident room.  “We’ve been up all night pursuing the last one.”

“I think I’ve found a link between the killer and my patient.  And a link to the cult she’s returned to.”

Jordache sighed.  “Nathan, it’s not like you to get so involved with an ex-patient.  We’ve talked about this.  She’s not your concern any more.  She’s history.  Let it go.”

“You don’t want to hear my theory?”

Jordache rubbed his eyes.  “We’ve already—”  He stopped and corrected himself.  “Sorry, Nathan, it’s been a long night.  Go ahead.  Your hunches are always worth listening to.”

“This isn’t a hunch.”  Fox walked over to the crime scene pictures on the wall and explained about his visit to Connor Delaney, the cult and the matching colored letters in the messages.

“Aren’t you taking this synaesthesia thing a little far?” said Jordache.

“It shows a connection.  It proves the killer had synaesthesia like Sorcha and was probably—”

“It’s just colored letters, Nathan.  It
proves
nothing.  It’s circumstantial at best.”

Fox pointed to the crime scene pictures showing Sorcha’s portrait stapled to the victims’ faces.  “Look where the staple is in Sorcha’s picture…”  he indicated each of the victims, “…in
all
the crime scenes.  And look where the staple is in each of the victims.”  Fox tapped his forehead.  “It’s in the exact same spot as the sixth chakra, the third eye.”  He pointed at a close-up.  “If you look closely you can see a trace of marker pen around the staple in the newspaper.  The killer drew a dot on Sorcha’s picture, on her forehead, before gunning in the staple — the same dot that members of the Indigo Family wear.  The killer’s either a member or an ex-member of the cult and he definitely knows Sorcha.”

Jordache shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  “For argument’s sake let’s say you’re right and the killer does have synaesthesia like Sorcha.  And let’s say he is or was a member of this cult.  These were copycat killings.  Forget motive for a moment.  How would a member of a remote cult have known about the prior murders that took place at each crime scene?”

Fox paused.  He had promised Sorcha he would keep her death-echo synaesthesia a secret, but could see no other way of convincing Jordache that her life may be in danger.  “There is one explanation.  Bear with me here.”  As fox explained his aunt’s theory of archaeosonics and his discovery of Sorcha’s unique synaesthesia, he could see the detective becoming more and more incredulous.

“Let me get this straight, Nathan.  You’re saying somehow people’s death throes are recorded in the subatomic fabric of the building in which they died and that Sorcha’s rare form of synaesthesia lets her play back these stored memories and relive their deaths?”

Fox tried to ignore the skepticism in Jordache’s voice.  “I know it sounds crazy but that’s how I knew about the prior murders.  Sorcha told me after visiting the three crime scenes.”

“She
sensed
them?”

“She saw, heard, smelt and felt them.  And I believe the killer did too.  He’s not just a member of the cult, he also shares her death-echo synaesthesia.  When he was in my uncle’s office he touched and broke a sacrificial stone used by the ancient Maya, a stone literally soaked in the blood of countless sacrificial victims.  I think he sensed something from that stone so unexpected, visceral and shocking that he involuntarily knocked it off the desk and alerted my aunt.”

“A sacrificial stone?  Are you kidding me?  What was his motive for killing the three men?”

“I’m not sure.  He obviously doesn’t share Sorcha’s natural fear and revulsion for death echoes so I’m guessing he’s psychotic.  I think they excite him and he uses them not only to relive the murders but also to replicate them with a twist.”

“If he gets off on these death-echoes then who come the sacrificial stone shocked him?”

“Because it was so intense and unexpected.”

Jordache groaned.  “What does your Professor Fullelove say about this… death echo synaesthesia?”

‘She doesn’t know about it.”

“How come?”

“Sorcha wanted to keep it confidential.”

“I bet she did.  Listen to yourself, Nathan.  With the greatest of respect, if I told you what you’ve just told me, without any real proof or corroborating witness, would you believe me?  Even if I did believe you, what can I do about it?  Rush out to this cult in the middle of nowhere and do what exactly?  No judge in their right mind would give me a search warrant based on sacrificial stones, a crazy theory of archaeosonics and a diagnosis of an entirely new condition… death-echo synaesthesia.”  He crossed his arms and shook his head.  He looked sad and tired.  “Hell, I’m not great fan of cults but where’s your goddamned perspective gone?  I warned you Jane Doe would get under your skin but come on, this sounds like your making up reasons to worry about her.  She’s gone now.  She’s no longer your concern.”

“She could be in danger, Karl.  The killer could be the reason she ran away from the cult in the first place.  And now she’s returned…”

“She’s not in danger from the killer.  Trust me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Jordache sighed.  “Because I think we’ve got him already.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s what we’ve been working on all night.  We unearthed a few suspects that fit our profile but one guy ticks
all
the boxes.”  Jordache gave a tired smile.  “He’s still in one of the interview rooms.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure.  See if you can ID him.  I know your aunt didn’t see him the other night and you didn’t get a great look at him at Tranquil Waters, but you did fight him.”  He led Fox down the corridor and into a viewing room.  Through a one-way mirror Fox could see Kostakis interviewing a man.  “Recognize him?”

The man was big enough to be the intruder Fox had fought with but triggered no recognition.  “No.”

“His voice?”

“I didn’t hear him speak.  You sure it’s him?”

“Pretty sure.  He’s a journalist called Frank Johanssen.  Used to be the senior crime reporter for the
Oregonian
but had a breakdown after his wife was raped and murdered in Old Town a few years ago.  Claimed the police knew who killed her but wouldn’t act because of lack of proof.  He’s now freelance and writes mainly about how the justice system failed him but he still has links with local police and has good knowledge of the underworld.  He knows most of the major players in Old Town from back in the day and has access to all the information required to have committed the copycat killings.”

It was Fox’s turn to be skeptical.  “The victims were cut up pretty good for a journalist.”

“Johanssen knows how to use a knife.  His old man was a butcher in Salem and Johanssen used to help him out when going through college.  He has motive, too.  He says Jane Doe inspired him to act:  to go through the old files, clean up Old Town and mete out some biblical justice.”

“Has he confessed?”

“Kind of.  Didn’t say much until Kostaki went through each crime in detail.  Then he smiled and said they weren’t crimes at all, but acts of justice.  He doesn’t even want a lawyer with him.  Says there’s no point because the justice system is full of shit anyway.”

Fox stared at the man, struggling to see a connection between the person behind the glass talking with Kostakis and the one he had confronted in the dark.  He wished Sorcha were here now because she might be able to recognize him from the death echoes at the crime scenes.  Not that Jordache would believe her.  “Does he have that rancid smell?”

“No.  But that doesn’t mean anything.  He might have just needed a shower.”

“Why did he attack Sorcha if she was such an inspiration?”

“Not sure yet but we’re working on a theory that he meant her no harm.  That he just wanted to meet her, connect with her.”

“I fought the bastard, Karl.  It wasn’t any social call.  He had a knife.  He poisoned her, for Christ’s sake.  Two nights ago he poisoned one of your cops.”

Jordache led him back to the incident room.  “He
tranquilized
them, Nathan.  There’s a difference.  Anyway, it makes a lot more sense than your archaeo-goddamn-sonics.”

In the incident room Fox noticed a file open on the main table.  It contained a photo of the suspect.  “What if you’ve got the wrong man?”

A shrug.  “Ever since we’ve had him in our sights the killings have stopped.”

“Perhaps they stopped because the killer’s followed Sorcha back to the cult?”

“Drop it, Nathan.  You can’t just make up stuff because you don’t like cults.”  Jordache groaned.  “I’m too tired for this shit.  All the evidence points to this guy being a shoo-in.  And that’s good enough for me.”  Fox realized that Jordache wasn’t going to change his mind.  And if the detective — his friend — didn’t buy his story then no one would.  Fox was on his own.  He handed Jordache a notebook and Samantha’s paper of archaeosonics.  As Jordache flicked through them, Nathan slipped the suspect’s photograph into his pocket.  “What the hell are these, Nathan?”

“The notebook records all the death echoes Sorcha sensed at the crime scenes.  It covers the earlier murders as well as the recent ones.  Read it.  Some of the details might surprise you.”

Jordache sighed.  “And this?”

“That paper explains the scientific theory behind what I’ve been trying to tell you.  When you find out you’ve got the wrong man you might want to read it, too.  Call my aunt about anything you don’t understand.  She’ll be expecting your call.”  He turned and walked away.