The Ripper Gene (11 page)

“Woodson! I live with two dogs and seven cats. It’s impossible for you to ‘impose’ on someone who has absolutely no life whatsoever. Really. We can trade war stories over dinner. No worries, once and for all.”

“Okay. As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Come on, and I’ll show you where you can wash up.” I stepped onto the first step of the old oak staircase and the dogs padded up the stairs expectantly.

With a final sigh, Woodson shook her head and followed.

*   *   *

After a dinner of jambalaya that had sent Woodson into several irrepressible bouts of praise, we retired to the living room. I had told Woodson about some old cases over dinner and was looking forward to continuing our conversation and learning more about her.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed another beer, bringing one back for Woodson. She was sitting on the couch and holding a picture frame. “So when’s the last time you saw them?” she asked. “Your parents?”

I looked at Woodson for a moment, then looked away, focusing on an old German cuckoo clock above the mantle. “Well” I said, “my mother died when I was pretty young. After that my father and I sort of … drifted apart. I don’t see him too much anymore.”

Woodson closed her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lucas. I knew that. I’m stupid. I forgot. Sorry.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Forgot what?”

“Jimmy had already told me about your mom before he partnered us up. I just forgot.”

“Really? And just what did Jimmy tell you?”

“I can’t really remem—” she started to say, but I cut her off.

“No, I bet you can remember. Why don’t you just tell me what else you know?”

Woodson shifted on the couch. “Nothing else, really. It’s not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

Woodson sighed. “All I know is she died on a Halloween night back in 1983. She and two other boys in the woods were murdered. No suspects ever found.”

“Yeah? That’s it? Sounds like Raritan gave you the whole story.”

“Lucas, I didn’t mean to—” Woodson began, but again I cut her off.

“No, you summed it up pretty good,” I said. “Pretty lady gets killed, nobody knows why, nobody cares after a while.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re a profiler for the FBI.”

“No, that’s why I don’t trust anybody, ever.” I stared at her. “So I bet you heard all about Mara and my brother, too?”

The shift of her body weight told me everything I needed to know. “No.”

It wasn’t even a good lie. I stood and nodded toward the mantel and the clock above it. “Hey, listen, you know, it’s getting pretty late. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Probably best if we just turn in.”

Woodson shrugged, ill at ease. “Sure. I guess so. So you’re finished talking tonight, Madden?”

I patted my leg and Watson jumped down to the floor. “Oh, yeah, can’t keep my eyes open for a minute longer. The guest bed is upstairs on the left, all made up. Make yourself at home, like I said. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I walked up the steps without another word, surprised by what felt like an angry blood flow still pulsing through my fingertips as I gripped the circular banister.

Woodson called from behind. “Good night, Madden.”

I pretended not to hear.

FOURTEEN

The next morning I decided it would be a lot easier to deal with my red-tailed hawk than to face Woodson after our unpleasant conversation from the night before.

Watson and Crick accompanied me outside, and we padded silently through the dew-laden grass toward the outdoor shed in the backyard housing the captive bird. My feathered ward watched me warily as I entered the mew, her hungry eyes darting back and forth between my face and the piece of rabbit meat in my gloved hand. After a few more seconds of indecision, she finally flapped twice and landed on my wrist. Once settled on my hand, she tilted her head and stared back at me, waiting for me to open the glove.

I never tired of looking into the wild, golden-flecked eyes of the hawks I rehabilitated. I always found myself wondering what went through their tiny skulls as each bird struggled to assimilate everything—the leather jess around her leg, her strange new environment, the ultralight cast on her broken wing, or the human staring at her only six inches removed from her razor-sharp beak. A human who faithfully fed her, gave her water, and attempted strange-sounding communications while she ate.

Maybe the profiler in me just couldn’t resist the desire to try to peer inside a mind, even if it belonged to another species.

After another few moments of the staring contest, I revealed the piece of rabbit meat in my gloved fist. Theta mantled above the snack, spreading her wings to cover her quarry on either side. After a last cock of her ever-suspecting head, she snapped her head toward the meat, using her talons to pin the meat to my glove. As the sharp and shiny black claws tightened into my wrist, I watched as Theta began to use her beak to rip the meat into edible pieces.

“She trusts you, huh?”

The voice startled us both. Theta flapped her wings unsteadily, and we both turned to face Woodson, who peered through the caged front of the mew. I shrugged. “I guess so. Hey, listen, about last night.”

Woodson cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t mention it, Lucas. You don’t need to say anything. I’m sorry it even came up. Not my business.”

I started to respond, but let it go. There wasn’t much more to say. Instead, I nodded toward Theta, to answer Woodson’s question. “You’re right, she’s pretty trusting. Got her wing clipped on the highway. I’ve never seen a hawk like this. Doesn’t seem afraid of humans at all.”

“I wish I could get used to them,” she said.

“Red-tailed hawks?”

“No,” Woodson said. “Humans.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” I lifted Theta back to the perch. “I’m all finished here. Give me a few seconds to wash up, then we can get going.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I’m in no rush. C’mon, Watson and Crick,” she called, “let’s go rustle up some breakfast for everyone.”

I stared after her as she walked back with a dog on either side of her, feeling more ashamed than ever. After leaving her last night, I’d quickly realized that I was mainly upset with myself, and maybe Raritan. But not Woodson. I’d had every opportunity to share my own sad story with her back when she’d confided her roommate’s story to me, but I’d chosen not to be equally forthcoming. So Raritan had beat me to it instead. It had definitely been a case of shooting the messenger last night, and I’d clearly been in the wrong.

And yet, here this woman was, greeting me and then walking back into my house without the slightest hint of hostility, calling my dogs, preparing to make breakfast for us all.

I left the mew, locked the door behind me, and walked back through the wet grass toward the house. I realized I’d been assigned a solid partner for this investigation, and I had the good sense to know I shouldn’t fuck it up for a change.

I opened the back door and called out. “Woodson. I need to talk to you.”

The apology went swimmingly, with Woodson reassuring me that none was in order and me overruling her that indeed it was. Afterwards, we sat down and enjoyed a delicious breakfast before preparing ourselves for the day’s investigation.

I was desperately relieved to begin the morning on a far better note than the previous night had ended on.

*   *   *

An hour later we were on Highway 90 and headed down to Mara’s psychiatrist’s office in Slidell. A bit later we passed the gas station where I’d received the eerie phone call from Mara that had set so many events in motion, and I pointed it out to Woodson.

Woodson spoke in a nonchalant tone as the marshy landscape rolled past. “So what’s the story with you and Mara Bliss, anyway? All Raritan told me was that she’s your ex-girlfriend and now she’s with your brother.” She looked at me for a second. “Honest.”

I smiled. “No worries. Let’s see. I met Mara in fourth grade. She and her mother attended my father’s church.”

“Why do you put it like that? She and her mother? No father?”

“Her father was an atheist.” I smiled as I thought of Charlie. “Ironically, despite that, he and my father were best friends back then and are best friends to this very day.”

“Really? Your minister father and an atheist? Sounds like it could be a sitcom.”

“It is, sometimes. I haven’t kept up with him. Mara’s father, I mean. But Katie, my sister, sees the two of them from time to time playing chess in the little park in front of the courthouse. They still bicker and argue about religion, but they leave it at that. I guess they find common ground elsewhere.”

“So you’ve known Mara since you were a kid?”

“No. I mean, we knew each other from fourth through eighth grade, but then her dad moved their family and I didn’t see her again for almost twenty years.”

“How did you run into her again?”

“Sheer chance, right after I transferred to the New Orleans field office. About three months after my relocation I ran into her one night in the Quarter.”

“Is that when you two became involved?” Woodson slipped the comment into our conversation without the slightest pause, and I in turn didn’t let on that I’d noticed.

“Pretty much. She lived in Biloxi and was a professor at William Carey. She taught classes in the development of the American novel and wrote stories for magazines like
Esquire
and
Story.
I found the adult version of Mara intriguing, and she seemed interested in my profession as well. We started seeing each other.”

“Is she still a professor?”

“No, she went full time into art collecting. She started a couple of galleries in New Orleans, which became one of the reasons she’d take off on her frequent trips to the city. I only saw the inside of a few of the art exhibits, but I read all the reviews. They were usually well received. It’s what she was doing when we split up, and I don’t think it’s changed. She met my brother a little while later and they hit it off.” I tried to relate the ending of the story with as much nonchalance as Woodson had used to initiate it.

We were silent for several minutes after that, until Woodson spoke up again. “Lucas. I’ve been wondering something. How do you think the Snow White Killer knew where Mara’s grandmother lived?”

“Yeah. Good question,” I answered, as we made a left onto a paved driveway leading through a grove of trees to Memorial Oaks. “In fact, it’s one of the main questions I intend to ask Mara today.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later we were buzzed through monstrous black iron gates and wound our way through a dense enclave of oaks and pines. The paved driveway eventually opened into a small, sparsely populated parking lot in the middle of a shaded grove of trees. Memorial Oaks was a modern-day castle set on rolling hills thick with perfectly manicured, lush green grass.

“Nice,” Woodson remarked as we walked to the front entrance. To our left a concrete pavilion housed a series of stone benches encircling a fountain, replete with a sculpted marble deer and fawn drinking lazily from a brook.

“First your house, now this place. No wonder the South holds so many secrets.”

“Too many, sometimes,” I said as we walked past the fountain and up the steps to the entrance of the main building. The inside foyer bore yet another fountain in the middle of a glossy black marble floor. We signed in with an older security guard behind a maple desk, who directed us to the third floor.

From the elevator we walked down the hallway and made our way to the final door. A brass nameplate reading
JAMES
A
.
KINSEY
,
MD
, hung beside it.

I knocked and a deep voice answered. “Come in.”

Dr. James Kinsey stood in an outer reception area, waiting for us. He was a tall, well-dressed man about my age, with a head full of prematurely gray hair, thick-rimmed black glasses propped on the bridge of his nose.

“Hello,” he said, “and please excuse the appearance around here. It’s my administrative assistant’s day off.” He nodded toward the empty desk on our right. “But please, come in.” He led us from the reception area into his own office, turned, and extended his hand.

Woodson shook it firmly. “Dr. Kinsey. Thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

Kinsey waved her off. “Anything to help Mara.”

As he mentioned her by name, the reality hit me that this Kinsey character might also be very well acquainted with our sordid past. The whole world might as well know, I thought sourly, and tried to focus. “Well, I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

“I do. Please.” He gestured to the two leather chairs in front of his maple desk and walked around the corner of the desk to sit in his own high-backed leather chair.

I took a moment to look around his office. Famous reproductions hung between the bookcases. Michelangelo’s
The Creation of Adam
hung behind Kinsey’s desk, while a
Houses of Parliament
by Monet hung to the left. The glass-paned bookshelves protected rows upon rows of journals:
The American Journal of Psychiatry, Neuron,
and
Journal of Molecular Neuroscience,
the latter two being journals in which I’d actually published during my former life as a neuroscientist.

For a moment I felt like I was peering into what life could have been like for me, had I chosen to live in the sanctuary of a medical profession or an academic career. The serenity of Kinsey’s existence almost stupefied me. It seemed so foreign to the violent world of criminal profiling that had become my own way of life.

Stethoscopes and microscopes. I’d traded the pursuit of medicine for the pursuit of madness.

Kinsey’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Mara’s told me a lot about you, Dr. Madden.”

I couldn’t tell if the smile on his face was intended to challenge me or was an attempt at an icebreaker.

“Anything that’s relevant to the investigation can be discussed here.”

“Good, good. Well then. Shall we begin?”

*   *   *

Over the next half hour, Kinsey pulled up his notes on the computer and reviewed his sessions with Mara, beginning with their first session from more than two years ago. He’d diagnosed her initially as a schizophrenic, but eventually changed his assessment to dissociative identity disorder.