The Stranger You Know (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

At a true New York pace, Casey, Claire and Marc strode from the Lexington Avenue subway stop to East 52nd Street and Glen Fisher’s midtown apartment. Casey’s gaze darted up and down the block. Tree-lined sidewalks. Low-rise brick buildings. A local deli. A few small restaurants. A produce store. A stream of people arriving home from work. Some were hurrying inside their apartment buildings, ready to call it a day. Some were walking their dogs. And some were carrying bags of groceries they’d stopped to pick up for dinner.

Everything seemed so normal, just as it probably had last year, when a homicidal monster was living here without a single person’s knowing it.

A bone-chilling reality.

Ryan’s comprehensive background check on Fisher had given the team—and Hutch—the big picture on what the killer was about. The original stats the cops had provided last year had listed his age as approximately thirty-two or thirty-three. As it turned out, he was older—thirty-nine to be exact—with a trim physique, close-cropped hair and a smooth-shaven face that made him look a lot younger than almost forty. Professionally, he was a CPA in a medium-size accounting firm, where everyone pretty much operated autonomously, the only interaction among them being in the coffee room.

Upon Fisher’s arrest, all the employees had been interviewed, and it seemed that no one knew very much about him. They had, however, all thought of him as very sharp—a real go-getter with a long list of clients—and perfectly affable, and they’d been shocked by the details of the crimes he’d committed.

Personally, Fisher and his wife, Suzanne, had been married for ten years, and they had no children. Suzanne was thirty-six, and a piano teacher in midtown. Money wasn’t an object, since Glen Fisher’s parents were both deceased, and had left him a large sum of money. That, in addition to the sizable trust fund his grandparents had left him, alleviated any monetary concerns. He’d had one brother, ten years his senior, who, along with his wife, had been killed in a car accident a dozen years ago. Their nine-year-old son, Jack, had come to live with his uncle and had remained there until seven years ago, when he’d taken off on his own.

There was very little outside the norm about Glen Fisher—at least on paper. That made the whole situation more terrifying.

Casey knew that the NYPD detectives were already on the scene, as were Hutch and Brian Gardiner. She and her team had intentionally arrived a little late, when Suzanne would be preoccupied with the search taking place in her home, and might be more receptive to some human interaction.

The FI team climbed up the four flights of stairs to the Fishers’ two-bedroom walk-up, and rang the bell.

Suzanne Fisher opened the door. She was just as Casey had remembered her from the media footage of the trial—a thin woman with straight, light brown hair that touched her shoulders, angular features and brown eyes that were currently wide with apprehension. She looked like a frightened deer, one who wanted to run but had no idea in which direction to take off.

“Mrs. Fisher?” Casey asked politely. It was a rhetorical question, not only because Casey recognized her but because diagonally behind her were two detectives, rummaging through a rolltop desk in the living room.

“Yes.” Suzanne studied Casey quizzically, as if trying to place her. “Are you with the police?”

“No.” Casey steeled herself for the inevitable reaction. “I’m Casey Woods. This is Marc Devereaux and Claire Hedgleigh. We’re with Forensic Instincts.”

Sure enough, Suzanne’s entire demeanor altered like the flick of a light switch.

“I remember you. What do you want?” she asked in a clipped tone.

“Just to talk to you.” This was a time when candor was Casey’s best ally. “I realize you have no great love for us. But we’re hoping that, by speaking with you, we can help make sure that justice is done.”

“You’re the reason Glen was arrested in the first place.”

“We were assisting at the request of law enforcement,” Casey responded in a calm, straightforward tone. “Unfortunately, your husband attacked me at knifepoint in an alleyway. He was trying to rape me when Marc stepped in.”

Marc didn’t say a word. Casey understood that he was letting her take the lead, which was exactly what she wanted. A woman would have much more success with Suzanne. Not to mention that, between his powerful build and hard features, Marc was the epitome of intimidating. He could scare off a timid woman like Suzanne with one wrong response.

Suzanne’s lips had tightened at Casey’s statement, but the fear in her eyes didn’t fade. “That’s hearsay,” she replied. She’d been well-coached, but Casey could see that she didn’t believe a word of her own denial.

“No, that’s fact,” Casey told her. “Not hearsay and not supposition. But that’s not the issue. As of now he’s been linked to additional homicides. I wasn’t present for those. So I want to do some information-gathering, to make sure we get the most comprehensive picture possible, without being influenced by last year’s events. That includes not just the facts, but the nuances. We want to paint an accurate picture of your husband and his state of mind. Will you give us that chance?”

Suzanne balked. Obviously, Casey’s psychological approach had found its mark.

“The police are already here asking questions and rifling my apartment.” Suzanne was waffling in her decision. “What could you add that would have any positive impact?”

“Nonprocedural elements. We can probe areas that the police don’t feel are important. We can concentrate on
your
perceptions, on your assessment of your husband and his activities. Claire, for example, is an intuitive. It’s possible she can sit in a room or handle specific objects and pick up on your husband’s energy—what he was thinking or feeling. That might help us humanize him. And humanizing him could turn out to be the only way to soften the hard-core evidence the police have uncovered.”

Suzanne turned to Claire, gazing at her with the typical expression of curiosity that Claire had come to expect. “You’re a psychic?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Claire replied, opting to bypass the accurate definition of an intuitive.

“Bottom line,” Casey continued, “the evidence is stacked against your husband. You can’t hurt him by speaking to us. You might even be able to help him,” she repeated. “If there are mitigating circumstances, details that have been overlooked or a personal perspective that didn’t come out in court the first time, now is your opportunity to rectify that.”

A long pause ensued.

Finally, Suzanne gave a reluctant nod. “Okay. Come in.” She stepped aside so they could enter.

The three of them walked in. Casey glanced around, making a quick assessment of the apartment. Hardwood oak floors. Modern furnishings. Lots of space. More or less what she’d expected.

The detectives were going through the desk, drawer by drawer. Hutch was perched on the edge of a swivel chair, reading over bank statements, his eyes narrowed in concentration. His head came up at the sound of Casey’s voice, and he briefly met her gaze, his lips twitching at the realization that she’d talked her way in. Unsurprised, he went back to his work.

“Can we sit down somewhere and talk?” Casey asked Suzanne.

“Why don’t we take a few kitchen chairs and go into Glen’s study?” Suzanne replied. “The police have finished going through it. The place is a mess, but it’s comfortable. And we won’t be interrupted.”

That choice piqued Claire’s interest. “Did your husband spend a lot of time in his study?”

“Yes. That was his sanctuary. He spent long hours there, doing work or just thinking.”

“Good. Then I’ll have the best chance of connecting with him in that room.”

The study was a richly paneled room with a wall of bookshelves, a traditional desk and swivel chair, and a window ledge of potted plants. Although there were quite a few disconnected wires, the components of a state-of-the-art computer system remained on the desk and printer stand.

Casey got the immediate sense that Fisher kept things in strict order. The books were alphabetically arranged on the shelves, the plants were lined up equidistant from one another and the desk was in the exact center of the room.

“A total control freak,” Marc muttered behind Casey.

She gave a curt nod, then sat down on one of the chairs they’d moved in from the kitchen.

“Is there anything you’d rather Claire not touch?” she asked Suzanne.

That particular psychology worked well on people. It put the ball in their court, gave them control of the process. This way, they relaxed, and Claire wouldn’t have to worry about setting them off if she picked up some off-limits treasure.

Sure enough, the guard-dog look vanished from Suzanne’s face.

“I’m fine with you touching whatever you choose to. We have no valuables in this room.” She seated herself behind the desk in an unconscious attempt to erect a wall between herself and the FI team.

“Thank you.” Casey gestured for Claire to get started. Meanwhile, her own mind was already on the process at hand.

Marc lowered himself into the chair beside Casey’s, draping one arm across the back in a relaxed position. The less formidable he appeared, the better. As it was, Suzanne kept edging nervous glances his way.

“What can I tell you?” she asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Let’s start with how and where you and your husband met,” Casey suggested.

An innocent enough question—one that was usually greeted with some sign of tenderness or nostalgia.

There was none in Suzanne’s reply. It was almost as if she were reciting a well-memorized speech. “We met eleven years ago in a pharmacy right here in midtown. We both had the flu and were hunting down medications to make us less miserable. We ended up comparing notes on home remedies. Glen was charming, even with a fever. I gave him my telephone number. He called a week later to see how I was feeling and to ask me out to dinner. We dated for about five months. Then he proposed. We were married a month after that.”

“Wow.” Casey’s brows rose. “You planned your wedding in record time.”

“We didn’t have a traditional wedding,” Suzanne explained. “Neither Glen nor I have any family. Nor are we religious. So we went to a justice of the peace and said our vows.”

“I hope you at least had a honeymoon.”

“We took a cruise.” Once again, Suzanne tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was lovely.”

Clearly not. The woman was so strung out when she spoke about her husband and their relationship that it screamed dysfunctional. Suzanne’s body language was a manifestation of fear. No surprise, given the monster she was married to.

“I heard that you teach piano,” Casey continued, still sticking to safe ground. “Are your students adults or children?”

“Both. Mostly children.” A hint of a smile. “They’re challenging. It’s hard to make Mozart cool. But I love watching their reactions when they get it right.”

Mission accomplished. Suzanne had relaxed.

“You’re obviously good with kids,” Casey noted. “What about your husband—does he like children, as well?”

The mask snapped back into place. “He has no problem with them. But he’s not the paternal type, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Time to abandon that subject.

“What about music? You’re clearly into classical. What about Glen?”

“He’s not a huge music fan.” Suzanne shifted in her seat. “He spends most of his time on his clients. Since accounting is not my strong suit, I don’t ask too many questions.”

“Different interests can be good for a marriage,” Casey said. “What things did you do together?”

This time Suzanne flinched, ever so imperceptibly. “We watched movies. Glen did crossword puzzles. I read. We were homebodies. Nothing too exciting.”

Homebodies? Casey suspected that Suzanne was more of a prisoner.

Casey went in a little deeper.

“Was Glen an easy man to live with? Was he good to you?”

Suzanne was on her guard again. Her gaze flicked away from Casey’s. “I realize Glen hurt you. I’m not stupid. But, in his defense, he’s a complicated man. He doesn’t talk much about his past, but I know he lost his mother when he was six and his father when he was eight. His brother, Clark, was ten years older, so he kept Glen out of the foster care system and basically raised him. Clark got married when Glen was in college. Not too many years later, Clark and his wife were killed in an automobile accident. That left Glen on his own. I know what that feeling is like. It’s frightening. It changes you. It changed Glen. I’m sure of it.”

Casey was sure it had made him angry, introverted. But it hadn’t turned him into a psychopath. That sickness had been with him all his life.

She glanced down at her notes. “You mentioned that Glen had no family. What about his nephew, Jack? As I understand it, he lived with Glen after his parents died in the accident.”

“He did.” Suzanne swallowed. “Glen thought of it as a chance to give back. Clark took Glen in when he was young and alone. Glen did the same thing for Jack. He became his legal guardian.”

“Yet you didn’t mention him before. Had he moved out by the time you and Glen married?”