“Carter and I noticed a high incidence of premature gray hair, particularly among people whose families go back generations here in Apex.”
“Jeremiah included,” Jo said.
Lincoln nodded. “Given the isolated nature of the core group of residents here, we posited it was a founder variant.”
“And the Crohn’s connection?” O’Shea asked.
“When we ran Jeremiah’s hair sample, we noticed a frameshift variant in his DNA that’s associated with a higher susceptibility for Crohn’s disease. That frameshift variant, like the premature gray hair, can be multiplied by the founder effect. There’s a higher incidence of both here in Apex.”
“But McCullough has dark hair.”
“Dr. Fear’s hair is dyed, according to that sample from the house. The true color is gray. Baxter told Carter that Dr. Fear rejected himself.” Lincoln flicked his bangs. “McCullough dyed his hair, tried to blend in, climbed higher in the university hierarchy, kept pushing down his fear of being trapped and stretching out the time between cycles, denying himself victims even as he was in the hospital monthly. The place he’d identified each of his first victims in each cycle. Fuck, can you?—”
O’Shea was already on his phone. “Drake, pull the hospital records again. Check for Ryan McCullough instead of the Petticoats.”
He almost collided again with Jeremiah, who was rushing back into the workroom, a bucket folder in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. He held the papers out to Lincoln first. “This is the cross-check of Apex U employees who were here during each of Dr. Fear’s cycles and when Baxter was here.”
Lincoln passed the papers to Jo. “Check for Ryan.”
Jeremiah thrust the folder at Lincoln next. “These are the photos. I think I already spotted one.”
Lincoln stepped to the nearest table and dumped the photos out. “Before, we were looking for a gray-haired man with Baxter. We tossed these out without carefully?—”
“Right there.” Jeremiah had his finger on one of the photos, on the dark-haired man next to Jeff Baxter. “That’s Chancellor McCullough.”
Lincoln found a second and third. He pulled the three pictures directly in front of him and pushed the other photos aside. He focused on the middle of the two pictures, the one in which McCullough and Baxter looked colder and stiffer toward each other than in the other two photos. Behind and around them in the shot, items were knocked over and displaced, like there’d been an altercation before someone had told them to smile for the camera.
“He knew what Baxter was doing,” Lincoln said, tying it back to his earlier theory. “Ryan wasn’t a meth addict. He knew what Baxter was doing, or planning, and he was in that meth house to haul him out. And when it got out of hand, he called Larry.”
“Who has been covering up ever since,” Jo said. “Ryan’s on this list. And those binges he was supposedly on correspond with these dates.”
“How did you know they were binges?”
“I confronted Larry about it. He didn’t deny it.” She lifted a hand to cover her mouth. “It was a cover. He knew about both of them.”
“I did.”
Everyone spun toward the voice in the doorway, and before Lincoln could blink, O’Shea and Jo were in front of him and Jeremiah, shoulder to shoulder, weapons drawn.
Larry raised his hands. Defensive cuts bisected his palms and forearms, and the chief moved like every bone in his body hurt. Lincoln bet there were bruises, maybe more cuts, beneath his dark uniform.
“I tried to stop him,” Larry said. “Then and last night. I thought it was over. I thought seeing what Baxter did would be enough to stop him.” Shoulders shaking, Larry covered his face with his hands and fell against the doorframe. “I never could. And now he has my family.” He looked up at Lincoln, tears pooling in his eyes. “And yours. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Nineteen
“Georgia, you waking up finally?”
Carter groaned and rolled onto his back—or rather, tried to. His cuffed hands dug against his spine, preventing him from lying flat, forcing him back onto his sore hip. “How long—” He winced, his voice too loud and too rough, like sandpaper scraping over a megaphone. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, and started again. “How long have I been out?”
Lingering aromas of coffee and flour floated closer. “Try again, Georgia,” Barry said. “Can’t hear you.”
Apparently, volume was just a problem in his own pounding head. He braced for the pain and raised his voice. “How long have I been out?”
“Guessin’ about twelve hours. Was dark when he moved us in here. Ain’t now.”
No, it sure as fuck wasn’t. Sunlight burned through Carter’s eyelids, an anvil right to the brain. He turned his face into his shoulder, trying and failing to hide from it. “Where the fuck are we?”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Georgia,” Trudy said.
