“What kind of therapy?” Reid asked, feeling weary. Psychological, and even drug, treatment for sex offenders was controversial at best.
“I hear that tone in your voice,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Police officers are not inclined to believe it works. But it does. His doctor works with him on imaginal desensitization.”
“Right,” Reid said. “Get those dirty pictures out of his mind.”
“And thoughts. And desires to act.”
“What about actual pictures? Does he like pornography? And how hard is it for him to stay away from Victoria’s Secret?”
“Possession of any of those items would constitute a parole violation. And he would return to Ainsworth,” she said.
The prison where Harris had been incarcerated.
Warren asked if it was okay if she was present when he interviewed Harris, and he said sure. He grabbed his jacket from the hook behind his office door. The drive took twenty minutes, including a stop at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and a plain cruller. He burned his mouth on the coffee and scarfed down the cruller just before pulling up to Osprey House.
The big, sprawling yellow Victorian building had a wide porch and a large cupola, and a hundred years ago, it had been a resort hotel. Now it was the land of broken toys: people whose luck had run out, who were trying to hide from a spouse or the law, who were trying to kick drugs or wanted an anonymous place to take them, who had lost their driver’s licenses and enjoyed the fact that cheap booze was just a two-minute walk away, whose income didn’t cover anything nicer than a tiny bedroom with a microwave and a shared bath down the hall.
“Hey, Paul.” Reid waved to the manager sitting in the front office behind bulletproof glass. They had met on many occasions. Quite a few of Reid’s frequent flyers—people who often seemed to wind up in trouble with the law—found their way to Osprey House.
“What’s up, Conor?” Paul O’Rourke asked, coming out to shake his hand. He was in his midfifties, with white hair and a bristly mustache, bright eyes, and a ready smile. Reid knew that his job was hard and that he was as much a bouncer and social worker as hotel manager.
“I’ve come to see Martin Harris,” Reid said.
“Ahh,” Paul said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Considering it’s not yet 4:00 p.m., you should find him at least semicoherent.”
“Enjoys a drink?”
Paul nodded.
“Does he get belligerent?”
“Braggadocio after he’s had a few—you know, how he used to be a professor, and he’ll fight anyone who says he wasn’t. To look at him now, you’d never believe he was. But mostly he keeps to himself.”
“Has there ever been an incident? A woman complaining about him?”
Paul shook his head. “No. We’re aware he’s on the SOR, but we’ve never had a problem with him.” He pointed at the stairway. “Room 408.”
Reid walked up four flights. He wasn’t surprised that Paul would keep track of residents on the sex offender registry. The stairwell smelled antiseptic, trying to cover stale cigarette smoke and ancient vomit. Every few weeks the morgue was called here to remove a body—mostly overdoses, some accidental and some suicides. The walls were soaked with the sadness of lonely people drinking themselves to death in their small rooms.
When he got to the top floor—the fourth—Reid walked slowly down the dark hall. Music and talk radio came from behind closed doors. There were eight rooms, two bathrooms. He heard a shower running. Room 408 was at the end on the right. Reid listened for a moment. Silence.
He rapped loudly. Music and talk radio in the other rooms stopped. There was something about a loud knock that announced a cop.
“Mr. Harris!” he said, knocking again.
After a moment, the door inched open. A short, stout bald man peeked out. He looked bleary eyed and was in a white-ribbed undershirt and baggy, faded blue boxers. He stank of last night’s vodka.
“Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Conor Reid. Are you Martin Harris?” Reid asked.
“I am,” he said, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wake himself up.
Reid heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Robin Warren entering the hallway. She was about forty, dressed in a stylish off-white suit and matching heels. She wore her long dark hair braided around the crown of her head. She and Reid nodded to each other.
“Robin, what’s this about?” Harris asked.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Beth Lathrop,” Reid said.
