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Then a thought occurs. “Where did the images come from? Were they taken at the scene?”
Detective Foster’s brow furrows. “I show you pictures of a tortured and murdered doctor and that’s what you want to know?”
I close the folder. “I assume you’ve come a long way to show me these, so you’ve been anticipating my reaction. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” As there were no lobotomy victims found in connection to Grayson in Maine, the detective has to be here on a mission from the prosecution in Delaware. “Otherwise, you’d have just simply emailed this to me.” I hand him back the folder. “You’re here to convince me not to take the stand in New Castle.”
He squares his shoulders. “I’ve read up on you, Dr. Noble. I know how you work. I know that if you stand before that jury and spiel some psychobabble about Sullivan’s abused childhood, then that monster could skate out of the death penalty.”
I crane an eyebrow. The detective is well aware that witness tampering is a crime. But in my experience, officers of the law are typically the ones to break the rules most often.
“But to answer your question—” he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “—Sullivan didn’t always dispose of the bodies. This one was discovered at the scene. He’s perfecting his methods.”
I angle my head away as he blazes up and releases a smoky exhale. Fitting, that he’s for capital punishment and chooses a habit that gets him closer to his grave each puff. “I would say that he stopped perfecting his methods a year ago. That is, if the perpetrator was indeed caught.” I glance at the folder in his hand. “Do you have evidence tying him to the murder?”
Grayson has admitted the killings to me. I won’t go on trial declaring his innocence. I just enjoy watching the way the detective’s eye tics at the thought.
“You’re welcome to any and all evidence, Dr. Noble. I’ll have it forwarded to you.”
“Thank you.” I star
t to leave, feeling this is a proper place to end the discussion, but he snags the arm of my coat to halt me.
“It’s my hope that once you’ve reviewed the evidence, you’ll know the right thing to do.”
I pull away from him and cross my arms. “The right thing to do, detective, is my job. And no amount of coercion from you or any other police official from New Castle will deter me from that.”
He holds up his hands in defense. “No one’s threatening you, doctor. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side that wants justice for the victims?” He tosses his cigarette down and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
I huff an empty laugh. “Wanting justice for the victims doesn’t give us a license to kill, detective. Now please contact my office for any further inquiries.”
I leave then. He waits until I make it around the bend in the trail to call out. “He drove an icepick through her skull. But she didn’t die from that.”
My steps slow, but I don’t stop.
“She bled to death,” he shouts.
The exit is in sight. I push through the latticed door and hit the sidewalk, where I find a private alcove between buildings. I press my back to the brick and drag in a breath. An ache lodges in my head, pain radiating from the back of my neck.
I’m not easily shaken. I’ve dealt with far pushier police officials when combatting the prosecution on cases. I was caught off guard, I tell myself. Moments before his intrusion, I’d been feeling vulnerable.
Only I’m not so convincing. Dr. Jenkins and her icepick feel foreboding as I conjure the image from memory. Death due to brain injury is a slow and especially cruel way to die. You don’t essentially bleed to death—not like how Detective Foster portrayed. Rather, swelling inside the skull crushes the brain, severing the function of vital organs.
And yet, I can see the genius of her death, her demise designed to match her crime. There’s no doubt in my mind that Grayson devised a trap to murder the doctor, but it doesn’t frighten me. Not in the way the detective had hoped.
My connection to Grayson goes deeper than simple transference.
When I look into his eyes, I see myself. Not a reflection of the woman—but the hollow echo of my blood-stained soul.
If he’s evil, then am I in danger of falling for the devil, or am I the devil herself?
I snap my head back against the brick, just hard enough to knock the thought from my head. Then I start toward home.
I’m still in control of my mind and emotions, despite my fears. And I refuse to admit I’m falling for a patient. I refuse to fall for a killer.
11
Nexus
London
