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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.
