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“For one thing, that there’s a better chance than we originally thought that the kidnapped women are alive. The coin the Unsub leaves at each crime scene shows the strong dichotomy in his mind between the bad women he murders—the ‘Pythons’—and the good women he kidnaps—the ‘goddesses.’ If he feels he needs these goddesses, then he’s keeping, not killing, them.”
“For what? And for how long?”
“I can’t answer that—yet. But some trigger is compelling him to act each time he kills a prostitute or kidnaps a goddess. The prostitutes are an outlet for his sexual fantasies, so the trigger could simply be pent-up sexual need that he loathes and is ashamed of, but can’t control. So he takes control by killing the prostitutes, as violently as possible, after he’s through with them. But the goddesses—that’s the unknown. This isn’t a harem, it’s a specific collection of revered women, all with virtuous traits and preexisting relationships with Sloane. Once we figure out the Unsub’s reason for collecting them, I’d be willing to bet we’ll figure out his plan, his timing, maybe even where he’s imprisoning his victims.”
“So we all agree that the key lies with this list of Greek goddesses,” Larry murmured thoughtfully. “We need detailed information. That takes time. Maybe we can shortcut the process.” He shot Derek a quizzical look. “Not to sound callous, but can you get a hold of Lillian Doyle? I realize she’s terminally ill. And, yes, I realize she’s a sociology professor, but that woman knows her ancient history. She’s gone into long dissertations on the roots of violence in ancient civilization. I’m not sure if she’s an expert on Greek mythology, but I know she’s referred to it more than once during the workshop panels we’ve done together at John Jay. It’s possible she’d see a connection here, or, at the very least, know someone who would.”
“It’s worth a phone call.” Derek was already dialing. “Bob,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I know you’re swamped interviewing the John Jay faculty and students. But you’ve got personal contact information on the entire John Jay staff, and I need a home number fast—as in, yesterday.”
“Whose number are you looking for?” Bob asked, sounding as ragged as the rest of them.
“Professor Doyle’s. Also, I’ll need her son Luke’s cell-phone number, since I assume he’s taking her calls.”
Bob grunted. “You can have the numbers, but they won’t do you any good. Neither Dr. Doyle nor her son, Luke, has answered either their home or cell phones. And I’ve tried each number several times. I hope that’s not bad news, healthwise.”
“How many voice mails did you leave?”
“None. Both their voice-mail boxes are full.”
“Both of them? That’s weird.” Something about that didn’t sit right with Derek. And when he got that unsettled feeling, he acted on it. “Dr. Doyle. Do you know the name of her physician, or, given her condition, her oncologist? I could call and make sure she’s all right.”
“Sorry. Don’t have access to her medical info. But it shouldn’t be hard to finagle. Dr. Doyle lives on West a Hundred and Seventy-first Street near Broadway. I’m ass
uming her pharmacy is close by. Hang on for a minute.” Bob called out to someone who was summoning him into the interrogation room. “I’ve got to go,” he told Derek. “I’ll call you later. Let me know if you reach Dr. Doyle.”
“Will do.” Derek disconnected the call, then called Tony and explained what he needed.
“What are you hoping to find?” Jeff asked, once his partner had hung up.
“I don’t know.” Derek scowled. “But this feels wrong. And I can’t get what I need by phone, because no pharmacist or doctor is going to release patient information to me without seeing proper authorization. So Tony’s sending someone out.”
He spent the next half hour on the Internet, searching for experts in Greek mythology.
He was about to contact a local college, when his cell phone rang.
“Yeah, Tony, do you have something for me?” Derek listened, then punched “off,” an odd expression on his face.
“What is it?” Jeff asked.
“The agent Tony sent out located Dr. Doyle’s pharmacist and her oncologist. Evidently, she’s no longer refilling her meds, and she’s no longer a patient at that—or any other—oncologist’s office.”
“Since when?” Bill demanded.
“Since yesterday. According to her oncologist—who was very forthcoming, once he heard the circumstances—she delivered this news to him by phone. It came as quite a shock. She’d been following his health regimen from when the cancer had originally been diagnosed—which was, apparently, long after it should have been. The implication was, she hadn’t been going for regular checkups, or this might have been caught early on.”
“What kind of cancer are we talking about?”
“The doctor’s not at liberty to say. But Tony said that our agent spotted a number of consult reports in Lillian’s file when the oncologist was going through it. Most of those consults were with an ob/gyn.”
“Got it.”
“Her oncologist said that Lillian’s always had an incredibly strong will to live—even recently, when the prognosis was at its grimmest. So her phone call and abrupt turnaround came out of the blue. He strongly advised her that she was making a rash and ill-advised decision, especially with regard to the pain medication. But she was adamant. She announced that she’d decided to go off to her country house and spend her last days in peace. No meds. No doctors.” Derek’s head came up, a glint in his eyes. “Only her son.”
After that, Derek was like a dog with a bone. He was onto something and he knew it. Now all he needed was proof, and enough probable cause to get it.
Ninety minutes later, Bob Erwin was summoned out of a meeting for an urgent phone call.
“This is Erwin,” he said.
