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CHAPTER 46
Charleston, South Carolina
DUE TO A FLIGHTdelay, I didn’t get into Charleston until one a.m. on Tuesday. The desk clerk at my hotel in the French Quarter could not find my reservation until nearly two. My luck finally changed around ten that morning.
After six hours of sleep and a breakfast heavy on the creole coffee, I’d gone to the Charleston police headquarters on Lockwood Drive, presented my credentials to the desk sergeant, and asked to speak with Detective Heidi Parks of the violent crimes unit.
Before he could answer, a woman behind me said, “I’m Detective Parks.”
I turned to find a tall, attractive brunette dressed in a black polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes and wearing a gold badge on a chain around her neck.
“Alex Cross,” I said. “I work as an investigative consultant for the FBI and the DC Metro Police.”
Detective Parks cocked her head, smiled, and shook my hand, oozing Southern warmth. “I know you, Dr. Cross. Back in the day, I attended several lectures you gave on criminal psychology during a six-week investigative course I took at Quantico.”
“I hope my talks were helpful?”
“Very much so,” she said. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I wanted to talk to you about theDoctor’s Ordersmurders.”
Parks frowned. “I closed the file on them a long time ago. The right man is sitting on death row in Kirkland.”
I held up my hands. “I’m not here to reopen your case, Detective Parks. I just want to talk.”
“About what, exactly?”
“Well, among other things, Thomas Tull.”
The detective stiffened, looked past me at the desk sergeant, who was filling out paperwork, and blew out her breath in resignation. “I figured someone official would come sniffing around about Thomas eventually. I’m actually glad it’s someone of your caliber, Dr. Cross.”
“Okay,” I said, a bit surprised by her answer. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Parks hesitated. “This is supposed to be my day off. But sure, just not here.”
She gestured toward the doors. We walked outside. It was gorgeous weather, low eighties with a light breeze that caused the palm trees to sway.
“How much do you know about the case?” Parks asked.
“I read the first hundred and fifty pages ofDoctor’s Orderslast night on the flight down from Boston.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “You were up there looking into theElectricmurders?”
I nodded.
“Well,” Parks said and cleared her throat. “That is interesting.”
“Can you bring me up to speed on this case? From your perspective?”
Parks thought about that and then shrugged. “Why not? Let’s take my car.”
For the next few hours, the detective drove me around old and new Charleston, showing me the locations of the pivotal scenes in the murders of five prominent physicians. All of the victims had lived in gated communities.
“The first two were out on Johns Island,” Parks said. “The last three were up on Daniel Island, facing the Wando River.”
Dr. Carl Jameson was the first to die. A divorced surgeon with a thriving practice who was part owner of a private surgical center, Jameson had lived in a big home on the eighteenth fairway of a golf course in Kiawah River Estates.
The detective stopped her car across the street from the house and said the killer had been meticulous in the Jameson case. Parks had been the first detective on the scene after a housekeeper discovered the surgeon dead on his kitchen table, his throat cut with a razor.
