BLUE MERCY (11 page)

“Sure as hell is. And you’re lucky visitor number twelve thousand and two,” he said, indicating the counter at the bottom of the screen.

Kay clicked the cursor on a link titled
Get the REAL Story
. Together they skimmed an elaborated narration of the events that had transpired on Eales’s porch fourteen months ago. All lies.

Finn’s mood darkened as he read about police not announcing themselves at Eales’s front door and Arsenault’s citation of every American citizen’s right to bear arms in defense of self and home. Sitting so close to Kay, Finn could feel her tension as well and had the overwhelming desire to take the mouse from her hand and close the entire site so as not to subject her to the propaganda. But he knew there was no prying her from the terminal.

He read on: the exaggeration of Eales’s arrest and interview,
claiming he’d been “relentlessly interrogated by police” for more than ten hours, when Finn
knew
it had been six, maintaining Eales had been denied restroom breaks, food, and water, when Finn had seen Eales hauled off to the men’s room at least four times during that long, hot day in July while Kay still lay in the hospital. The memories were crystalline. Finn could even remember the look Eales had given him each time they’d led him out of the interview room, could remember the hatred that had swelled through him as he thought of what the man had done to Kay.

“Jesus,” Kay said, several lines ahead of him, “my name’s in here. More than once.”

She backed up to the main page again, this time clicking the link
Press Coverage.
More than a dozen links to the
Sun
and video bytes from the local channels ran down the page. Another click of the mouse and Jane Gallagher’s voice sputtered over the speakers through the media player. The video stream was choppy and the audio broken, short bursts that didn’t sync with the WBAL reporter’s image. Kay hit stop the second her own bloodied face filled the screen.

Then, Finn at last commandeered the mouse. Kay’s hand lingered under his for a moment before she relinquished it.

“It’s all bullshit,” he said, tempted to close it down, but knowing they needed to investigate the entire site.

While Kay watched, Finn went through several more pages, bringing them to one titled
The Evidence
just as Ed Gunderson joined them.

The sergeant stood behind their chairs, scanning the contents with them: the summary of the evidence, the victims’ slashed wrists, the heroin in their systems, and how each had been bled, then washed before being dumped
down a slope in Leakin Park. The address of the row house where Annie Harris’s body had been left was documented, along with highlights of the ME’s findings. All of it lay before them … before the world.

“What the hell is all this?” Gunderson asked.

Kay explained, a new waver in her voice, while Finn scrolled.

“Well, where’s all this information come from?”

“Most of it looks like it’s been picked up from the media,” Kay said. “I don’t think there’s anything here that isn’t public.”

“Wrong,” Finn said, his hand freezing on the mouse as the text appeared on the black background.
… several shallow knife wounds to the chest of each victim …

“How in the hell did he get that?” Kay stared at the reference and finally pushed away from the desk. “If that detail is on the site,” she said, pacing, “anyone could have read it.”

“Which means your suspect list just got a hell of a lot longer.” Gunderson’s words were clipped.

“Twelve thousand and two hits on his site. That’s a long list.”

“Who put this damned site together?” Gunderson asked.

“Some wannabe serial-killer junkie named Scott Arsenault.”

“So is this a departmental leak or is this mope some friend of Eales’s?”

Kay shook her head, her jaw twitching, her lips tight.

“Well, you’re gonna find this little asswipe,” Gunderson said, “and you’re going to find out how the hell he knows about those cuts to the victims’ chest.”

SCOTT ARSENAULT
lived on President Street in an upscale high-rise a world away from Eales’s dump across the harbor. Taking the marble-floored elevator to the twentieth floor, Kay could feel the anger steaming off Finn. It was even more palpable when he brought his fist to the double doors of the Web designer’s condo. And as they waited, Kay knew there was more behind Finn’s mood than Arsenault’s site. Her inclusion in the site’s content had really put Finn over the edge. He hammered on the door again.

Arsenault was smiling when he answered. He was handsome: lean but well muscled under the crisp oxford shirt with button-down collar, tucked into a pair of pressed linen pants. Except for the trimmed goatee, he had an adolescent’s face, with the kind of features and good skin that would likely have him mistaken for twentysomething even into his forties. Kay thought he had a pleasant face.

“You Scott Arsenault?” Finn asked, showing his shield, waiting for the nod. “We need to talk to you.”

“Can’t this wait, Detective? I’m with a client.”

“A client?”

As if on cue, a large, heavy-jowled man stepped into view at the head of the foyer, his tailored suit looking as though it had been fitted forty pounds ago. “Is there a problem, Scott?” the man asked.

Finn moved into the doorway. “You a serial killer too?”

“Excuse me?” Arsenault’s face darkened. The smile gone. When he moved to block Finn’s entrance, Finn countered and managed to gain another two feet into the overly air-conditioned suite. “I’m in the middle of a meeting here. Do I need to call security?”

“Not necessary, Scotty. Security already knows we’re here.” And then addressing the suit: “You can go now, sir. Meeting’s over.”

But not until Arsenault gave the man a stiff nod and apologized did he gather his briefcase and brush past them.

“I don’t know what this is about, Detectives,” Arsenault said as Finn invited himself into the front hall, “but I trust your superior officers are aware of and approve of your intrusion today?”

“You can call our sergeant, Scotty. I’m sure he’ll handle any complaints you have with the utmost expediency, especially given his recent interest in your website,” Finn said as Kay followed him past the foyer.

The main room of the open-concept condo was immaculate. Sun flooded through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off polished wood and chrome, glass and mirrors. Bookshelves lined the east wall, banking in a tight arrangement of black leather furnishings. Past the immaculate kitchen bar, Kay saw the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white tiles. It took a moment for her to decide what was absent from Scott Arsenault’s suite. The place had absolutely no sense that someone lived there.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.” Arsenault stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I didn’t give ’em,” Finn said, moving past the Web designer. “Finnerty and Delaney.”

Arsenault looked squarely at her this time, his features softening with an ingratiating smile. “Delaney? From Homicide?” When he extended his hand, she took it— warm and dry—into hers. “I didn’t recognize you.” She thought of the
Sun
photo on his website as his hand held hers just a little too long.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Detective Delaney.”

She sensed Finn watching as Arsenault ran his gaze over her. The designer’s smile broadened unabashedly, and Kay couldn’t decide whether she should be insulted or flattered.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Arsenault?” Finn asked, casually moving through the condo, lingering at the wall-to-wall bookshelves.

Arsenault fingered back a shock of blond hair. “I develop software. Why?”

“Pays well, huh?”

“I’m certainly not in it for the adventure.” He smiled, but only to Kay.

“So why all the books then? Criminal law. Forensics. True crime,” Finn asked, following the precise line of texts with one finger, like a stick to a picket fence. He removed one of the hardbound books, leafed through it, then replaced it, shoving it too far back.

“It’s just an interest,” Arsenault answered. “As a kid I wanted to be a cop.”

“So what happened?”

Arsenault let out a quick laugh. “I heard the pay’s shit. Won’t you sit down?” he asked Kay, guiding her to the seating area.

She obliged, feeling his hand against the small of her back for the briefest moment. Passing the windows overlooking the Inner Harbor, she tried to ignore Arsenault’s stare. She watched a tug break the surface of the Patapsco far below.

“Can I get you anything, Detective Delaney?”

“No. Thank you.”

“So what is this about, Detectives?” Arsenault angled toward the bookshelves that Finn had abandoned.

“We’re investigating a homicide,” Finn said.

“Really?” Arsenault reached for the book Finn had
pulled and edged it forward so the spine was once again flush with the others. “How interesting. For me at least. Death investigation has always been a fascination for me.”

“We know.”

On the glass coffee table in front of her an orchid arched in full bloom, and yesterday’s
Sun
was squared perfectly with the table’s edge. Kay couldn’t tell if it had been read. When Finn passed her, he nudged the paper off-center.

“So I take it you’re here about my websites. And given Detective Delaney’s presence, I’m suspecting it’s the Eales site.”

“There’re others?”

“I’ve designed several.” Arsenault moved in to straighten the paper, his eyes already tracking Finn’s next maneuver.

“How many?”

“Eales. Clarence Gossard. Eddie McCleester. Willy Tarleton.”

Kay recognized all but one of the names.

“So you develop websites for killers then?” Finn asked.

“I develop websites for men arrested and convicted of murder.” Arsenault straightened a couple architectural magazines Finn had shifted. It had become a dance: Arsenault following Finn through the suite, righting whatever he’d messed with. “I think it’s important that the public has the opportunity to view both sides. Come to their own conclusions.”

“The public already made a decision on those other cases, Mr. Arsenault,” Kay said. “They’re called a jury.”

“Forgive me if I don’t have an undying faith in the judicial system. And, please, call me Scott, Detective.” Another flirtatious smile.

“So do you know Eales personally, Scotty?” Finn asked.

“No.” Arsenault had given up. Sitting on the sofa now,
his spine stiff, his hands fisted in his lap, he kept an eye on Finn. “I’ve never met the man.”

“So where do you get the information for your site then?” Finn asked.

“Everything on the site is public domain. It’s all procured from the media.”

“Really?” Finn turned. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” But there was a tremble in Arsenault’s arrogant self-confidence.

“And what’s in it for you, Scotty, mounting these websites? Is it money? Or do you just get off on it?”

“I receive a modest compensation.”

“Ah, the Eales Defense Fund. Are you the beneficiary of that?”

Arsenault stood now, clearly on edge.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Kay asked, and caught the flash of approval from Finn. Keep Arsenault scattered. Keep him on his toes. And while Finn was busy playing bad cop, she could nose around a bit.

Arsenault waved toward the hall. “Second door on your left.”

Heading down the corridor, she heard Finn continue with his questions. “So is that how these sites work, then? People donate money thinking they’re aiding some asshole’s defense …”

Kay slowed at the partially open first door. In the shadows she discerned the outline of several computers and steel shelves of electronic equipment. She heard the hiss of computer fans and the squelch of a police scanner, then an electronic chirp as though e-mail had come through. Or possibly posts on the Eales message boards.

Back at the office, while Finn nailed down Arsenault’s address, she’d started reading the hundreds of archived
posts. Several from the designer himself. Often his appearance on the board was to correct someone on the Bill of Rights or to direct members to links regarding police procedures or other “wrongfully convicted” felons.

“I said the second door.” Arsenault’s voice came from behind her. She jumped. Standing squarely at the head of the hall, backlit by the windows of the living area, she couldn’t read his face.

“Sorry.”

“The money, Scotty, where does it go?” she heard Finn ask.

“The fund goes to Bernard’s attorney. You can talk to Mr. Grogan yourself.”

Kay could feel Arsenault’s eyes still on her as she passed two more closed doors to her right and finally groped for the light switch inside the bathroom.

The room was as sterile as the rest of the place. Pristine white and crimson tiles, gleaming brass fixtures, and plush towels hanging squarely on their racks. And in one corner, an enormous Jacuzzi tub in red marble.

Arsenault had a maid, Kay guessed as she closed the door.

She gave a cursory exploration of the cupboards and drawers, finally sliding open the medicine chest over the sink. Studying the prescriptions that lined the middle shelf, Kay recognized half of them as OCD and anxiety meds from varying dates. Enough to start a small pharmacy. But nothing screamed out as suspicious.

Flushing the toilet and running the faucet for effect, she left the room and found Finn still hammering Arsenault about the money.

“Come on, Scotty, we’re not the fucking IRS here. I don’t give a donkey’s ass if you take people’s money and don’t claim it. Who’s behind Eales’s goddamned website?”
Only two feet of tension-filled air separated the two men. “Who hired you?”