Once Shadows Fall (18 page)

“Exactly what’s wrong with him?” Beth asked.

Raymond shook his head. “There’s no name for it, at least none that I know of. Neither sociopath nor explosive rage control come close. Dr. Cairo’s diagnostic notes describe him as evil. That’s not an exaggeration.”

The rest of the tour went quickly. Raymond was right: there wasn’t much to see. Save for two, the upper-floor cells were all empty. Pell had already been taken to the interview room.

“Normally, we wouldn’t allow another visit. He was quite difficult after you left, Beth,” Raymond explained. “But since you insist, I’ve made an exception. To be quite honest, I’m not crazy about it.”

“I understand,” Beth said. “Please show me his room.”

The cell was yellow cinder block, about 175 square feet. A single window with bars looked into the woods behind Mayfield. The only furniture consisted of a desk and a chair opposite a narrow cot. The mattress was nothing more than a vinyl pad. Pell’s clothes—two pair of orange jump suits and several white T-shirts—were hanging from a series of metal hooks above a storage locker.

Beth’s eye came to rest on three different chess sets, two on the table and one on the floor. From the position of the pieces, they appeared to be games in progress. Curious, she asked Raymond about it.

“Oh, people write him all the time. He keeps several games going at once. Dr. Pell is quite the chess player.”

“Talented,” Pappas said.

“Very,” Raymond said. “It’s a shame he didn’t put his talent to better use. Have you seen enough?”

“Looks pretty secure to me,” Pappas said. “The elevator’s the only way on or off the floor, right?”

“Right. Other than the fire exit, as I’ve mentioned.”

“Has Pell had any visitors since I was out?” Beth asked.

“Two reporters requested interviews,” Raymond said. “He turned them down.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” Raymond said.

“What about over the last year?”

“If you recall, I gave those names to you, Beth.”

“Any chance someone slipped through the cracks?” she asked.

A note of exasperation crept into Raymond’s voice. “None. The people who work here are quite efficient. Now, if you don’t mind, I have other things to do today.”

H
oward Pell was waiting for them in the interview room along with a security guard. After placing their weapons in a locker, they went in. A thin smile appeared on Pell’s face when he saw Beth. His brown eyes flicked toward her companion.

“Detective Pappas, isn’t it?” he said.

“Good memory, Doc. It’s been a few years,” Pappas said.

Pell turned to Beth. “And you’ve changed your perfume.”

“Correct, Doctor,” Beth said. “Your powers of observation are still intact.”

“A lover’s gift? From Clever Jack, perhaps?”

“Hardly,” Beth said. “Thank you for seeing us.”

Pell inclined his head and said, “My pleasure. I seem to have no appointments today. I trust your case is proceeding well.”

“You were right about the Historical Society and the satchel,” Beth said. “Those clues helped rescue that woman.”

“I’m so pleased.”

“There were other bodies recovered, Dr. Pell,” Beth said.

“Really?”

Beth searched his face for a tell and detected nothing other than idle curiosity. This was one of the reasons she’d asked Pappas to come with her. He might notice something she didn’t.

“Five bodies,” she said.

“A private graveyard,” Pell said. “It sounds macabre.”

“Three of them were very old. About eighty years or so. But the other two were more recent.”

“How recent?”

“Nine years,” Beth said. “About the time you embarked on your, ah . . .”

“Hobby?”

Beth ignored the comment. “Do you know anything about them?”

“Such as?”

“Who those people are. How they got there. What killed them.”

Pell leaned back in his seat and feigned surprise. “You think I’m responsible?”

“Are you?”

Pell didn’t seem to like the directness of her question. He stared at her through lowered brows. She held his gaze. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of the malevolence lurking behind his mask.

“Did your scientists say what those poor people died of?” Pell finally asked.

“They’re still testing,” Beth said.

“You sayin’ it wasn’t you?” Pappas said.

“You know, Dan, there are wonderful medicines now for acne. You might also consider dermabrasion to smooth the skin,” Pell said.

“First chance I get,” Pappas said. “So you don’t know nuthin’ about the other bodies?”

“Perhaps if you told me a little about them, I could make some educated guesses.”

“The most recent are two women,” Pappas said. “Both in their late twenties. Both around five foot six with auburn hair. Both walled up alive. Both had fingers missing.”

“How horrible,” Pell said. “That’s really not much to go on. What interests me are the older bodies.”

“Why?” Pappas asked.

“It’s something of a stretch to think two killers happened to bury their victims in the same place by coincidence.”

“That was our thought,” Beth said.

“Tell me, Elizabeth, were you the one who figured out the hiding place?”

“It was mostly Jack Kale,” she said.

“Of course.” Pell’s smile never touched his eyes. “Perhaps you should start your investigation closer to home.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I just mentioned coincidence. Do you really think it’s a coincidence Mr. Kale solved my case and pieced together all those clues that led to the new victims? Two at the farm, the woman at Lake Lanier, and now
the lady at Underground Atlanta. Yes, I saw that on TV. Incredible luck, wouldn’t you say?”

“Jack Kale is a very intelligent man,” Beth said. “You said that yourself.”

“I said he was clever, Elizabeth. Consider this: he may be the one you’re looking for.”

Beth laughed to herself at the statement. “Is that so?”

“A killer, pure and simple. Not much different from me, really.”

“Ridiculous,” Beth said.

“Is it? Do you remember how I told you he framed me for the murder of his partner?”

“I do.”

“Ask yourselves this question: if I didn’t do it, who did?”

“Maybe the Easter Bunny,” Pappas said. “We’re spinning our wheels with this looney.”

Pell looked at him and smiled. “You came to see me, Dan. I’m afraid the truth can be unpleasant.”

Beth told Pell, “The reason Detective Pappas doesn’t believe you—and frankly, neither do I—is that the killer sent us a video. He’s taken another woman and a child—a
child
, Doctor. You helped us before. We were hoping you’d help us again.”

“Believe me, I’m trying to,” Pell said.

“I’m sure you are,” Beth said. “Interestingly, the man sent us a video recording of the people he kidnapped. Like you, he referred to Jack Kale as Clever Jack. Why do you suppose he did that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Coincidence, I suppose.”

“Wasn’t that something you did?” Beth said. “Send letters and recordings to Jack Kale?”

“Possibly. It’s been quite a while and memory fails. I was a different person then.”

“Of course. You got that from Albert Lemon, didn’t you?”

Something shifted behind Howard Pell’s eyes when she mentioned Lemon. The change wasn’t much. It came and went so fast, Beth wasn’t certain she’d seen it at all.

For the next half hour, Pell reverted back to his cat-and-mouse game, suggesting directly and indirectly that Jack was a murderer. In the end, they learned nothing that would help them find the missing woman and her little boy.

*

As soon as they were alone, Pappas asked, “What was that stuff about Albert Lemon?”

“Jack and I worked late last night. He told me what Pell did wasn’t original. There was a serial killer in Atlanta around the turn of the century by that name. According to Jack, Pell was fascinated by him and apparently modeled what he was doing after Lemon. But he took it one step further and put his own spin on the way he killed his victims. He thinks the killer may be trying to pick up where Pell and Lemon left off.”

“That’s great,” Pappas said. “It would be a good idea to let me in on that information before you decide to spring it. That’s what partners do.”

Beth realized she had made a mistake. Pappas was completely right. “I’m sorry, Dan. My bad. It won’t happen again.”

“No problem, kid. We’re all about communication.”

“It’s really amazing how his mind works.”

“Pell?”

“Jack.”

“Yeah, if you figure it out, let me know.”

*

On the return to Atlanta, they had to stop for gas. Pappas pulled into a service station one exit north of Jordan. Wanting to stretch after sitting so long, Beth volunteered to do the pumping. When she got back in the car, she caught Pappas studying his face in the rearview mirror. He noticed her looking and quickly put it back in position, started the engine, and pulled onto the highway.

“What were you doing?” Beth asked.

“Nuthin’.”

A mile rolled by before he asked, “You think there’s anything to that derma stuff Pell was talkin’ about?”

“Daniel Pappas, if you listen to one word that idiot said, I’ll shoot you myself.”

Pappas shrugged and kept driving. Then he said, “Didn’t bother me none. I was just curious, is all.”

“You look just fine,” Beth said. “You have a nice, strong face.”

“When my kids were young, they’d touch the scars and ask, ‘Daddy, do they hurt?’”

“Pell was just trying to get in your head. He took a cheap shot.”

“I know. You buy any of that crap he was shoveling?” Pappas asked, changing the subject.

“What’s it supposed to do? Make the new murders go away? He hates Jack for catching him. It’s an attempt to undermine the investigation.”

“That’s when you sprung your Albert Lemon question,” Pappas said.

“He danced around it. He also tried to pass off the killer’s comment on the video as coincidence.”

“You buy that?”

“Not for a minute. Did you see his face? He was royally pissed.”

“Yeah, I caught it,” Pappas said. “He tried to cover, but—”

“He’s full of shit,” Beth said. “They’re communicating somehow, and I think Pell is calling the shots.”

For the next twenty minutes, they speculated how the killers were accomplishing that and came up empty. Mayfield’s procedures were airtight.

Pappas asked, “What about his phone calls? Has anyone checked them yet?”

“Supposedly their security people did that. I’ll speak with Dr. Raymond in the morning and ask for copies. Maybe Pell is talking to someone in code.”

They were still discussing the possibilities when Pappas pulled up to Beth’s house and let her off at the curb. She got out, told him to get some rest, and shut the door.

Pappas didn’t drive off immediately. Beth heard the sound of the passenger window roll down and turned back.

“You know when I said what Pell said didn’t bother me?”

Beth nodded. Several seconds passed.

“It did,” Pappas said.

Before she could reply, the detective put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

J
ack decided to stop for a cappuccino at a local coffee bar on his way to the library. He’d taken his Internet research as far as he could and was now looking for an old and very specific book.

He found a self-pay lot with space available near the Equitable Building and dropped his car off. The lot had a box with numbered slots that corresponded to the space numbers painted on the asphalt. He spent a full minute folding a five-dollar bill into the approximate size of an electron and jammed it in the appropriate slot using a small tool hanging from the box on a chain.

At that hour of the morning, the streets weren’t crowded. For no reason he could see, the traffic on Broad and Luckie Street was at a standstill. He threaded his way through the cars, past a woman driver who had decided to spend her time more profitably by touching up her eyeliner. She looked up at him as he crossed in front of her car. Jack gave her a thumbs up. She smiled, flicked her hand at him in a go-away gesture, and went back to her makeup.

Before leaving the office, Ben Furman called to let him know his photo enhancement program was running and the results looked promising. The yellow area over the killer’s shoulder was, as Jack thought, a pipe of some sort. The question now was
where
was it?

Dwayne Stafford, one-half of Frick and Frack, checked with missing persons and reported that a call had come in late the previous night about a mother and missing child. Stafford and his partner interviewed the distraught father, who told them that Pamela Dorsey had taken their young son, Aaron, to Piedmont Park to play with his new sailboat. If the killer snatched them from there in broad daylight, it meant he was
getting bolder. It might also mean he was getting careless or that he was feeling confident that he wouldn’t be caught.

The pattern they thought existed with the other victims was now pretty much out the window. The Dorseys weren’t members of the Parkwood Health Club, which put them back to square one.

There was a pattern. Of that, Jack was certain. He just hadn’t found it yet. Pamela and Aaron’s lives depended on his doing so quickly. It didn’t help that the newspapers were contributing to the rising tide of alarm in Atlanta. The
Constitution
’s headline read, “Is It Happening Again?” Beneath it was a photo of a body bag being carried out of Underground Atlanta by the medical examiner’s assistants.

For the last two days and most of the morning, Jack had been formulating a theory about how the killer was thinking, about what he would do next. Albert Lemon was central to that. But, there were still large gaps he needed to fill in before he shared it with the others. He took a breath and continued walking.

*

Throughout the day and late into the afternoon, Jack searched through the stacks without success. In the back of his mind, he recalled seeing a reference an author had made to Howard Pell and the patterns serial killers tended to follow. Unfortunately, that had been years ago, and he couldn’t remember whether it was in a book, a magazine, or perhaps a newspaper article. It was nearly six o’clock when he quit. He called Beth to say he might be a few minutes late for dinner. The phone rang four times before going to her answering machine.

“You’ve reached Beth and Peeka’s house. I’m not in right now. Please leave a message.”

It took a second for him to remember Peeka was short for her cat, Peekachu.

“Hi, this is Jack. I was doing some research and let the time get away from me. I may be a couple minutes late. I need to stop at my house and take care of Marta. See you later.”

He disconnected and immediately second-guessed himself for not leaving something a little friendlier.

*

The Soul Eater stood in Beth’s kitchen and listened to the message. Beth and Clever Jack together. What could be more perfect? When it was through, he played it again.

Getting past her burglar alarm was easier than he thought. Facebook and her cat did her in. The private information people were inclined to put out to the public never ceased to amaze him—everything from their birthdays to the places they were born and the names of pets and family members. It was beyond stupid. He conjectured that social media was the rough high-tech equivalent of carving your initials on a tree. Once, when he visited Stone Mountain, he was astonished to see how many people had gone to the trouble of using a hammer and chisel to tell the world they were there. The names and initials went back to the mid-1800s. Basically, it came down to this: no one wanted to disappear. It took only two tries to find the password to Beth’s burglar alarm using her cat’s name.

The Soul Eater wandered through the house looking at this and that. Interesting woman. Her taste in books was eclectic, running the gamut from historical fiction and memoir to romance novels. In her bedroom, he examined her dresser drawers. Her lingerie was in the top drawer.

The second and third drawers contained sweaters and slacks, all neatly folded. As he was browsing, a large, gray cat with green eyes came into the room and sat watching him. He didn’t like cats, and he didn’t like being watched.

“Scat.”

The cat’s tail flicked, but it stayed where it was. The Soul Eater gave it a sour look and continued to browse. In the bottom drawer were several nightgowns and teddies, which he thought were more for show than function.

Atop the dresser was a photo of Beth and another woman he took to be her sister. Their facial features indicated as much. Both were extremely photogenic. He could change that. Her closet held no surprises, save for a box of photographs. He went through them one by one. Past lovers? Odd that she’d kept them. He’d have to ask why when they met.

The work on his basement was nearly complete, which was good. The sarcophagi had taken up more space than he thought. They were beautiful and elegant and the occupants looked serene lying there. No more cares. No more worries. All safe and secure with him to watch over and protect them forever. Elizabeth would make a shining addition.

The annoying cat approached the closet door and continued to watch him. He could feel the pressure building in his chest. The cat was beginning to get on his nerves. Very slowly, so as not to spook it, his
hand crept to the scalpel in his pocket. But the moment he took a step toward it, it darted away. Fine. Back to business.

The good detective’s bed had antique head- and footboards and a queen-size mattress. He lay down and held the pillow to his face, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. On the nightstand alongside the bed was an anniversary clock, its pendulum turning first one way and then the other. The time was 6:05 PM. Not much longer to wait. Not much longer until the pressure was released.

The bedroom was cool and lit by ambient light from a window. Above him, a fan with blades shaped like palm leaves moved air around in a desultory fashion. In a small garden just outside the window was a fountain with a lion’s head that poured water into a bowl from the lion’s mouth. The stupid cat apparently found a way outside and jumped onto a table, then stretched out in a square of sunlight. That didn’t matter either. He’d deal with it, too, in due course.