The Keepsake (23 page)

“Or he’s aiming it at one person in particular. Someone who’s meant to see these news stories and react to them. I think he’s communicating with someone, Maura. Maybe it’s another killer. Or maybe it’s a future victim.”

“It’s his current victim we need to worry about.”

Sansone shook his head. “He’s had her for three days now. That’s not a good milestone.”

“He kept his other victims alive far longer than this.”

“But he didn’t cut off
their
hair. He didn’t play games with the police and the press. This abduction is moving along its own unique time line.” The look he gave her was chillingly matter-of-fact. “This time, things are different. The killer’s pattern has changed.”

THIRTY

The Cape Elizabeth neighborhood where Dr. Gavin Hilzbrich lived was a prosperous suburb outside Portland, Maine, but unlike the well-kept properties on the street, Hilzbrich’s house was set back on a lot overgrown with trees, and the patchy lawn was slowly dying for want of sunlight. Standing in the driveway of the large Colonial-style house, Jane noticed peeling paint and the green sheen of moss on the shake roof, clues to the ailing health of the doctor’s finances. His house, like his bank account, had almost certainly seen better days.

At first glance, the silver-haired man who answered the door had the appearance of prosperity. Though he was in his late sixties, he stood unbowed by either age or economic travails. Despite the warm day he wore a tweed jacket, as though on his way out to teach a university class. Only when she looked more closely did Jane notice that the collar tips were frayed and the jacket hung several sizes too large on his bony shoulders. Nevertheless he regarded her with disdain, as though nothing his visitor might say could possibly interest him.

“Dr. Hilzbrich?” she said. “I’m Detective Rizzoli. We spoke on the phone.”

“I have nothing more to tell you.”

“We don’t have a lot of time to save this woman.”

“I can’t discuss my former patients.”

“Last night, your former patient sent us a souvenir.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, what souvenir?”

“The victim’s hair. He hacked it off her head, stuffed it into a grocery bag, and hung it on a tree, like a trophy. Now, I don’t know how a psychiatrist like you would interpret that. I’m just a cop. But I hate to think of what he might cut off next. And if the next thing we find is a piece of her flesh, I fucking promise you I will be back on this doorstep. And I’ll invite a few TV cameras to come along with me.” She let that sink in for a moment. “So now do you want to talk?”

He stared at her, his lips pressed together in two tight lines. Without a word, he stepped aside to let her come in.

Inside, it smelled of cigarettes—an unhealthy habit made more so in that house, where she saw stuffed file boxes lining the hallway. Glancing through a doorway into a cluttered office, she spotted overflowing ashtrays and a desk covered with papers and even more boxes.

She followed him into the living room, which was oppressively dark and cheerless because thick trees outside blocked the sunlight. Here some semblance of order had been maintained, but the leather couch she sat down on was stained, and the finely crafted coffee table bore the rings of countless cups set carelessly on unprotected wood. Both had probably been expensive purchases, evidence of their owner’s more affluent past. Clearly Hilzbrich’s circumstances had gone terribly wrong, leaving him with a house he could not afford to maintain. But the man who sat across from her betrayed no hint of defeat, and certainly no humility. He was still every inch
Doctor
Hilzbrich, facing the minor annoyance of a police investigation.

“How do you know that my former patient is responsible for this young woman’s abduction?” he asked.

“We have a number of reasons to suspect Bradley Rose.”

“And those reasons are?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal the details.”

“Yet you expect me to open up his psychiatric files to you?”

“When a woman’s life is at stake? Yes, I do. And you know very well what your obligations are.” She paused. “Since you’ve been through this situation before.”

The sudden rigidity in his face told her he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“You’ve already had one of your patients go off the rails,” she said. “The parents of
his
victim weren’t too happy with that whole patient-confidentiality thing, were they? Having their daughter sliced and diced can do that to a family. They grieve, they get angry, and finally they sue. And it all shows up in the newspapers.” She glanced around the shabby room. “Are you still treating patients, by the way?”

“You know I’m not.”

“I guess it’s hard to practice psychiatry when you lose your license.”

“It was a witch hunt. The parents needed someone to blame.”

“They knew exactly who to blame—your sicko former patient. You were the one who pronounced him cured.”

“Psychiatry is an inexact science.”

“You had to know it was your patient who did it. When that girl was killed, you must have recognized his handiwork.”

“I had no proof it was him.”

“You just wanted the problem to go away. So you did nothing, said nothing to the police. Are you going to let that happen again with Bradley Rose? When you can help us stop him?”

“I don’t see how I
can
help you.”

“Release his records to us.”

“You don’t understand. If I give them to you, he’ll—” He stopped.

“He?” Her gaze was fixed so intently on his face that he drew back, as though physically pressed against the chair. “You’re talking about Bradley’s father. Aren’t you?”

Dr. Hilzbrich swallowed. “Kimball Rose warned me you’d be calling. He reminded me that psychiatric records are confidential.”

“Even when a woman’s life is in danger?”

“He said he’d sue me if I released the records.” He gave a sheepish laugh and looked around at his living room. “As if there’s anything left to take! The bank owns this house. The institute’s been shuttered for years and the state’s about to foreclose on it. I can’t even pay the damn property taxes.”

“When did Kimball speak to you?”

He shrugged. “He called me about a week ago, maybe more. I can’t remember the date.”

That would have been soon after her visit to Texas. From the beginning, Kimball Rose had put up barriers to the investigation, all to protect his son.

Hilzbrich sighed. “I can’t give you that file anyway. I don’t have it anymore.”

“Who does have it?”

“No one. It’s been destroyed.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “How much did he pay you to do it? Were you a cheap lay?”

Flushing, he rose to his feet. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“But I have plenty to say to you. First, I’m going to show you what Bradley’s been up to.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a bundle of evidence photos. One by one, she slapped the images down on the coffee table, revealing a grotesque gallery of victims. “This is your patient’s handiwork.”

“I’ll ask you to leave now.”

“Take a look at what he’s done.”

He turned toward the door. “I don’t need to see those.”

“Take a
fucking look.
”

He stopped and slowly turned toward the coffee table. As his gaze landed on the photos, his eyes widened in horror. While the doctor stood frozen, she rose from the chair and steadily advanced on him.

“He’s collecting women, Dr. Hilzbrich. He’s about to add Josephine Pulcillo to that collection. We have only a limited time before he kills her. Before he turns her into something like
that.
” She pointed to the photo of Lorraine Edgerton’s mummified body.

“And if he does, her blood is on your hands.”

Hilzbrich had not stopped staring at the images. His legs suddenly seemed to give way, and he stumbled to a chair where he sat with his shoulders slumped.

“You knew Bradley was capable of this. Didn’t you?” Jane said.

He shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

“You were his psychiatrist.”

“That was over thirty years ago! He was only sixteen. And he was quiet and well behaved.”

“So you remember him.”

A pause. “Yes,” he admitted. “I remember Bradley. But I don’t see how anything I could tell you would be useful. I have no idea where he is now. I certainly never thought he was capable of…” He glanced at the photos.
“That.”

“Because he was quiet and well behaved?” She couldn’t help a cynical laugh. “You, of all people, must know that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. You must have seen the signs, even when he was sixteen. Something that warned you he’d someday be doing
that
to a woman.”

Unwillingly, Hilzbrich focused again on the photo of the mummified body. “Yes, he would have the knowledge. And probably the skills to do it,” he admitted. “He was fascinated by archaeology. His father sent him a box of Egyptology textbooks, and Bradley read them again and again. Obsessively. So yes, he’d know
how
to mummify a body, but to actually attack and abduct a woman?” He shook his head. “Bradley never took the initiative in anything and had trouble standing up to anyone. He was a follower, not a leader. For that, I blame his father.” He looked at Jane. “You’ve met Kimball?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know how he takes command of everyone. In that family, Kimball makes all the decisions. He chooses what’s right for his wife, for his son. Whenever Bradley had to make a choice, even for something as simple as what to eat for dinner, he’d have to mull it over in great detail. He’d have trouble making a split-second choice, and that’s what abducting a victim requires, isn’t it? You spot her, you want her, you take her. You don’t have time to dither over whether you’ll do it or not.”

“But if he had a chance to plan, couldn’t he manage it?”

“He might fantasize about it. But the boy I knew would’ve been afraid to actually
confront
a girl.”

“Then how did he end up at the institute? Isn’t that what you specialized in, boys with criminal sexual behaviors?”

“Sexual deviances come in a variety of forms.”

“Which form did Bradley’s take?”

“Stalking. Obsession. Voyeurism.”

“You’re telling me he was just a Peeping Tom?”

“It had gone some ways beyond that, which was why his father sent him to the institute.”

“How far beyond?”

“First he was caught several times peering into a teenage neighbor’s window. Then he progressed to following her at school, and when she very publicly rejected him, he broke into her house while it was empty and set fire to her bed. That’s when the judge gave Bradley’s parents an ultimatum: Either the boy went for treatment, or he faced incarceration. The Roses chose to send him out of state so the gossip wouldn’t find its way into their exclusive circle of friends. Bradley came to the institute and stayed for two years.”

“That seems like a pretty long stay.”

“It was his father’s request. Kimball wanted the boy fully straightened out so the family wouldn’t be embarrassed by him again. The mother wanted him back home, but Kimball prevailed. And Bradley seemed contented enough with us. At the institute, we had woods and hiking trails, even a pond for fishing. He enjoyed the outdoors and he managed to make some friends.”

“Friends like Jimmy Otto?”

Hilzbrich grimaced at the mention of that name.

“I see you remember Jimmy, too,” said Jane.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Jimmy was…memorable.”

“You’ve heard that he’s dead? He was shot to death twelve years ago, in San Diego. When he broke into a woman’s house.”

He nodded. “A detective called me from San Diego. He wanted background information. Whether I thought Jimmy might have been committing a criminal act when he was killed.”

“I’m assuming you told him yes.”

“I’ve treated hundreds of sociopathic boys, Detective. Boys who’ve set fires, tortured animals, assaulted classmates. But only a few have really scared me.” He met her gaze. “Jimmy Otto was one of them. He was the consummate predator.”

“And it must have rubbed off on Bradley.”

Hilzbrich blinked. “What?”

“You don’t know about their partnership? They hunted together, Bradley and Jimmy. And they met at your institute. You didn’t notice?”

“We had only thirty inpatients, so of course they’d know each other. They would have participated in group therapy together. But these boys were completely different personalities.”

“Maybe that’s why they worked so well together. They would have complemented each other. One the leader, the other the follower. We don’t know who chose the victims, or who did the actual killing, but it’s clear they
were
partners. They were compiling a collection together. Until the night Jimmy was killed.” She fixed him with a hard gaze. “Now Bradley’s carried on without him.”

“Then he’s turned into a different person than I remember. Look, I knew that
Jimmy
was dangerous. Even as a fifteen-year-old, he scared me. He scared everyone, including his own parents. But Bradley?” He shook his head. “Yes, he’s amoral. Yes, you could persuade him to do anything, maybe even kill. But he’s a follower, not a leader. He needs someone to direct him, someone to make the decisions.”

“Another partner like Jimmy, you mean.”

Hilzbrich gave a shudder. “Thank God there aren’t a lot of monsters like Jimmy Otto around. I hate to think about what Bradley might have learned from him.”

Her gaze dropped to the photos on the table.
He learned enough to carry on alone. Enough to become every bit as monstrous as Jimmy.

She looked at Hilzbrich. “You say you can’t give me Bradley’s records.”

“I told you. They’ve been destroyed.”

“Then give me Jimmy Otto’s.”

He hesitated, puzzled by her request. “Why?”

“Jimmy’s dead, so he can’t complain about patient confidentiality.”

“What good will the files do you?”

“He was Bradley’s partner. They traveled together, killed together. If I can understand Jimmy, it may give me a window into the man Bradley has become.”

He considered her request for a moment, then nodded and stood up. “I’ll have to find the file. It may take me a while.”

“You keep it here?”

“You think I can afford to pay for storage? All the institute’s files are here in my house. If you wait, I’ll get it,” he said, and walked out of the room.

The grotesque photos on the coffee table had served their purpose, and she couldn’t bear looking at them any longer. As she gathered them together, she had a disturbing image of a fourth victim, another dark-haired beauty salted down to jerky, and she wondered if at that very moment Josephine was being ushered into the afterworld.

Her cell phone rang. She dropped the photos to answer it.

“It’s me,” said Barry Frost.