The Soul Hunter (11 page)

“And you’re sure it was him,” I said.

“No doubt whatsoever,” McKnight said. “We got the two eyewitnesses. And physical evidence at the scene which links the suspect to the crime.”

“The crime in Arlington,” I said.

“That is correct,” McKnight said.

“How long ago was this?” I asked.

“December,” Jackson said.

“And what happened after that? He just disappeared?”

“The suspect remains at large,” Jackson said. “But he didn’t go far. He’s around. We have no doubt about that.”

“A hatchet isn’t an ax, detectives. What makes you think he killed Drew Sturdivant?”

“The suspect is known to frequent Caligula,” McKnight said.

“Where she worked,” I said. “Did he know her?”

“Must have,” Jackson said. “Twelve dancers,” he said the word with contempt, “working there. No way she never ran into Pryne. Probably gave him a lap dance.”

“So he was there that night? The night Drew was killed?”

“We’re looking into that,” McKnight said.

“But you don’t know. Not for sure.”

“No,” Jackson said bluntly. “We don’t.”

“Where was she killed?” I asked. “The other girls were attacked in their apartment, right?”

“In the alley behind Critter Cars, on Harry Hines Boulevard,” McKnight said. “Lots of nice, clear footprints on
the pavement. Head wounds leave a lot of blood.”

I winced. “Is that the car lot where they found her?”

McKnight nodded. “One of those pay-cash-by-the-week places. Interest is highway robbery. The body was found in the trunk of a 2001 Honda sedan. He dumped it in there to buy himself some time.”

It. Drew Sturdivant had become an “it.”

“We’ve tied him to the M.O. and to the complainant. We’re still collecting physical evidence,” McKnight said. “But he’s the guy.”

“Complainant?”

“The victim. When your complainant is acquainted with a known serial offender who used the same type weapon in his last offense—that’s no coincidence. Once we get him, you should be safe.”

“Were his fingerprints on the ax or anything?”

Jackson shook his head. “Wood doesn’t pick up fingerprints. Blood does. Only fingerprints on the ax belong to you. Dr. Dylan Foster.” He recited my address, my phone number, my social security number, my driver’s license number.

“How do you account for that?” I asked. “Not my fingerprints. I mean, that there weren’t any others?”

“Gloves,” Jackson said simply. “There were wool fibers on the ax suggesting that the perp wore gloves during the assault. Leather, we think. With wool lining.”

I nodded. “It was a cold night.”

“Eighteen degrees,” Jackson said. “Coldest night of the year.”

“She probably never knew what hit her,” McKnight was saying. “No defense wounds or anything. All the blows were to the head. First blow or two killed her.”

I could feel the color draining from my face. I felt cold suddenly. “I guess that’s a mercy of sorts.”

“With an ax, that’s all you get,” Jackson said.

“And why do you think he left the ax on my porch? Do you think it was just random?”

“That’s what we’d like to know, Dr. Foster,” McKnight said. “You say you don’t know him?”

“I don’t.”

“So we have a little problem,” Jackson said. “Either you’re holding something back, or…”

“Or maybe he’s after me next?” I asked.

“Could be,” McKnight said.

“Can I see a picture of him?”

Jackson reached for a three-ring notebook, flipped it open to a tab divider, and pointed at an image.

I laid eyes on Gordon Pryne for the first time. His hair was wild, brown, curly, shoulder length. His skin was mottled with acne scars, his lips full and petulant, his eyes an empty brownish-green. The color of a polluted pond.

His stats and his record were detailed below the photo. Gordon Weldon Pryne, age forty-six. Five foot ten, one hundred fifty-five pounds. His offenses were listed in order, a catalog of violence, itemized. He’d escaped nine months ago.

“He escaped?” I asked.

Jackson nodded. “He was in the middle of ten years flat in Huntsville. Aggravated sexual assault. Guess he decided he’d done enough time. Faked a seizure. Escaped during transport to the medical facility. Switched wristbands with another prisoner. Medical personnel thought he was a non-violent.”

“What makes you think he’s in Dallas?” I asked.

“Got a kid here,” Jackson said.

I looked at the photo again. “He’s a father?”

“He’s got the necessary equipment,” McKnight said. “That’s all it takes.”

“And he keeps in touch with this child?”

“Showed up once,” Jackson said. “In five years.”

“When was—?”

“Day of the murder. Around 5:30 p.m. Stoned. Crazy Brought the kid a teddy bear. Scared the babysitter half to death. Mom gets home from her job at Parkland and calls 911. Pryne was gone by the time they got there.”

I sighed. “So. What does this mean for me?”

“Keep your eyes and ears open, Dr. Foster,” McKnight said. “And call us if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Any strange cars parked in front of your house. Anyone following you home. Any strange phone calls or hang-ups,” Jackson said.

“Any chance of a distant connection with this guy?” McKnight asked. “Through a patient of yours or something?”

“Not that I know of. But I started going through my old files today, thinking maybe someone back there was unstable enough to be responsible for this. I do work with unstable people, obviously.” I thought a minute. “Could you write down his biographical information for me? Full name, hometown, and so on?”

“We’d like to get a look at those files,” McKnight said.

I’d been waiting for this. “I never release files, on principle,” I said. “Patients have a right to their privacy.”

“Not in the state of Texas they don’t,” McKnight said. “It’s confidentiality, not privilege.”

He was right. In Texas, only lawyers have privilege, which means that their records are untouchable. Physicians and psychologists have confidentiality, which means records are confidential, with a few exceptions. If Jackson and McKnight wanted my files, all they had to do was subpoena them. I could fight it, but eventually I’d have to turn them over.

“I realize that,” I said, “but I’ve got over two hundred files. I don’t want to jeopardize confidentiality of all those patients on a fishing expedition.”

“Fair enough,” McKnight said.

“But I will finish my search and give you a list of any possible connections. Anything at all.” I held up my hand. “Promise. And if you want those, I’ll sign the release and copy them for you myself.”

“I think we can start with that,” McKnight said.

“You live alone,” Jackson said.

“Yes.”

“Might want to think about a roommate for a while.”

“Or a dog,” McKnight suggested.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thanks for talking to me today. I really do appreciate the information.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be more forthcoming earlier,” McKnight said, looking sideways at Jackson. I couldn’t tell if they’d disagreed about this, or if he was just acknowledging that Jackson had made the call. “We didn’t feel it was appropriate until we’d fully investigated your involvement.”

“And now you believe I wasn’t involved?”

“I think you’re telling the truth,” McKnight said.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not involved,” Jackson added. “You just may not know it yet.”

That was an unsettling thought.

I looked at my watch. It was six thirty. A long day. It would be dark by now.

They must have known what I was thinking, because McKnight said, “Would you like an escort to your vehicle?”

“Sure. But if this guy is the artist you say he is, I doubt he’s hanging around the police station waiting for me to come out. I’m probably safer here than I have been in a while.”

“We can have a squad car follow you home,” Jackson offered.

I nodded and thanked him. “What do I do if I hear or see anything?”

“Call 911,” McKnight said. “Immediately.”

“And then call us.” Jackson handed me a card. “My cell number. Detective McKnight’s cell number. Anytime, day or night, twenty-four/seven. We never close.”

“Thank you.” I took the cards and stood to leave, once again offering my hand to Jackson. This time he accepted it. “They breaking your heart yet?” I asked, pointing at the photos on his desk.

He shook his head and smiled for the first time. “Any minute now.”

I drove home in a daze, a cruiser following closely behind me. My head was filled with images of Gordon Pryne and of Drew Sturdivant and of axes and blood and alleyways. The thin veneer had once again been stripped off the ugliness of the world for me. I knew it would return (the veneer, I mean), filmy and comforting and deceptively opaque, offering up the attractive illusion that life on this earth is safe and reasonably tidy and involves mainly nice people and generally good behavior. But then you walk into a filthy public restroom, or watch local television news, or cross paths with someone who dwells on the underside—some bottom-feeder—and the seamy sin seeps out of the cracks. The stench, the sticky oozing mess, is noxious.

I wonder how God stands it.

I felt like crying. Or sleeping for a week. But mainly I felt like taking a hot shower and having supper at an Italian restaurant with white tablecloths and sharing a bottle of wine with my handsome, well-behaved boyfriend, whose worst offense was probably a traffic violation in the sleepy town of Hillsboro.

I called him on my way home. We agreed he’d pick me up at eight thirty. Give this date one more shot.

My house was dark when I got there. And cold, as usual. The cop followed me in, and I flipped on lights as he checked the house. When I shut the door behind him, I felt the safety of home wrap around me. Okay, so I had mice. Or maybe rats. And Peter Terry was back, dressed as a lumberjack. And I could be the next
victim of an ax murderer. But I was home. And my water heater was fixed.

Sometimes, you have to take the small victories.

I dumped my stuff, kicked my space heater on, and checked the water to make sure it was hot, which it was. I started myself a pot of water for tea and went to the front door to get the mail, leafing through it, tossing out a couple of credit card offers and a reminder from my dentist that it was time to have my teeth cleaned.

Mixed into the stack was a sealed, unmarked envelope. I opened it and stopped mid-stride.

The note was written in child-scrawl, in red felt-tip pen.

“Did you like the gift I left on your porch?”

J
ackson and McKnight were there within minutes. They gloved their hands and picked up the note with a pair of tweezers, sealing it into a baggie and labeling the bag with a felt-tip pen.

“If we’re lucky, Pryne’s sloppy. We can get prints off the paper,” McKnight said to me. “And DNA from the saliva.”

“Saliva?”

McKnight pointed at the envelope.

“Oh. Right.”

“You have any place to stay tonight?” Jackson asked me.

“Do you think it’s necessary?”

“Second visit from this nut in a week,” McKnight said.

“No time and no reason to be a hero,” Jackson said. “Be smart. You might live.”

“He’s enjoying this,” I said, the thought sickening me as I said it.

“You want to sit around and enjoy it with him, it’s up to you,” McKnight said. “But if I were you, I’d find myself somewhere to stay. Do you have a gun?”

“No. Should I?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Pryne’s a blade man. Gun beats a blade every time.”

“I wouldn’t know how to shoot it,” I said.

“You get yourself a gun,” McKnight said, “and I’ll teach you how to shoot it myself. Get a revolver. Ruger makes a good one,
and Winchester. Five-shot. With a small grip for a woman’s hand.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thanks again for coming so quickly.”

I was touched by their concern for my safety. They were rough men, all starched shirts and neckties and sturdy shoes, bound up with the bailing wire of regulation and procedure. They were suspicious by trade, guarded by nature, and probably more socialized to deal with criminals and victims than with any sort of regular type of human individual. I wondered what their home lives were like. Did they watch cop shows after work? Did they have pets? How did they shake off their dark, oppressive days?

I showed them out, locked the door behind them, and headed for my bedroom, fantasizing about the hot shower I knew was waiting for me. I needed to cleanse myself of Gordon Pryne and all this talk of guns and knives and axes.

In reality, few fantasies live up to expectations, but this one did. I didn’t even have
Psycho
shower paranoia, which you’d think I would. No visions of a knife slicing through my shower curtain, or of Janet Leigh’s lifeless legs hanging over the tub. The shower was hot and thoroughly satisfying. I was completely unconflicted about it.

David picked me up at eight thirty, sharp. The man is a gem. Charming, good-looking. And punctual. What more could a woman want?

He took me to our favorite restaurant, an Italian place we’re convinced is owned by the mob. Since we’re boring, white-bread voting citizens, the two of us, we find it sort of exotic to watch the mobsters congregate at the corner tables. We cook up wild stories about what they’re talking about and who they’re going to whack next, fantasizing in a semi-sick way about ordering hits on various people we don’t like. Tonight, though, the game had no appeal, for obvious reasons.