Beckett had just sat down at his desk at NYU medical, when a frustrated looking Chase burst through the door.
“That bad, huh?”
“What a fucking asshole,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“Yeah, that bad.”
“Drake was right about him,” Chase said, although it wasn’t clear if she was simply verbalizing her internal dialog, or if she was expressing her feelings to Beckett.
“Don’t blame him, though,” he offered.
Chase’s eyes darted up.
“What? What do you mean?”
Beckett laid out the photographs again.
“I mean, shit, I know there’s a killer out there. But what do we have other than these coincidental images and a few discrepancies? In fact, there are fewer loose ends with these suicides than with many of the other suicides I’ve cleared over the years.”
Chase looked incredulous.
“Tell me you aren’t backing out of this now?”
Beckett shook his head.
“Hell no. But with what we have, I’m not surprised that we aren’t going to get support from the department, Rhodes or no Rhodes.”
Chase looked around the office.
“Where’s Suzan?” she asked.
“In class. She’s going to do some more digging afterward, though. More digging into Dr. Mrs. Kevorkian.”
“Who?”
“Tracey, the woman who took the initial photographs.”
Chase nodded.
“Is there anything else, Beckett? Please tell me you have something else.”
Beckett sighed.
“I’ve got nothing.”
To his surprise, Chase took this in stride. In fact, it seemed to sober her and her eyes became focused.
“So, what do we have, then?” She moved around behind Beckett and pointed at the first photograph. “A dead drunk,” she moved to the next image in sequence, “a depressed obese man, a hanged doctor, a male prostitute who was shot in the face. And then we have a junkie who drowned in Central Park. So…”
“Yeah,” Beckett said quietly. “We’ve got a little game of which one of these aren’t like the others.”
Chase nodded.
“Your doctor student. The others are drifters, people that wouldn’t be missed by society. But Edison… why him? Why kill a young doctor?” Chase asked.
Beckett felt his throat tighten as he heard those words.
Why kill a young doctor?
He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he felt partially responsible for Eddie’s death, suicide or not.
If it hadn’t been for—
“He’s the key, Beckett.”
Beckett reluctantly agreed.
“But why kill anyone at all?” he asked. Realizing that his comment was bordering on philosophical, he quickly followed this up with, “I mean, who’s the killer? What are his motives?”
Chase chewed her lip.
“A disgruntled student, perhaps? Someone who is trying to get away with the perfect murders?”
Beckett shrugged.
“Maybe—could be. I dunno. But I can tell you one thing, whoever the killer is, he’s not going to stop until he completes all eight. And even then, I doubt once he has a taste, he’s not going to even stop there.”
The image of the babies, illustrated by dolls in Dr. Tracey Moorfield’s test prep notes, passed through his mind.
“We have to catch him before he kills again. Only thing is, we can’t do this by ourselves. We’re going to need help. We’re going to need someone who has experience with serial killers, but someone not involved with the NYPD. Someone who doesn’t mind bending the rules a little. Know anyone who fits that description?”
Beckett smirked. Even though Chase had asked the question, it was clear that she already knew the answer.
They both did; there was only one man they knew who fit that mold.
“Suzan can’t know,” Chase said quietly.
“No, she definitely can’t find out,” Beckett replied.