A woman’s hopes are woven of sunbeams;
A shadow annihilates them.
—George Eliot, Felix Holt, the Radical
In all the world, Cat couldn’t remember feeling this content. In front of a soft smoldering fire, she sat staring at Dr. Gregory Taft. Firelight and soft neoclassical lighting cast a glow on Greg’s face. Others refer to him as Gregory, but to Cat, he is Greg. From the looks of it, the years had been good to him.
Chez Paul was a Chicago landmark of fairly recent vintage. Though the building itself was over a hundred years old, the restaurant opened two decades ago. It had quickly made a name for itself with Chicago’s moneyed elite.
Solid mahogany doors led to a small salon with coat check. Thick carpets and drapes masked this inside sanctum in sheer opulence. Up a winding wooden staircase to the second floor, Greg had requested their best table, tucked into a secluded corner with its own fireplace. Cat savored the fire’s warmth, the company, and the sheer relaxation of this moment.
Mahogany-trimmed emerald walls, huge cut-crystal chandeliers…the place reeked of power but had an unhurried pace. Service was discreet, yet excellent. Starched waiters in white gloves appeared and disappeared without so much as a noise. Chez Paul was Dr. Gregory Taft’s favorite dinner spot. As soon as they walked into the restaurant, Michelle, the head hostess, greeted them, assuring Dr. Taft that everything was in order.
Now Cat simply sat, immersed in this, his world.
A chardonnay was poured. She savored the flavor of sun, oak, a hint of apricot on her tongue. Cat put down her glass and looked directly at Greg, taking him in. A few more wrinkles, same hair, green eyes, he seemed to blend in with his surroundings. “So, Greg, how long has it been for us?”
He put down a shrimp-laden fork, thought about it. “It’s been at least seven years. You were here in, let’s see, 2007, I believe.”
Cat gave him a questioning look.
“Are you sure? I was almost positive it was 2008?”
He took her hand, rubbed it, and looked at her deeply. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Remember taking you to the Museum of Science and Industry. You were like a kid in a candy store. Worse than a five-year-old,” he teased.
Cat’s face glowed. “I love those hands-on exhibits. Reminds me of when I was a kid.”
A waiter appeared but was dismissed with a short wave of Greg’s hand.
“Now tell me, what brings you to our city?”
Cat popped in a broiled, marinated shrimp, chewed. “I’m here following up a lead on an investigation.”
“Ah yes.” He poured her more wine casually and sat back in his chair. “The Burning Man investigation.”
“You know about it then?”
“All I know is you’re investigating a case in California. But that doesn’t explain what brings you to Chicago.” His lips curled in what she could not quite describe as a smile. Simultaneously, she felt his leg brush hers under the table. Instinctively, she knew he wanted her to say it was to see him.
Gregory had always had a big ego, perhaps rightfully so.
This was a man who wielded power in an effortless way, headed one of the most powerful associations in the country, was respected among his peers. A man who no longer needed to practice medicine, yet medicine needed him. He had lobbied against Obama’s ballyhooed healthcare reforms and won, in some respects. The rollout had been a disaster. The American medical system, with all its padded billing, secret euthanasia, second-class mental healthcare, was safe. At least for now. Dr. Gregory Taft had seen to that. The medical community was eternally grateful.
Still, Cat admired him. He was a hands-on fellow, much like her. Unafraid to jump into the thick of things.
They’d met years ago when they had worked together on a horrible plane crash in the Florida Everglades. She had been summoned from Key West to assist in identifying bodies pulled from the swamp. He was there treating survivors, trying to do what he could to preserve life. Jointly, they had a role in comforting the families. So little was left of the plane, perhaps their first affair had been spawned from comforting each other too. The death toll had been over 80 percent.
Cat forced herself to smile.
Regardless, he could read the pain on her face. “What is it, Cat?”
“I’m just remembering when we met. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason we are together is because of pain.”
He leaned forward, took her hand, concern in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it, Greg? I mean all this. We have the admiration of our colleagues, careers, but when it comes down to it, when you’re lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, do you ever want for more?”
He pulled his hand away. “Yes, of course, but I am a selfish man. Or perhaps I haven’t found the right woman.” He smiled warmly. “What do you feel at night, Cat?”
“Lonely mostly, like I’m missing out on something, though I don’t quite know what it is.” Cat’s eyes roamed the dining room.
“Joey, right?”
She nodded. “I just wonder if I’ll ever be able to replace the times I’m missing with him. Memories I’ve missed, they can’t be replaced.”
“No, but you can make new ones, ones that are uniquely your own. He doesn’t expect anything more.” He took a sip of wine. “He’s a child. He doesn’t differentiate the days and weeks that you’re gone. He only remembers the trip to Disneyland from yesterday. That’s how kids are.”
“I know.” She looked down at her half empty plate. “I just feel I’m missing out.”
“Look, Catherine. Your work is important too. You safeguard society against the worst it has to offer. You make the world safer for kids like Joey, for all of us. There’s something to be said for that too.”
“I know. I guess I just have to find a balance. And lately it feels all one-sided.”
“Because of this case? Because of this trip?”
Cat casually looked at the heavily draped window, at the Chicago night. “Yes, I’m here checking a lead that seems to pan out to a similar MO.”
Gregory leaned in. “Tell me…”
“Not much to tell really. Young boy, same type of pattern. Killed his grandmother and a cousin. They let him go years ago.”
“And how does it fit for you?”
From the looks of it, Gregory Taft wasn’t interested in the standard line Cat fed everyone else. He was genuinely interested in what she really thought. He wanted the truth.
Cat’s eyes met his and stayed locked for five seconds until she went back to her food.
“Well, the thing is, I spoke with this man, and I use the term loosely, who knew the boy. Anyway, Carl Stearbourne—”
“Whoa, you spoke to Carl Stearbourne, face-to-face?” She could hear the surprise in his voice.
“Yes.” Cat did not know what else to say. “He and this boy, Eric, were close. Real close. Like they could read each other’s thoughts. Eric developed such an affinity for Carl that he wouldn’t speak to anyone else.”
Gregory was captivated. “Was Stearbourne as bad as they say?”
Gregory and Cat finished their shrimp almost simultaneously. A waiter appeared and whisked the plates away. Within seconds they were replaced with lemon sorbet, in small silver bowls.
Cat took three bites and the silver servers were removed once more, replaced this time with pâté de foie gras. She broke off a tiny bit of a toast point, spread it with the smooth mixture, and continued talking, nibbling in between words. “He’s a classic passive/aggressive. I thought a sociopath, but they say no, he knows exactly what he is doing at all times. Very direct, slightly confrontational. In a passive sort of way. Carl Stearbourne’s most powerful weapon is his mind. They can restrain his body, keep him locked away. But even in death, I don’t think that mind would die. Somehow he would find a way to keep it alive. That and the power he wields with it.”
Gregory sipped a French Burgundy. “Why do you think that?”
“Greg, he defines himself in no other way, although I understand he can be physically strong as well. Snapped some poor nurse’s neck a few years back with his bare hands…” Her words drifted into the air.
“Yes. I remember reading about it in the papers.”
“To look at him, you would never know. He is of average build, slightly pudgy in the middle. It’s the way he holds himself. Those eyes. He’s the ultimate liar.”
“And that diagnosis is based on…”
“He deludes himself into thinking he is not a killer. He believes himself like other men.” Cat stopped. “No. You know what?” She chewed in between words. “On second thought, I’ll take that back. He believes himself better than other men.”
“How so?” Gregory said, sipping his wine.
“He’s killed eight people, three for no other reason than he felt like it. On the other hand, most of the men there have killed over love, revenge, money. You see, Carl Stearbourne does not see himself as a high-priced liability to society. He has the talent to market himself. That is how he keeps the journals doing stories, year after year. He packages himself as the most bizarre lunatic the world has ever seen, because he appears sane. Completely sane.”
“That’s what you think of it?”
“Put it this way, even the guy’s own doctor, a man who’s been studying Carl for years, treats him like he’s an enigma.”
“What the hell do they care? He’s in for life, isn’t he?” Gregory’s eyes roamed the dining room, then met Cat’s.
“Don’t you see? There is a prestige factor to housing Carl Stearbourne. And the journal articles aren’t bad publicity either.”
“So what you’re saying is this lunatic’s been able to engineer a marketing machine to sell himself from inside his cell?”
“Precisely. And the doctors don’t even know it.”
“What’s his motive for it? He doesn’t get paid.”
“He gets something even more precious to him than money.”
“What?”
“So what’s all this got to do with your California killer?”
Cat’s voice was passionate. “I believe the personality we are looking for is almost identical.”
Gregory looked astounded. “You think there’s a Carl Stearbourne loose on the streets of California?”
Cat scrutinized his face for a full minute and then let a breath out slowly. “Yes, yes I do.” The pitch in her voice raised. She looked around the restaurant quickly, feeling foolish. Back at your old games again, Gregory. Goading me to make a point. Then backing off. Was he playing a game? Or was Gregory just testing her theories the way he always had, knowing she’d eventually have to take all this public.
She was being silly. These propositions sounded farfetched. Gregory was testing their strength and her commitment to them. Still she felt it, like an ache in her gut.
Cat lowered her voice and leaned in closer to Gregory. “Carl Stearbourne and Eric had the closest ongoing relationship of two inmates in that place. As a society, we want to believe there couldn’t possibly be another Carl Stearbourne. We couldn’t have one incarcerated and one loose. Hell, that would be too much—the fact that society could create two such demons in one generation. But I’m telling you, he’s out there. Simple as that. Carl Stearbourne wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. I’ve been considering this for some time, Gregory.” She went to take a bite but didn’t. “Long before I ever started talking with you tonight.”
Gregory chuckled softly at her.
Cat looked at him. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
“It’s just I love it when you get mad. You’re passionate as all hell.” A tugging smile at his mouth turned into a full-fledged grin.
The item came on Tuesday afternoon in a large manila envelope addressed to Dr. Cat Powers, c/o Burning Man Task Force, Irvine.
McGregor was sitting in the back corner of the task force room. On the far wall, photos of the girls loomed. For each one, two to three shots of full-faced, confident young women. Beside these, death mask photos. Details of each body’s condition, where it had been found.
The smiling faces of innocence.
Appreciated, though nothing was moving forward in the investigation.
McGregor noticed the envelope, conspicuous in its size and bulk, against business-sized envelopes on Cat’s desk. A twinge in his stomach.
Something wasn’t right with it.
Slipping on gloves, he pulled the envelope out of the stack. It was as if it did not want to come. Gave some hesitation. A lingering formaldehyde odor hit him. He brought the envelope to his nose. A stronger smell.
Some gung-ho rookie walked in, working late, trying to score brownie points. McGregor didn’t want to be in the task force room with this envelope when he opened it. Richmond’s empty office was better light. He went inside, closed the door, and sat at the desk, clearing a hole in the paperwork.
The envelope looked standard size and weight. Probably could be purchased at any one of a million locations. Placing it lettering-side down on Richmond’s desk, McGregor tweaked the metal clasp and ran his finger slowly under the gummed seal.
As the envelope opened, the smell of formaldehyde intensified.
McGregor held his breath.
Putting two fingers on the envelope’s back left corner, he tilted it to a forty-five degree angle. Something heavy inside. Dead weight, like what was in there didn’t want to come out. Choosing a pencil, he stuck its sharp point in the envelope to draw out what was inside. It slipped out.
McGregor put his head between his knees until his ears stopped ringing, spots disappeared from his vision. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
He tried Catherine’s cell phone. She wasn’t picking up. It went to voice mail.
“Dr. Catherine Powers, where the hell is she?” McGregor screamed into the receiver, spit covering it in minuscule wet spots.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I’ve tried her room. She’s not there.”
“Look. This is police business, an emergency.”
“Hold the line and let me see what I can find out.”
McGregor heard a clunk as the phone was placed down. Dead noise in his ears for thirty seconds, a telephone ringing, shuffling, then the voice back on. “I spoke to Judy; she’s on before my shift. Dr. Powers checked her messages before leaving for dinner with a gentleman. He picked her up around six.”
“Did she mention who it was?”
“Hold on.”
Dead line, but McGregor could make out a garbled conversation with someone who must have been Judy.
A female voice got on the phone. “Sir, can I help you? This is Judy Kennedy.” Although she said the word help, it was clear she was annoyed.
“I need to find Dr. Catherine Powers. You saw her last?”
A few seconds passed before a response. “Sir, we respect the privacy of our guests.”
McGregor exploded. “Look, this is police business. Life and death. You get my drift?” He took a breath and made himself settle down.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who she was with? Did she mention a name?”
“She mentioned a doctor. Task, or maybe Taft.” The woman’s voice was small. “She said they were going to Chez Paul for dinner.”
“Did you see the car she left in?”
The woman sounded tired, frightened. “Yes. A cream-colored late model BMW sedan.”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding number for messages?”
“No, sir.”
“Thanks. Do you have a number for Chez Paul?”
“Yes” She gave him the number, he wrote it down and called it right away.
After 6 rings, someone answered the line. McGregor again explained the urgency of the situation but was told that Cat and Dr. Taft had already left. He asked the obnoxious sounding host if she would be so kind as to provide the good doctor’s phone number if they had it. The woman provided it after some coaxing.
This was taking too long. He wished Cat was here. Wished he could protect her from this. Useless, childish thought.
McGregor called Taft’s home number. He was so keyed up the babysitter at the end of the line couldn’t understand him.
“I’m calling from the Irvine Police Department in California. You the babysitter?”
“Huh?” a cracking teenaged voice said.
“Look, I’m trying to locate a Dr. Catherine Powers.”
“Who?”
McGregor was tired. He’d had it. Too much time was going by.
Stop getting angry and think. He slowed his voice, purposefully took breaths between words.
“Shut up and listen. I’m trying to locate Catherine Powers. She’s a doctor who is out with Dr. Taft. Did he leave you a number where he could be reached? The name of the place they went? Anything? It’s real, real important.”
“Yeah, I got the cell number here. It’s 569-3428.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Quickly, he hung up the phone a third time in as many minutes and dialed the 619 area code and number, asked to speak to Cat. After a long empty pause they were connected.
She sounded surprised. Surprise turned to worry.
“What is it?” she said.
McGregor’s voice was shaky, uneven. “It’s another body, in a manner of speaking.”
“You need me to come back?” Cat was saying into the phone, reading his signals all wrong.
“No, Cat. I’m looking at it.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m looking at it. Jesus, Catherine. There’s no body this time.” McGregor sounded shell-shocked, the kind of voice you heard after people survived things they shouldn’t. “He sent us a piece of her.”
“What?”
“Some poor girl’s scalp, in a Ziploc bag, addressed to you.”
“Oh God…”
“And he’s left us a message, carved in it.” McGregor sounded odd, far away.
“What does it say?” Cat begged, her voice barely audible. She heard a deep, purposeful breath from McGregor.
“Joey. He wants Joey.”