“The crazy’s name is what?” Folger asked.
“Jeremy Ridgecliff,” Waltz said. “He killed his father when he was sixteen, then brutally murdered five women. Ridgecliff has been in the Alabama Institute for Aberrational Behavior for over a dozen years.”
Folger turned to me. “Didn’t you say they never got out of that place?”
I barely heard her and made no response. I sat in the corner, stunned. Somehow, Jeremy had escaped and forced Vangie to New York. Vangie was dead, mercilessly and bizarrely mutilated by my brother.
Tell them, my mind said. Tell them he’s your brother. You’ve got to tell them now.
I opened my mouth to speak as Waltz waved everyone silent, holding up pages fresh from the fax machine. “Our first look at Ridgecliff. He likes knives, mutilation and symbolism. And he’s had years of incarceration to dream up new stuff. That’s the good news.”
A detective in the back of the room, Perlstein, looked up from his note-taking. “If that’s good, Shelly, what’s bad?”
“He has a higher IQ than anyone in this room, I’d wager. I’m talking maybe thirty points higher.”
Low whistles, groans. A killer with creative intelligence could be as elusive as a black shark in a midnight ocean.
Stand up and tell them, my mind repeated. They’re cops. You’re a cop.
Folger’s heels ticked on the floor as she paced. “Ridgecliff somehow coerced the Prowse woman into bringing him here, then killed her, no longer needed. What he did to her got him so juiced he had to do it again. Like Waltz said, this monster’s had years to let his fantasies cook. His feet barely hit pavement and we’ve got two women torn to bits.”
What would happen when I told them? I’d become their information machine, held distant from the investigation, used but not completely trusted. It was the smart thing to do. It’s what I would do in the same situation.
Waltz’s voice broke into my thoughts. “It was Detective Ryder who ID’d Ridgecliff, saving hundreds of man-hours. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”
My face burned as the other faces in the room turned to me. Cop faces, my brethren, nodding thanks at me. I heard scattered handclaps. Folger walked over.
Tell her.
“Job well done, Detective. Waltz is right. We all owe you one.”
“Listen, Lieutenant, uh, I’d like to tell you about Ridgecliff. He’s –”
Folger’s hand, firm and cool, found its way into mine. “Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. You know how protective departments are about turf, right? You can head home and we’ll have Ridgecliff nailed in a day or two. Drop him back in the box. Or even better, lay him in the ground.”
“Bang,” Bullard said. “Problem solved.”
“Uh, listen, Lieutenant …”
But what if …What would change if …I said nothing. What was affected as long as I stayed near the investigation? Vangie could have mentioned Jeremy was my brother. Why didn’t she?
“Yes?” Folger said, a dark eyebrow raised.
“About Jeremy Ridgecliff …I’m part of a special unit that handles the edgy stuff, psychotics, sociopaths. I can help you more than you think.”
“We have homicidal crazies in New York, Ryder. I think the NYPD can handle –”
Waltz interrupted. “You recognized Ridgecliff right off the bat, Detective Ryder. Am I to assume you studied the suspect?”
I kept my face neutral and my voice even. “I have had conversations with Mr Ridgecliff. Quite a few, actually.”
Waltz turned to Folger. “Not only does Detective Ryder know a bit about Ridgecliff, it might speed up communication with Southern law enforcement if we had a liaison. And a local professional to interview the staff at the Institute.” Waltz looked to me. “You can handle the Southern pipeline on both counts, Detective Ryder?”
Though my heart was pounding like a hammer, I kept my voice nonchalant. “I have excellent contacts in the Alabama State Police and can have my partner handle interviews at the Institute. He’s experienced in psychological crimes.”
Folger said, “I don’t think we need –”
Waltz clapped his hands once, not applause, but finality. “That should settle things and sit well with the brass. Detective Ryder will be with us a few days longer. A consultant, if you will.”
Don’t go down this road. Tell them now. It’s your last chance.
I studied my shoes. My mouth stayed closed.
What am I doing?
Folger departed briskly, Bullard and Cluff on her heels. Waltz headed to a meeting with the DA on another case. I stood on unsteady legs and checked my watch: Ten thirty a.m. It was an hour earlier in Mobile. I blotted sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, took a deep breath and dialed my cellphone. Twelve hundred miles away in Mobile, my partner, Harry Nautilus, picked up.
“Cars? Jeez, what the hell’s going on? Are you still in NYC?”
I pictured Harry frowning into the phone, a six-four black man in a forty-eight long jacket, probably yellow or neon green. The pants might be plum, or mauve. Harry loved color and no one dared tell him it sometimes didn’t love him back.
“I’ll be here for a few days, Harry.”
“Why? I mean, one minute you’re here, the next you’re –”
“Jeremy escaped,” I said. “He’s in New York.”
“What?”
“He somehow coerced Vangie Prowse into bringing him here. Vangie’s dead, Harry. Jeremy killed her and another woman. He did terrible things to the bodies. He’s exploding.”
“Lord Jesus,” Harry whispered. “How in the hell did he get out?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of ruse. Maybe he got hold of a weapon, or found some security failing. It should have been impossible, but he did it. Listen, Harry, I know the State Police will be handling it, but could you take a look at the Institute, find out how –”
“Did you tell them, Cars? Did you tell them he’s your brother?”
I couldn’t find my breath. The day seemed to come crashing in and my eyes filled with tears. I gasped, wiped my face on my shoulder. Waited for Harry to tear into me, to tell me I was an idiot. Or worse.
Instead, Harry said, “Tell me what you need me to do, bro.”
We talked for a few minutes. After hanging up, I slunk toward the exit carrying a paper bag bulging with copies of the files faxed to Waltz by the Alabama State Police. On the way out I saw Alice Folger in a shadowy meeting room by herself, watching a television like something major depended on the outcome. I couldn’t see the screen or hear the audio, and wondered if it was a news program with NYPD featured in some way, or perhaps a verdict on a case she’d worked.
I crept by to the other side of the hall, shot a glance at the TV screen. I saw a suited man pointing at colored lines bisecting the nation’s midsection.
Alice Folger was hypnotized by the Weather Channel?