thirty-six

Icy rain spat down on the skylight while Megan waited in the conversation room. An odd name, she thought, “conversation room”—it just seemed so peaceful for a place of such emotional and mental unrest. Her visitor’s tag hung haphazardly on her leather jacket. She stood with folded arms listening to pages for so-and-so doctor, blue, yellow, red codes—extraneous considerations equaling that of elevator music.

Megan was cold. Chilled to the bone, actually, but she wouldn’t display any vulnerability. With each breath she visualized a brick wall surrounding her, her personal castle without a moat. No one crossed, no one entered, not anymore. Not ever again.

A killer had entered her private world.

Only one person could give her answers, and it was the man who was being escorted by two orderlies and one fully armed guard. Her gut told her someone as sick, as heinous as he was, could give her a glimpse into the killer she now tracked.

The atmosphere of the room seemed to change as the man entered, as if the universe could accommodate only so much evil, leaving Megan to defend and honor the remaining miniscule space for justice.

Fintan D. Worth—his hair slicked back, his demeanor annoyingly confident—spoke with genuine appreciation, as much as a killer can. “Detective,” he nodded, “as usual, a pleasure to see you. I gather you received my note.”

Megan didn’t contribute to his pleasantries. She sensed that a monologue was on its way. Always place high bets on narcissists to enjoy the sound of their own voice, she thought. He didn’t disappoint.

Fintan fixed on her with a beady stare as he began his soliloquy. “Based on your body language and intentional silence, I’m to assume you’ve called on me for one of two reasons. Would you care to hear my hypotheses?”

Megan maintained her stance leaning against the wall.

“My first”—he pointed his index finger into the air—“and most hopeful hypothesis is that we’re about to continue our conversation from the night you captured me. Now, I say hopeful because our discussion was surprisingly interesting, and great fun as well. Fun isn’t the correct word, though, is it? Fascinating is more appropriate.”

Fintan studied her reaction, or rather her lack thereof.

“Mmm. No takers on that topic. Color me disappointed. Now, that leaves me with my second possibility. I’ve been following the newspapers. The Tailor?” Fintan applied a thick French accent as he said, “Tacky sobriquet.” He tapped his fingers on the table, humming a classical arrangement. His self-anointed grin was evidence that he took credit for her current professional achievements. “I have to assume you’re not here to ask me about the recidivism rates in mental hospitals, and if I dare say, you are not here with anything to do with my world. You’re here for much more personal reasons. Much, much more.” He crossed his arms over his lap. “How did I do?”

He studied Megan before asking in a melodic tone, “Detective, you want something from me?”

“Are you done?” Megan’s cool demeanor amused Fintan.

“Mmm.”

Megan turned away from the wall, pulled out the chair, and sat opposite Fintan.

“What in the world happened to you, Detective?”

Her cut lip and blackened cheek were obvious, even in the poor lighting. She ignored his question. “I’m here to speak to you regarding the case I’m working.”

“Is your handsome partner still by your side, Detective?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“Tsk, tsk.” He waved his finger at Megan. “Now, you’re here asking me questions, for all intents and purposes, asking for my help. Don’t you think you could perhaps show a little gratitude? Or, at the very least, civility?”

“Civility?” Megan pushed back her chair hard enough for it to turn over. “After what you’ve done, you think you have the right to use a word like civility? Coming to see you was a mistake. Rot in here, Worth.”

He turned his palm over. “Now, Detective, we’re getting a little emotional, don’t you think?”

“Go to hell.” She pounded on the door. “Guard!”

“Megan.” Fintan folded his arms. “You haven’t figured out why he sutured poor Miss Shannon McAllister, have you?”

The fact Fintan had the audacity to use her name made her stomach turn, but what made her skin crawl was the fact he was right.

“He didn’t just suture her, though, did he?” He traced the edge of the table with his feminine-like nails. “There’s something else. Something only those working on the case know. Well, those working on the case as well as the girl’s family, of course.” He removed his glasses, polishing them with his shirt. “What was placed in the girl’s body?” Fintan put his glasses back on. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

She acquiesced, knowing she had to give something in order to get something. “A wedding ring.”

“Now, that’s sick.” His comment was barren of empathy or shock, not that Megan expected any different.

“What could be the reasoning behind it?” she asked.

“It’s a religious symbol. Were there spiritual or theological overtones to the scene?”

Megan nodded. “Yes, but I’m not going into that detail with you just so you can get your rocks off.”

“I’m not like that.” Fintan shook his head. “A rude assumption on your part, Detective. I will say that ring belonged to whoever killed her, or someone related to whoever killed her. A personal memento. It sounds similar to Greek mythology. The dead had a coin placed over each eye to pay the boatman crossing the River Styx to ensure safe passage to the other side, their place in the afterworld.”

Megan thought about what Fintan said. It did make sense, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.

“Did he do that to you?” Fintan pointed to her face.

“No.”

“How were you contacted?”

She couldn’t hide her surprise regarding his question. “What?”

“Detective, I don’t smell fear from you, but I do smell anger, like a wild animal whose private territory has been invaded. Marked by an enemy, so to speak.”

They sat staring one another down until Fintan spoke once more. “You’ll be contacted again.”

“What makes you say that?”

“That’s what I’d do. You’re a part of the game now.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“It’s all a game, Detective.”

Megan called for the guard again. He was opening the door when Fintan said, “I do look forward to our next conversation, Detective McGinn.”

“Don’t. There won’t be another.”

His tone flirtatious, he said, “Megan?”

It nauseated her to hear him use her given name.

“You will be back. I guarantee it.”

Megan didn’t look back at Fintan before leaving. What bothered her was the change in his demeanor at the end of their meeting. The only word resonating within her thoughts was proud.

And proud is an unnerving word when associated with a serial killer.