Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation (17 page)

Felicity snorted and rolled her eyes. “Unique…
Unfortunate… Unintended… No offense, Agent Hanley, but I think I’ve
heard all of the UN words from the bureaucratic handbook already.
You might want to try a different page.”

Her voice tone was cold, and it was obvious to
everyone in the room that a nerve had been struck.

“Miz O’Brien, I really didn’t mean to offend
you…”

She held up her hands and shook her head. “I’m
sorry… Really…” She took in a deep breath and sighed heavily before
she continued. “I know it isn’t your fault. My apologies. It just
isn’t a very pleasant memory.”

“We certainly understand,” Hanley replied.

Felicity looked over at me, and I knew from the
quick flash in her eyes that what she really wanted to tell him was
that he had just fed her yet another of the overused UN words.
Instead, she simply nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Doctor Jante looked my way and said, “Mister Gant,
we’re mainly interested in speaking with your wife at this point,
so if you have something else you need to do…”

I gave her a curt nod. “No offense, Doctor Jante,
but is that just a polite way of asking me to leave?”

Before she could answer, Felicity interjected, “I’d
really rather he stayed, then.”

“That’s fine. It’s really no problem, either way,”
she reassured us both then motioned to the conference table. “Shall
we?”

After some shuffling of the chairs, the doctor took
a position at the end of the table. Felicity was already seated
diagonally next to her at the corner with me on her left, and
Special Agent Hanley took a place directly across from us. Given
that they waited for us to choose places first, I had a feeling it
was a strategically calculated move on their part.

Doctor Jante extracted a notebook computer from her
briefcase and placed it on the table. Pivoting the screen upward,
she pressed the power button and started it into its boot process
as she spoke. “In all honesty, while we regularly conduct
interviews with serial offenders, the primary reason we are so
interested in Devereaux is her classification.”

“You don’t mind if we record this, do you?” Hanley
interjected, waving a digital voice recorder as he spoke.

“That’s fine,” Felicity replied with a nod, then
looked over at the Doctor and quipped, “So the FBI actually has a
classification for serial bitch?”

Jante gave her a thin smile. “Actually, Miz O’Brien,
we use something called the Kelleher Typology nine-point
categorization in order to divide serial killers into different
groups. Devereaux herself falls into the classification of sexual
predator, and while that is not at all unusual for male offenders,
for women it is incredibly rare. In fact, until now there has been
only one other.”

“Aileen Wuornos,” I offered.

“Correct,” she replied. “Do you have an interest in
serial killers, Mister Gant?”

“They aren’t a morbid hobby or anything,” I
returned. “But circumstances seem to dictate that I end up dealing
with them on a regular basis, so I’ve done a little homework to
stay ahead of the curve.”

“Of course,” she replied. “We are certainly familiar
with your work helping local law enforcement.”

“I pretty much assumed you would be.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that.” Her tone was guarded, and
it was obvious that I was still being sized up. She flashed a quick
smile then continued, “It might interest you to know, however, that
there are some who reject that classification for Wuornos, as the
evidence suggests she had motivations for the murders other than
sexual gratification. It really depends on how strict one
interprets the typology.”

I nodded. “Actually, I’ve heard this before from one
of your own. Right about the time Annalise’s second Saint Louis
victim was discovered, in fact.”

“So exactly what is it you’re wanting from me then?”
Felicity asked, interrupting before we could diverge any
further.

Hanley replied, “Well, Miz O’Brien, as I was telling
you earlier, it’s standard procedure to interview most anyone the
offender has ever had contact with in order that we form a
comprehensive model of the psychopathology relating to the
crimes.”

“That sounds reasonable, but my contact was
extremely limited and very recent,” my wife objected. “I didn’t
even know she existed until a few months ago, much less that we
were related. I don’t really see how I can help.”

“Well, that’s what we are hoping to find out today,”
Doctor Jante replied. “For some reason Devereaux is extremely
fixated on you.”

“No offense, but that isn’t exactly a news flash,”
Felicity said with a shrug and an animated shake of her head. “She
wanted me dead. One of your agents saved my life and almost lost
hers in the process.”

“Special Agent Mandalay, yes, of course,” Jante
replied. “We’ve seen the report. However, the issue at hand isn’t
merely her fixation, which, to be honest, is actually somewhat of a
mystery. And that is why we wanted to speak to you about it. You
see, on the surface Devereaux appears to be suffering from
Dissociative Identity Disorder. In lay terminology, you’ve probably
heard it referred to as multiple personalities.

“In her case she seems to have two very similar but,
at the same time, very distinct personalities. However, neither of
these identities is childlike, which is disturbing because one of
the hallmarks of a true dissociative disorder is the child persona.
Still, both of her apparent personalities are unnaturally
preoccupied with you, Miz O’Brien. The interesting thing about
them, however, is that their obsessions run to diametrically
opposed extremes.”

“Miz O’Brien,” Hanley spoke up. “As I said, we’ve
reviewed the case reports and are familiar with the various, shall
we say, incidents, which in part led to your implications in the
crimes.”

“You mean my trip to the bondage club and motel,” my
wife said in a flat voice.

He glanced at me then back to her. “I was trying to
be tactful, but yes.”

She shook her head. “I prefer a straightforward
approach. But either way, if you’ve seen the case reports, then
obviously you also know I was cleared, so where exactly are you
going with this?”

“Please don’t misunderstand, Miz O’Brien,” Doctor
Jante rushed to clear up the perceived implication. “You aren’t
being accused of anything. However, there are some pressing
questions that do raise a few concerns in that regard. Specifically
the fact that Devereaux’s secondary personality appears to have an
extensive and very intimate familiarity with you and your husband,
even though she herself has only a cursory knowledge. Such
disparities certainly aren’t uncommon with identity disorders, but
under the circumstances we feel it bears investigation.”

“Why is that?”

“The apparent connection,” Hanley answered.
“According to the case files, the name used by her alternate
personality is mentioned prominently in conjunction with you as
well, Miz O’Brien. So given that she seems to know so much about
you, we were hoping you could help shed some light on Miranda?”

Miranda.

Hanley spoke the three syllables with clinical
sterility, as if they formed nothing more than a mere appellation.
I suppose to him, and most everyone else for that matter, that is
exactly what it was. But for Felicity and me, the name held a very
different meaning. Because of the memories it conjured, I had been
making a point of not saying it aloud whenever my wife was around.
I seriously doubt my personal moratorium on the noun kept her from
thinking about all that had happened to tear our lives apart in
recent months, but I liked to believe that it helped, even if only
a little.

Hearing it spoken by the federal agent now, however,
the rolling syllables that would most likely sound pleasant to
anyone else’s ear were no less than a dull knife twisting in my
gut. Unfortunately, for us Miranda wasn’t a pretty name at all.
Instead of “someone to be admired” as its Latin root suggested, it
was just the opposite. Even worse, it had become a garish pseudonym
for evil incarnate.

I took a deep breath and heard Felicity do the same.
If nothing else, the direction this interview was taking served as
a confirmation of the reason behind the persistent chill running
the length of my spine. Not that such verification was needed, or
even wanted. It simply was what it was.

“Miz O’Brien?” Doctor Jante prodded.

Felicity sighed then looked away
and fixed her distant gaze on the opposite wall. After a moment she
finally muttered an answer to the question. “
Grodag
…
Uathbheist
…
Fekking Ban-àibhistear.
”

The doctor wrinkled her forehead. “Gaelic again, I
assume?”

My wife pursed her lips and looked over at her. Then
with a frigid voice, she translated the string of foreign words
into a simple summation, “You wanted to know about Miranda… There
it is. She’s a monster… If Satan exists, she’s the fekking
manifestation.”

“I take it you mean Devereaux’s secondary
personality? Agent Hanley asked. “Or are you saying there is an
actual Miranda?”

“Her personality if that’s what you want to call it
then,” she spat. “You’ve been talking to her. She seems real
enough, don’t you think?”

“Can you tell us about her?”

“I don’t know what I can possibly tell you that you
don’t already know. Like I just said, you’ve been talking to her,
not me.”

“Obviously you know something about Miranda, or you
wouldn’t be having this type of reaction.”

Felicity’s voice turned hard. “Of course I do. I
know what she did. I know I was accused of it. And, I know she made
my life a living hell. Isn’t that enough to warrant my
reaction?”

“In this case, I don’t think so,” he replied.

“Maybe you should think a bit harder then.”

“Allow me to explain my reasoning, Miz O’Brien,” he
continued calmly. “I think you know more than you are saying
because according to the early police reports, you actually
identified yourself as Miranda on at least one occasion.”

I straightened in my chair at the comment but
remained closed-mouthed for the moment. However, I couldn’t say how
long that would last. The earlier mistrust I had apparently been
too quick to rule out was rearing its head once again. I felt the
prickle of gooseflesh as the hair on the back of my neck stood at
attention. In concert with the sensation, my brain sorted through
the various directions this could go. Unfortunately, none of them
seemed particularly appealing.

“That’s a different story,” Felicity told him.

“Different how?”

She shrugged. “Just…different.”

“Well, even you have to admit that it seems a bit
coincidental,” he pressed.

“You said it yourself,” she replied.
“Coincidence.”

“As I said, Miz O’Brien, we’ve read the case
files.”

To my knowledge, with the exception of the handful
of detectives and federal officers with whom I had closely worked,
the name Miranda had been nothing more than an alias used by
Annalise. Now, however, the harsh light of the BAU appeared as if
it was being trained on a ghost, even if they didn’t realize it,
and my wife was being caught in that beam as well.

In response to my wife’s silence, Agent Hanley made
a capitulatory gesture with his hands as he raised his eyebrows.
“Honestly, I think you’re hiding something. Why can’t you at least
tell us why you chose to refer to yourself by that particular
name?”

My comfort zone was already being severely stressed,
and his latest comment served only to push it to the limit. Instead
of allowing its walls to be breached I interrupted. “I think maybe
we’re finished here.”

My tone carried a sharp edge that, judging from the
looks I received, definitely appeared to annoy or at the very least
surprise the two FBI agents. At this point, however, I really
didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let Felicity be railroaded again,
especially not like this.

“I was speaking to your wife, Mister Gant,” Hanley
replied.

“I caught that, Agent Hanley,” I
shot back coolly. “But, just so we avoid any misunderstanding, I
was speaking to
both
of you.”

“I agree with Rowan, then,” Felicity announced.
“This suddenly seems more like an interrogation than an
interview.”

Doctor Jante spoke up. “Miz O’Brien, I understand
how you must feel about this after everything you’ve been through,
but you have nothing to worry about. No one is accusing you of
anything.”

“That certainly isn’t the impression you’re giving
me,” Felicity replied.

“I apologize for that,” Doctor Jante said, offering
a smile. “To the both of you. That isn’t our intention at all.
We’re simply trying to gather as much information as we can, and
with our time limited as it is, sometimes the stress can creep
through, even for us.” She glanced at her partner. “I’m afraid
Agent Hanley was just a little overzealous.”

Hanley gave her a shallow nod of agreement then
muttered a quick and blatantly insincere apology in our direction.
Other than that he remained quiet, with a somewhat stoic expression
on his face as he stared across the table at us.

In that moment the two of them had
officially established their roles as good cop and bad cop. Any
other time I probably would have pointed out to them that I was
onto their game, but the obvious posturing seemed just exactly
that—
obvious
.
Their less than subtle attempt at manipulation bothered me enough
that I had to wonder why they had been so transparent. I knew I
should be listening to my instincts to cut and run, but there was
just one small problem. My curiosity was taking over.