Double Vision (12 page)

J
enna rode in the passenger's seat of the SUV, quiet, as Dodd navigated them through the roads near the Clairefall Heights neighborhood. So much about this entire situation didn't make sense.

She had paced the hallway outside Sheila Maxwell's living room until her phone vibrated. She'd picked up.

“Buzz, buzz,” Irv had said. “I have one name and address of a gal whose phone number crosses with records of students in Brooklyn Satterhorne's college classes. Diana Delmont. Real name, not stripper name.”

“Thanks for the qualifier,” Jenna had replied.

She had extracted Dodd from his questioning as soon as she could. Sheila wasn't recounting anything else useful anyway. The witness had started telling him her opinions on who might've done this to poor Brooklyn, speculations that ranged from wild to wilder.

Now Jenna glanced out the window, watching the roadside swish beneath them like a conveyor belt. Something wasn't adding up.

“The Triple Shooter—”

“The UNSUB,” Dodd said, cutting her off.

Jenna blinked. This thing with his old case must be getting to him. Still, he was probably right. The killer was the Unidentified Subject until they caught his ass, at which point they'd plainly see he was the Triple Shooter. Still, no one else had been a stickler about this rule until now, and Jenna could only assume Dodd's correction was out of an overabundance of caution. Hell, she'd be cautious, too, if she had any hint her prize case might have ended with locking up the wrong guy for years.

“Right. So, the
UNSUB
, who is likely the Triple Shooter,
kills seven people in a grocery store. This deviates extremely from every single aspect of the
known
Triple Shooter's MO except for the lining up of the threes. No covering eyes, each body with varying numbers of bullet wounds instead of a characteristic three. What do you make of that?” Jenna asked. She wasn't even really sure she wanted Dodd's answer, but she had to bat ideas with someone. Unfortunately, he was the only option.

He sighed. “A lot of scenarios have crossed my mind. Each is as unlikely as the next.”

“Let's hear some.”

“If he
is
the Triple Shooter, which I think he probably is, could be he's breaking down. Flying into a rage, unable to control himself as well,” Dodd said.

“But the return to the pattern . . . kind of . . .” Jenna replied. The latest murder hadn't been
exactly
like his others, but it was a lot closer to his normal standards. Still, why the difference at all? And how did the grocery store fit?

Not to mention, Brooklyn Satterhorne's murder immediately registered in Jenna's mind as green, the same color she associated with the other Triple Shooter killings. Except the grocery store, that was. Purple.

“Exactly. The pattern, as you said, is ‘kind of' back. Plus, even if it is a rage, schizophrenic killers like the Triple Shooter—at least what we have guessed about him—have a sort of method to their madness. They kill because something tells them to, and thus, there's a reason for the pattern. He wouldn't devolve and then spiral back
up.
We're not seeing something we should be,” Dodd said.

“You can say that again,” Jenna mumbled.

Her phone vibrated, and she pressed the button to open the text. It was from Charley.

Hey, Rain Man, when you get a minute, you should really come watch cartoons with us. Not because we need you or anything, but I think you could do some cool color associations with the characters on Clifford the Big Red Dog.

She breathed in slowly, then out. Ayana wasn't getting any younger. So many of these things she missed out on that her dad and Charley shared with her daughter every day.

And Ayana doesn't have a dad anymore. You're all the parent she has left.

She hit the reply button:

Definitely see Clifford as blue.

The joke about blue—the color she picked at random for that very reason—triggered a color from that family to flash in. Blue—very similar to the cornflower she had earlier associated with the killer's disorganization. His sloppiness. No wonder she hadn't noticed this particular shade before when it had appeared. It was the sky blue she associated with randomness.

“He chose the singular victims very carefully. Each had some reason we haven't found yet, though right now we're assuming Greek mythology plays a big part. The group of seven, though . . .”

“They were at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Dodd finished.

Jenna nodded. “Random. The threes of the date and time aligned, but why seven people? If they were like his other victims, the numbers would line up, he'd follow a person to a place where he wouldn't be seen, shoot them three times, then leave pay for the boatman on their eyes in the form of evidence. The seven victims at Lowman's were shot with wild abandon just because they were there. And he showed them no remorse by tipping the ferry to take them away.”

“Theories?” Dodd asked.

Not yet.
“This last one has thrown me even worse, to be honest.”

“The pennies,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“No trace of threes yet, and the pennies don't point to anything I can fathom yet. But he understands them. That's one thing I'm sure of. To him, they make perfect sense, just like the keys and receipts and all the other little prizes he's left over his victims' eyes,” Jenna said. Her conversation with Calliope Jones burned in her mind, and pieces of the bizarre puzzle flitted around like they had minds of their own.

He doesn't know the boatman was always said to have taken payments under the tongue.

Her phone flashed again. She read the text from Charley:

Very funny. But seriously, come home soon. Missing Mommy is one thing duct tape can't fix.

Heat prickled up Jenna's neck, and tears bit the corners of her eyes. Charley didn't mean it to hurt, but damn, did it sting. Then again, maybe that's exactly how he meant it to feel.

She typed back, then hit send.

I've never let you down yet, have I? Home soon. Promise.

Jenna and Dodd rode in silence, and Jenna knew they were both racking their brains for that one detail they hadn't noticed that could break this case wide open. If only it would come before another girl—or seven—were killed.

“That's another thing,” Jenna blurted. “All the singular victims were female.”

Dodd let out a grunt. “Touché. More proof the grocery store shooting was different. Maybe it wasn't him at all.”

Jenna turned away from Dodd to look back out the window. It was him. She knew it. The colors didn't match perfectly—that purple was so odd—but still, she knew it all the same.

Her phone vibrated again.

She looked at the screen, expecting it to be Charley, taking his guilt trip to a new level by calling. However, the number wasn't familiar.

“Dr. Jenna Ramey,” she answered.

“Dr. Ramey? My name is Eldred Beasley. I need to tell you some things I remember.”

J
enna gripped the phone tighter, trying to hear the faint voice on the other end. “Mr. Beasley?”

He coughed. “Call me Eldred. I have to tell you before I forget. If we lose the connection, call my daughter, Nancy. You can reach me at the home. I was at the grocery store.”

Jenna's heart sped up. She didn't remember reading this witness's statement. “What is it you remember, Eldred?”

“A couple of things,” the man said. His voice was so shaky. “First is the cereal row. I was in the cereal row, and I saw the shooter coming.”

“Eldred, you
saw
the shooter? Is there anything you can tell me about him—”

“Don't get ahead of me now!” he barked.

Anger. Maybe frustration.

Still, Jenna didn't apologize. Clearly, this man had some kind of memory issue. He was so worried about forgetting. She made a mental note to contact the daughter to follow up but was silent, lest she interrupt his train of thought again.

“The shooter hit the guy he hit, but he didn't mean to,” Eldred Beasley said.

“What do you mean?” Jenna whispered, her blood pulsing through her veins.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? I was as clear as day!”

Again, Jenna went silent, hoping the man would get back on track. The hair on her arms prickled. Something was about to come out. She knew it.

Eldred Beasley coughed again. “Took my pill last night, I think. Might not've taken the medicine this morning, though.”

She heard rustling on the other end of the phone, then something rattling, like a canister of pills.

“Gotta get me a glass of water,” Eldred said.

His voice sounded different—foggy. Like it was blurred at the edges, more an inner monologue than a telephone conversation.

He's forgotten he's talking to me.

“Mr. Beasley?”

“Wha—who're you? Who is this? Sarah?”

Oh, boy.
“Um, no sir, this is Dr. Jenna Ramey. You called me about the grocery store . . .”

“Called you? I didn't call anyone!” Eldred growled.

Uh-oh.
Better, maybe, to follow up with the daughter. Maybe if he recalled something once, his clarity would return again. Dementia? Alzheimer's?

“I'm sorry to have bothered you, sir. Good-bye.”

When she had hung up the phone, Dodd was stopped in the driveway belonging to the family of Diana Delmont, the friend who'd been shopping with Brooklyn. He was staring at her, but she couldn't get any words to come out.

The shooter hadn't meant to shoot the last victim he had. This insinuated that he
had
been trying to shoot someone else. They'd started out by disproving the idea that the killer had been there to kill a politician, be it the Virginia governor, Miriam Holman, or Frank Kuncaitis, the mayor of the town they'd been in. Maybe he had been there to kill someone else entirely. Maybe the victims
were
important, and the reason no remorse was shown was because he hadn't killed the person he'd intended.

Again, purple crept into Jenna's psyche, but she pushed it away. She couldn't embrace it yet. She didn't have a good enough grasp on its exact shade to rein in the color's meaning. Sure, she could try to delve into everything any purple had ever meant to her and use the process of elimination, but there were so many definitions it seemed futile.
Wait for it.

“I think we need to do this interview, but tomorrow we start fresh looking at other people in the grocery store at the time of the shootings. I think someone else might be the target.”

•   •   •

A
s Jenna followed Diana Delmont's stout mother through the upstairs hallway toward the room belonging to Brooklyn's friend, she took in what she could about the home, even though profiling the friend wouldn't go a long way toward telling her anything about the killer. After all, the shooter had targeted Brooklyn, not Diana.

The hallway carpet was a deep mud-colored shag straight out of the sixties. Maybe the best thing about it was that it hid any signs of dirt, but dang, was it ugly. The walls were lined with cartoonish paintings of fruit. Apples in a basket, pears on a table. A cut-open kiwi here, oranges in a bowl there.

Mrs. Delmont stopped in front of a closed door. She tapped on it with her knuckles. “Diana, honey? Are you dressed?”

A sniff, a muffled sound like a nose blowing. Another sniff. “Yes. Come in.”

If only my mother had been that polite.

Mrs. Delmont opened the door to reveal Diana, a skinny girl in pajamas, lying on her bed and clutching a box of tissues as though it were her teddy bear. Her recent tears were obvious, and unlike Sheila Maxwell, she probably hadn't been sedated
nearly
enough for having found out her friend was murdered right after she left her. Survivor's guilt was a bitch.

“Diana, these are Agents Dodd and Ramey. They need to ask you some questions.”

Diana frowned, clearly dreading what was coming, though her eyes were set. Resigned. She glanced back and forth from Jenna to Dodd, skittish, nervous. Man, this was going to suck.

“Hi. I'm Dr. Ramey. I'm with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Jenna said, stepping forward to offer Diana her hand. In some cases like this, she didn't do that. Sometimes people recently traumatized by something like this didn't want to be touched or were nervous to be approached. But in this instance, the blush pink that rushed forth in Jenna's mind when Diana had looked uneasily back and forth between her and Dodd was the same color Jenna remembered from the time she had sat in the police station to be questioned about the journal she'd kept about her mother. She'd known she hadn't done anything wrong, but at the same time, the anxiety had been intense. And it hadn't been just the guilt of turning her mother over to the police. It had been every bit as much about what the police themselves would think about
her
if her mother was such a monster.

Diana needed to be assured that they didn't hold her at fault in any way. She needed to know they didn't consider her the enemy. And most of all, she needed to realize that no matter what had happened, they didn't view her as horrible, even if right now she was feeling terrible for living when her friend had died.

The girl sat up a little straighter and stretched out her hand. They shook, Diana's hand cold and clammy in Jenna's own.

Jenna resisted the urge to wipe her palm on her trousers when they let go, and instead, she sat on the foot of Diana's bed, putting them on the same level. No one wanted to be looked down at while carrying on a conversation.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Jenna said gently.

The girl sniffled again, then whispered, “Thank you.”

Careful to keep any hint of accusation out of her voice, Jenna framed her question. “Diana, you two were at Target together. Why did you decide to leave sooner than Brooklyn did?”

Diana's eyes welled up again, and ash gray flashed into Jenna's mind. The color she associated with guilt.

“I had a Latin exam and needed to study. She wanted to stay and wait around for Kenny to get off work.”

“Who's Kenny?” Jenna prodded.

Diana wiped her eye with the back of her hand, then dried it on the patchwork quilt on her bed. “Kenny Ingle. This boy she likes.”

Jenna cocked her head. Of the initial interview Porter and Teva had with the family and the background Irv had dug up, this was the first mention she'd heard of any Kenny.

“Were Brooklyn and Kenny dating?”

“Not exactly,” Diana said. “I mean, they were talking. That's it.”

Jenna hoped she didn't look as dumb as she felt. “What do you mean they were talking?”

Dodd cleared his throat. “It means they were talking on the phone or texting or whatever kids do to get to know each other now. You know, kind of a warm-up to dating.”

She shot Dodd a look. How the hell did he know that?

“Wasn't long ago my daughter was in high school,” he said, shrugging.

Jenna turned back to Diana. This Kenny person wasn't a likely suspect, but they'd have to follow up with him, just in case. “Diana, did you notice anything strange while the two of you were in Target? Anyone following the both of you or watching you? Anything like that?”

Diana shook her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

Of course not. That would've been too easy.
“Did Brooklyn talk to anyone that she knew while you were there, or that it
seemed
like she knew or had met before? On the phone, in the store, via text . . . anything?”

“No,” Diana said again, shaking.

The girl rubbed her arms and rocked herself a little. Somewhere behind those eyes, Jenna knew she was seeing Brooklyn, imagining what had happened. Thinking she was so glad it wasn't her, but then feeling guilty it hadn't been. She knew the look all too well. She'd felt it before, too, when her mother had stabbed Charley when they were kids.

“It's okay, Diana. It's okay for you to hurt, be scared, grieve, feel relieved and distraught all at the same time. Anything you're feeling is okay. We're here to help Brooklyn. We're here to find who did this to your friend. Just keep talking to us.”

The girl curled up, hugged her knees to her chest. She looked down at nothing in particular, but she nodded.

“All right. So Brooklyn wanted to stay and meet up with Kenny, and you decided to leave. Where were you guys when you said good-bye?” Jenna asked.

“In the store,” Diana said, monotone.

“Where in the store? What section?”

“Um . . . the bed and bath stuff. Brooklyn wanted to find a new shower curtain. Her old one was gross or something.”

Jenna patted Diana's knee. “That's good. Can you tell me everything you remember that you both said or did right before you left?”

Diana closed her eyes. “Yeah. Um . . . I pulled out my phone to check a text and saw what time it was. I told Brooklyn I needed to leave. She . . . wasn't really happy. She said some kind of . . . some rude things to me.”

Great. Not only force her to relive her last moments with her friend, but make her relive her last
fight
with her friend.
Still, if Brooklyn had threatened to do anything impulsive in retribution or anything of that nature, they needed to know. “What sorts of things?”

“She said I should live a little. That I was always such a goody-goody that I wouldn't know life if it bit me in the face,” Diana whispered, still looking down.

Harsh.
A deep plum Jenna had come to associate with rudeness based in hostility rather than ignorance flashed in.

“What happened next?” Jenna asked.

Tears sprung to Diana's eyes as she gripped the quilt and twisted it. “I told her . . . I said she didn't always have to be such a bitch to everyone.”

Diana's head collapsed to her knees, her body racked with sobs.

Do no harm.
How was it she could be in a profession with an oath requiring her to hurt no one, and yet, in her line of work, it was virtually impossible not to?

“Then what?”

Diana wiped her face with her fingertips. “I left. I walked to my car, drove away. I came home and studied for my Latin test. I didn't even know anything had happened until . . .” She let out a sob. “Until Brooklyn's mom called mine.”

Jenna nodded. This girl might remember something else worth knowing, but it wouldn't be tonight. Her head was too cluttered with guilt.

“Diana, we'll let you rest now, but I'll leave my card with your mom. I need you to call me if you remember anything about Target that might be significant. Someone you saw in the store or the parking lot that just gave you a weird feeling for some reason, a friend Brooklyn spoke to, a call she made . . . anything. Nothing is too small. Okay?” Jenna said.

Diana nodded.

“Thank you for talking with us. I can't imagine what you're feeling,” Jenna continued.
Never say you understand. You don't. Everyone's reactions are different, even if they were in the exact same situation you'd been in twenty times.
“But you've done a great job recounting what you did. And if you need to talk to someone who isn't your mom or stepdad or a friend, let me know, and I can set you up with someone who is used to helping people talk through times like this. There's nothing shameful about needing someone outside the family to listen to what you're going through. You did nothing wrong.”

Diana sniffled. “Thank you.”

Jenna stood and made for the door, Dodd trailing her. As interviews went, not the most significant, but she
did
want to follow up with this Kenny person, maybe interview Brooklyn's family and find out more about the girl, who sounded about as pleasant as a tobacco-filled enema. They had never found a personal connection between the Triple Shooter and any of his victims, but that didn't mean Brooklyn was a stranger. Even serial killers were vulnerable to hurting someone in their everyday lives if a person rubbed them wrong, and Brooklyn sounded like a character ripe for making enemies. It wouldn't be the first time a real-life connection turned out to be a serial killer's downfall.

“Jenna, wait,” Dodd's voice called from behind.

She turned around, half-annoyed that Dodd was prolonging their visit with Diana Delmont. The girl was clearly out of her mind with misplaced responsibility, and the last thing she needed was some sort of interrogation or argument the likes of which Dodd had provoked Liam Tyler into.

But arguments didn't seem to be what Dodd had on his mind. He was standing in front of the small desk against the left wall of the room. It was strewn with mechanical pencils, notebooks, and Post-it Notes. An open textbook splayed across the middle, one Dodd now closed. He shifted the book so its spine faced Jenna.