Dreamscape (18 page)

“Psychotic, sociopath, these are words I wouldn’t dismiss, Mr. DeNair. The boy has suffered years of abuse from a mother who abused drugs probably while pregnant. In my opinion, he has no conscience. There are places….”

Uncle Marcus adamantly refused the diagnosis. “He’ll be okay once he feels safe and loved” had always been the old man’s answer. You should have listened to the guy, Henry reasoned.

At the moment, though, Henry had problems he needed to deal with. He had to get hold of himself. Had to plan. Christmas morning—he hated Christmas, full of spurious claims of love and peace. He reached down and picked up the day’s paper. An evil smile formed as he read through the headlines.

The game was on.

Chapter Twelve

Jackson and Thorpe stepped outside the restaurant where they’d gone to have a quick bite of lunch. A camera flash exploded in their faces.

“Agent Dunn, Agent Dunn, can you confirm the report of using a psychic in an effort to solve the Beach Front murders? Are you telling public that the FBI has no viable evidence other than these visions from a questionable source?”

“No comment,” Jackson said dryly. The reporter maneuvered in front of Jackson but quickly side-stepped out of the way as Jackson gave him a warning look. Thorpe moved by him.

“Hey, aren’t you Chief Thorpe? What do you have to say about the situation? Is it normal procedure to follow visions?”

Thorpe didn’t bother to comment. He clicked his key ring, and his car doors unlocked. He opened his. Jackson grimaced as he slid in the passenger seat. The exposure of Ramona had been one long headache for Jackson since his return. Damage control, more demanded, Montgomery stated.

Montgomery had thrown the department into a state of chaos until the leak had been found. He had all the information before Jackson disembarked from the plane. Ned Cappelli had leaked the information he’d obtained from correspondence with Agent Collins. Needless to say, heads rolled. Montgomery requested an immediate transfer for Collins. He hadn’t cared if it had been intentional or not. In his briefing this morning, Montgomery laid the entire responsibility of the investigation in Jackson’s lap, the whole mess, media, questions, including the case itself.

Ramona’s exposure remained a critical cause for concern. Surveillance had been immediately dispatched to follow her. He understood she had a distaste for him and this certainty didn’t help to make things any better. His personal life had followed the same trail. He’d only talked with Callie once since his return.

She remained mysterious about her mission to unearth his past. The file she’d given him left him with more questions that he didn’t have time to investigate at the moment. He knew where to go for answers and he would after this case. But if it kept Callie busy until he had the time he wanted to further their relationship it relieved him from a source of guilt. He made a mental note to call her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something just wasn’t right with the situation.

Thorpe started the car. “Don’t kid yourself, Jackson. Cappelli won’t go down quietly. Not the type. We need a break in the case to put him on the back burner. Shut him up.”

“He’s fucked,” Jackson said conversationally. He pulled his Blackberry from his pocket and read his email. “But we could be if we don’t find this maniac. At least the news from Florida is promising.”

Thorpe pulled away from the curb.

Jackson gave way to a half smile. “We have a name.” He read from an email. “Jonathan Coate. A quick background check turned up a dead end, an alias. The guy used a dead infant’s name and a social security number from forty years ago.”

“Anything else that could help?” Thorpe asked, glancing over at Jackson.

“Goddamn it.” Jackson frowned. “Can’t read all this on this goddamn machine.” He hit a button and placed the phone up to his ear. “Sam, it would have been easier to call with all this. I assume you’ve faxed all this over. We’re not in the office.”

“Didn’t know if you were in a meeting, boy. Things have exploded down here. Trying to keep up with everything coming in,” Sam explained.

“Come on, Sam. Give,” Jackson said, impatient.

“Give me a second. I’ll skim over the report you’re receiving. A couple of interesting facts.” Sam continued, “Witnesses that remembered the suspect, Jonathan Coate, recalled a short, nice looking—but not handsome—well-kept man. Dressed immaculately, hair always freshly trimmed. Had a chip on his shoulder and a temper. Interesting information that turned up on the suspect showed he had an obsession with deep water fishing.”

“That would support our theory about a boat. You seemed to have gathered a lot of information in a couple of days.”

“Not hard with the sketch and showing it to the right people,” Sam said. “Down at the docks. Seemed well known. A few remembered a couple of times Coate loaded up with huge fishing coolers. Had no problem remembering the boat, a Majestic, top of the line and Coate’s pride and joy according to these witnesses.”

“Did anyone know him personally?”

“Wasn’t much for social activities, but they could get him talking about his yacht at the boating club in Tampa. Never let anyone aboard, though. Would get crazy if anyone even attempted or expressed interest.”

“You sure it’s the right guy?”

“Haven’t a doubt. Even without the real name, the case is fixin’ to break,” Sam acknowledged. “He follows the profile. Coate wouldn’t dock for long and if he was gone for a day he hired security guards to keep people out. They noted Coate was one of those OCD guys. Strange man, but they’d have never taken him for a murder suspect. Name of the boat was Legacy.”

“Knew he had a boat,” Jackson interjected.

“Your friends, Detectives Lewis and Johnson, went back to the hospital. This guy Coate passed himself off as a medical sales rep. Stayed off and on at the hotel. The hospital had him registered as a rep of Clarks and Sons. Clarks and Sons had no employee by that name or description. This Jonathan treated his so-called ‘clients’ well, even taking nurses and technicians to lunch quite often. Confirmed he did take a group of nurses out including Mary Jane Gonsalves.”

“Keep going. We’re all ears.”

“It was one of the nurses, a one Elaine Sprague, that was very informative. Remembered the lunch in detail. Had never been on a business lunch before. He took three nurses to a restaurant called the Blue Pelican. Elaine explained that Mr. Coate had a charm about him that convinced their supervisor to allow them an extended lunch. The lunch began with a discussion of some bedside blood gas instrument. Elaine said she went on about the benefits the patient gained from such an instrument as long as it was used properly. She said the conversation turned personal quickly. Elaine stated she had all questions about the validity of the instrument ready to answer, seeing as it was a business lunch. It didn’t take long for her to realize that she didn’t have Mr. Coate’s attention, which by now was on Mary Jane Gonsalves. Said Coate was extremely interested in Mary Jane and her daughter. Elaine distinctly remembered Coate stating: ‘What a beautiful daughter you have. You two must be close.’

“That’s when Mary Jane went into her story of how Rosemary was her miracle baby and if anything ever happened to her she didn’t know what she’d do. Went back to Ms. Gonsalves’s home. She confirmed the story and picked our Mr. Coate out from the sketch. Get this—I went through the sympathy cards and cards that came with the funeral wreaths. The guy sent flowers! Sent flowers with the notation: I’m sure you’re devastated. Wasn’t in his writing, it came dictated from the florist. Paid cash.

“One other major piece—all the witnesses stated that this guy had deformed palms. The nurses said he told them it’d come from a childhood accident. Both hands.”

“Thanks, Sam. I’ll get back with you when I’m in the office. Talk to you then.” Jackson hung up, pleased with the information. He placed his phone in his pocket. “The sketch paid off. We’re going to nail the son of a bitch.”

Thorpe shook his head. “Do you really believe it’s going to be that easy, Jackson? After everything we’ve seen, the way Ramona has given us clues. There’s more going on. I have concerns about Ramona’s safety. The maniac knows all about her now.”

“First, we have agents with her and Leila at the moment. We haven’t received any threatening calls or letters. Next, this guy’s got more to worry about than going after a supposed psychic. We’re on his trail. He’s got to feel it. The pressure should be on. He’s going to be in a defensive mood. Maybe he’s not in the region now.”

Thorpe shook his head again. “Not what I’m feeling. Don’t think it’s what you are either. We have an extremely dangerous psychopath on the loose. I’m not a psychiatrist or anything, but I don’t believe we can predict what this guy’s going to do. We do know what he’s capable of. And do you really believe he’s a normal guy?”

Jackson shrugged. “I can’t say I can argue with you. Don’t know anything else we can do. We’re pursuing the leads.”

“You know your problem, Jackson? You listen but don’t hear what’s being said. You use Ramona. She keeps talking about connections. I’m confused as to how she connects, but what if this maniac can connect to her now? How the hell are we going to protect her if he does some supernatural mumbo-jumbo?”

Jackson looked at Thorpe, eyebrow raised in question. “Didn’t think you were on board with the whole concept.”

Thorpe said, “Let’s just say I’m becoming a believer. It’s just my opinion, but I believe we need to get the human half of this monster before he can wreak anymore havoc. And the best way I know is that since it’s already been run that we have a sketch, plaster the bastard’s picture all over the media.”

Chapter Thirteen

Dr. Nicholas Lewis had been a highly respected child psychologist for more than thirty-five years in Boston. His clients’ parents were some of the most prominent people in the state of Massachusetts. Not that it had mattered to Dr. Lewis. He genuinely cared about his patients. He’d done his undergraduate studies at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut, moving to Massachusetts to do his post graduate studies at Harvard. He’d never left.

After retirement a couple of years earlier, Dr. Lewis moved down to Hyannis on Cape Cod, most famous for being the Kennedys’ summer escape. His decision delighted his children. His wife, Mary, had suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for most of her adult life and was now confined to a wheelchair.

Dr. Lewis bought a lovely beach front house, easily accessible to downtown Hyannis. The grandchildren seemed to enjoy the location. Mary loved to sit on the porch and breathe in the ocean air.

He’d found contentment.

Mary and Dr. Lewis took their breakfast into their sunroom. The sun shone down through the window onto the Sunday morning paper. Dr. Lewis took a sip of his coffee and picked it up. A picture dominated the front page, a picture of the Beach Front Killer staring at him. The eyes, the eyes, Dr. Lewis knew those eyes. He choked on his coffee.

* * * *

Less than four hours later, Special Agent Jackson Dunn and Chief Douglas Thorpe sat in Dr. Lewis’s study, a huge room with solid cherry shelves and large open bay windows. Relics of the revolutionary war adorned the room, and a picture of General George Washington hung on the wall behind the desk. Dr. Lewis had offered to come into Boston, but his records were at his house, or at least this one was, one of his special cases.

“I’m confident this is man you’re looking for. I don’t have any doubts,” Dr. Lewis stated, a file in his hands. He sat behind his antique desk. “I was concerned about him twenty years ago. I’d begged his uncle to institutionalize him.”

“Before we begin with his profile, Dr. Lewis, why do you think that the Beach Front Killer is your former patient?” Jackson asked.

“I don’t have a doubt. I’ve never, and would never, divulge privileged information on a patient, former or not, if I wasn’t concerned about the public’s safety. If you doubt me, let me ask you: Does your suspect have deformed palms? I’m not positive about whether he would have any fingerprints or not.”

Thorpe sat silently.

Jackson asked, “Why do you say that?”

“When my patient was a small child of around seven, his mother blamed him for one of her boyfriends leaving. She took his hands and placed them on top of the stove eyes. His palms and his fingers suffered the most damage. They healed rather well, leaving no functional damage but scars on both of his palms and the undersides of his fingers. If I’m not mistaken, it was all his fingers.”

Jackson stared intently at Dr. Lewis. “You have our attention, Dr. Lewis. We do believe that our suspect has deformed hands. Who are we looking at?”

“A one Henry DeNair.”

For the next two hours, Dr. Lewis detailed his case of Henry DeNair.

“Henry DeNair is an extremely intelligent human being, if you can call him that. He was born to a crack addicted mother. I don’t believe that he ever knew who his father was. I don’t believe he could have if he wanted to. His mother resorted to prostitution to support her habit.

“Henry never could or wouldn’t fully remember his time with his mother. It’s my belief that he watched his mother with her tricks. Henry endured beatings and tortures during his time with her. In that course, it is probable that he also endured molestation.

“DSS took control of Henry several times. Each time they gave Henry back to his mother because she realized that while she had her son her brother would help her. So she cleaned up well enough to get him back.

“The sad part about the whole thing is that she was a member of the DeNair family. The DeNairs’ were a highly respected, wealthy family from Boston. Henry’s grandfather had washed his hands of his daughter years before, but her brother, Marcus DeNair, never could turn his back on her.