Silent Justice (17 page)

She hurried to her desk and browsed the printouts again. Everything Adam had said fit precisely with the listed information, and was exactly as Dr. Zalora had said.

Adam was reaching out, and she felt she had failed in what might’ve been her only chance to stop a killer and save additional lives.

Chapter 30

Wednesday, 6:14 p.m.

HANK SLUMPED in his chair and stared at his desk, piled high with folders, reports, and work still vying for his attention. He felt exhausted from the long hours of interviews. Detective King had returned to the precinct some time ago, and between the two of them, they had talked to just about everyone Adam Thorburn knew. Some of Adam’s classmates had moved from the city, and there were a few they couldn’t track down, but he would locate them as soon as possible.

As expected, no one had seen Adam recently, and most of the people they visited took it seriously when he warned them to be vigilant until Adam was found. Hank didn’t want to attend another murder scene he could’ve avoided by spending a little more time on the job. He knew from past experience, it paid to be thorough. Sometimes leads came from the least obvious sources.

Earlier, he arranged to have more patrols around the Thorburn residence. Officers also staked out the backyard and the front of the house, staying watchful around the clock. The officers at the rear were hidden well. They would spend the long hours sequestered in the garage, staring through a small window. Hank didn’t envy them their task.

When his cell phone rang, he looked at the caller ID. It was Annie. He answered it and she told him she had some important information to share, and if he would be at the precinct for a while, she and Jake would be right over.

He assured her he would be there and hung up the phone.

Detective King wandered over and plopped into a chair, a coffee in one hand, a muffin in the other. “Thought I might call it a day,” he said. “Unless you have something urgent.”

Hank looked closely at King. “You have something more important to do?”

King shrugged, finished his coffee, and set the empty cup on the desk. “Not really. Just want to go home and put my feet up. It’s been a long day.”

“For both of us,” Hank said.

King disregarded Hank’s comment, downed the last bite of muffin, and stood. He waved a hand and strode away, calling over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”

Hank frowned, dropped King’s cup into the wastebasket, blew the crumbs off the edge of his desk, and turned back to his paperwork.

He was sorting through the notes he had made during his afternoon visits when he heard a familiar voice call.

“Hey, Uncle Hank.”

He pushed back his chair and swung toward the voice. “Hey, Matty,” he said.

The boy moved closer and gave Hank a fist bump. “Catch any bad guys lately?”

“Working on it. There’s no shortage of them out there and I’m doing my best to get my share.”

Annie and Jake were close behind Matty and they settled into guest chairs. Matty wandered across the precinct floor, probably looking for a friendly cop he could pester with questions.

“So what’s the important information you have for me?” Hank asked, looking back and forth between Jake and Annie.

Annie leaned forward. “I received a phone call from Adam Thorburn. On my cell phone.”

Hank’s mouth dropped open a moment, then he looked over his shoulder. Callaway was working late. He looked back at Annie. “You have your phone with you?” he asked, holding out a hand.

Annie removed her cell from her handbag and held it out.

“Let me see if we can find out where he called from,” Hank said, taking the phone.

“It’s the last inbound call,” Annie said. “From an unknown name. He said he was calling from a phone booth.”

“We’ll find out exactly where,” Hank said. He spun his chair around and wheeled over to Callaway’s desk. He handed Callaway the phone, explaining what he needed. “Can you find out where the call came from?”

“No problem, Hank,” Callaway said. He took the phone, sat forward and thumbed through it, then got to work at his keyboard. “Give me a few minutes.”

Hank wheeled back to his desk and looked at Annie. “How long ago did he call?”

“Just before I called you. I’m sure he didn’t stick around after that.”

“Nonetheless, it’ll tell us what neighborhood he’s hanging around,” Hank said. “Now, tell me about the call. Did you record it?”

“We only record calls to the landline,” Annie said. “I’m not exactly sure what he wanted. He seemed to be reaching out for help, but on the other hand, he adamantly refuses to surrender.”

Hank sat back, his brow furrowed in thought. “He’s a confused individual.”

“When I mentioned Raymond Ronson, he seemed genuinely surprised to hear about the murder. And upset. He said Mr. Ronson was always good to him.”

“At least that tells us he knew Ronson,” Hank said. “That’s something I was unsure of, and I believe Ronson was not a random target.”

“Here’s the disturbing news,” Annie said. “He told me he vaguely remembers another murder today. It came back to him while he was on the phone. He claims only to remember lots of blood and a knife.”

Hank leaned forward, his lips in a tight line. If what Adam had said was correct, that made three murders in three days. “He has no idea who the victim was?”

Annie shook her head. “He said he can’t remember.”

“There’ve been no reports of a murder anywhere in the city today,” Hank said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean much. A lot of murders go undiscovered for days, weeks sometimes.”

“He also mentioned his blackout spells and voices in his head.”

“Voices?”

“I did some research on schizophrenia,” Annie said. “That’s one of the symptoms. Voices telling you what to do. Adam said they don’t stop unless he does exactly what they tell him to. Paranoia and delusions of persecution are more symptoms, and Adam is experiencing them all.”

Hank nodded. “I know a bit about schizophrenia, but Adam’s a sociopath, and that’s what makes him dangerous.” He looked up as Callaway came over and handed him a sheet of paper.

“Call came from a phone booth at Mill and Remedy Road,” the technical whiz said. “I’ve dispatched a couple uniforms to the area, but don’t hold your breath.”

Hank took the paper and glanced at it. “Thanks, Callaway.”

“I believe there’s a plaza at Mill and Remedy,” Jake said. “I’ve been in the area a lot in the last couple of days.”

“That’s the plaza where Mortino’s is,” Hank said. “Where Adam works.”

“At least we know he’s still in the neighborhood,” Annie said.

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think he has plans to leave.”

Hank dropped the sheet of paper on his desk, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “He’s targeting people he knows, so I agree with you, Jake. I don’t think he’ll leave the area as long as he continues to kill. Almost everyone he knows is from around here.”

“And you contacted them all?” Annie asked.

“Between King and me, everyone we could track down was notified and warned. Some have moved away, but we’ll eventually find them and give them a phone call.”

“In the meantime, I don’t think we have any other leads,” Annie said. “If Adam calls again, I’ll try once more to get him to surrender, but it’s unlikely.”

“We have cops everywhere,” Hank said. “But Thorburn is smart and he’s finding a way around us.” He shrugged. “But he can’t keep it up forever. If he returns home again, we’ll get him.”

“I’m sure we will,” Annie said and looked at Jake. “Shall we go?”

“I’ll find Matty,” Jake said. He wandered off and returned a minute later with the boy.

“See you later, Uncle Hank.”

Hank waved a hand and watched his friends leave the precinct before turning back to his desk. He had a few more things to take care of, then it would be time to call it quits for another day.

He arranged to have an unmarked police car wait in the plaza and watch the phone booth Thorburn had used. He assumed the killer would know the call could be traced and wouldn’t use the phone again, but he also knew even the smartest criminals slip up eventually.

Hank wanted to be ready when Thorburn made that fatal error.

Chapter 31

Wednesday, 6:55 p.m.

ADAM THORBURN sat on the grass, facing the swamp he loved, the rosebush an arm’s length away, trying desperately to remember more details about where he’d been that afternoon. He remembered calling Annie Lincoln; that was clear in his mind. It was what had taken place earlier that concerned him most.

All he had was the memory of blood and a knife. He must’ve had another one of his blackout periods and done something stupid again. He remembered being in the hut thinking about Mrs. White, then going to the plaza to make a call to Annie Lincoln. Then he returned and had something to eat.

But what happened before that? Had he done another crazy thing? The memory of blood and the knife could only mean one thing. He’d killed again with no clear memory of the event. Whenever he closed his eyes, the sight came back—a knife, dripping with blood. And the weapon was in his hand. That much he knew. The memories that had come back to him while he was on the phone with Annie were true.

And what about the janitor, Mr. Ronson? Annie Lincoln told him they knew it was him, and now there was no doubt in his mind. He had killed three people and it frightened him. And having little or no memory of the events was even more terrifying.

He still wasn’t sure why he’d made the phone call. There had been no voices telling him to—they were strangely silent today. Perhaps after the murder, he’d been subconsciously compelled to tell someone. The business card he’d found at the house must’ve planted the idea in his head.

Annie said she wanted to help him and he wondered if it were true. Not likely. She only tried to get him to surrender so they could lock him away. He dug inside his pocket and found the card, ripped it into shreds, and tossed the pieces high above his head. They floated through the still air and fluttered to the ground around him.

He shielded his eyes with a hand. Ahead of him, the early evening sun barely made it between a pair of tall trees, their branches sagging toward the black water, their roots devouring nourishment from the rich wetlands. He lay back, turned his face to the sky, and closed his eyes.

He needed to make some decisions. He could no longer go on this way—killing, hiding, and running away. There had to be an answer somewhere. He must cling to that hope; the alternative was too terrifying. He knew what happened to people in prison, especially someone young and soft like him.

He wondered if he had known the third person he’d killed. He assumed he did; he knew the first two. Perhaps if he went east, or west, maybe even south, it would be safer for him and everyone around him. If he didn’t know anyone where he went, then maybe he wouldn’t kill again.

But what about his medication? Without any identification he’d never be able to get any. As bad as he was with his meds, he was much worse off without them.

Sighing deeply, he rolled to his feet and went inside the hut. The last half of the chicken was still where he’d left it, wrapped securely in the grocery bag. He undid the knot and removed the meat, spread the bag out on the floor, and laid the chicken on top. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he knew he must eat to keep his strength up.

He ripped apart the carcass and frowned at a small plastic bag inside the bird. He pulled it out, unzipped it, and removed a folded piece of paper. When he flattened out the note, he recognized his mother’s handwriting.

“Adam,” the note began. “Meet me in the morning, Thursday, at the old Cochran house. You know where it is. It’s been empty now for some time but you’ll be able to get in the side door. I’ll leave it open for you. I’ll be waiting for you at nine. Be careful and watch out for the police. They’re in the area all the time now and they’re also watching my house.” The note was signed, “Mother.”

Adam folded the paper and laid it on the shelf. She would likely bring him some clean clothes, maybe some more food, and whatever else she thought he might need. He looked forward to seeing her, and he knew the house she mentioned, but he would have to be careful.

Food was what he needed most, and an idea came to him. If he ran low, the grocery store where he used to haul the carts around wasn’t far away and he knew the place well. If he was careful, he might be able to slip in the back door and help himself to the rows and rows of food and supplies he knew were there. He would keep the idea in mind for the future should it become necessary.

He’d have to be careful and watch out for Paul Patton, though. The bully who had tortured him at school worked there, stocking shelves, but was often the only one who ventured into the storeroom. Paul was kind of dumb anyway, and it wouldn’t be hard to get around him.

The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. But it presented a problem. He would have to go during the day when the store was open, and that increased his chances of being seen by the cops in the neighborhood. If only he could disguise himself in some way, something they would never suspect, like a woman, maybe pushing a baby carriage.

He laughed at the idea, the first time he had laughed in a while, and it made him feel better.

Then as if his rare outburst caused an eruption inside of him, in his mind, he felt himself slipping into a panic attack. He looked around fearfully. He heard them outside the hut, creeping in on him. They had him surrounded. He dashed from the hut and spun around, straining his eyes in all directions. They were well hidden, but they were coming for him. They were going to take him away and lock him up forever.

“You’ll never get away,” a voice said. “You have to fight for your freedom.”

Then another voice. “If you hide, they’ll leave. Just hide.”

“No. You must bury yourself in the swamp. They’ll never find you there.”