The Soul Catcher (54 page)

“D
o you believe this?” Racine said, standing over the pictures and shaking her head as if she was truly having a tough time believing it. “You think this is what happens to them?”

Without any more of an explanation, Maggie knew Racine was talking about the murdered women: Ginny Brier, the transient they had found under the viaduct and the floater in Raleigh. And now, after talking to Tully, they could add this poor woman whom the Boston PD had just identified as a stockbroker named Maria Leonetti to their list.

“Is it possible?” Racine continued when Maggie didn’t answer. “Could it be some savage initiation? Some rite of passage for Everett’s young male members?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie finally said. “I almost hope not.”

“It would sure answer a lot of questions. Like why they weren’t killed right away. You know. Some crazy game they play with them. And it makes sense that it would coincide with the rallies.”

“But there was no rally in Boston,” Maggie reminded her.

The two women fell silent again, standing side by side, staring at the photos scattered across the table, neither touching them.

“Why do you say you almost hope not?” Racine broke the silence.

“What?”

“You said you almost hope it’s not the way the murders happened.”

“Because I hate to believe one man can incite a group of boys to do something like this. That one man could convince a group of boys to rape, brutalize and possibly murder women simply on command.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time in history. Men can be such bastards,” Racine said, letting some anger slip through.

Maggie glanced at her. Perhaps her anger came from personal experience. Perhaps it came from spending several years on the sexual assault unit. Whatever the reason, it seemed a bit personal, and not something Maggie wanted to know.

“It means Everett is much more dangerous than we ever thought,” Maggie said, then added in almost a whisper, “Eve was right.”

“Who’s Eve?”

“An ex-member I talked to. Cunningham and Senator Brier were able to set up the meeting. I thought she was being silly for being so paranoid.”

“So what do we do now?”

Maggie finally began to sort through the pile of stuff Garrison had left behind when he’d emptied the duffel bag. He had been in such a hurry to leave that he had taken only his camera and a lens. She pushed aside the strange metal contraption, a smelly T-shirt and sweatpants and reached for the manila envelope. She opened it and spilled its contents—more photos—onto the table alongside the Boston ones. These all looked like shots from Ginny Brier’s crime scene. They had to be from the roll of film he had kept for himself—leftover prints from what he had sold to the
Enquirer.

“I still can’t believe I was so stupid,” Racine said as soon as she saw what the prints were. “Chief Henderson is so pissed.”

“You made a mistake. It happens to all of us,” Maggie told her without accusation. She felt Racine staring at her.

“Why are you being so understanding? I thought you were still pissed at me, too.”

“I’m pissed with Garrison. Not you,” Maggie said without looking over at Racine. Instead, she sorted through the photos of Ginny Brier. Something about the close-ups bothered her. What was it?

“I meant the DeLong case.”

Maggie stopped at a close-cropped shot of Ginny Brier’s face, but she could feel Racine’s eyes on her. So the DeLong case was still bothering her, too.

“You were pretty upset with me.” Racine wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she was feeling she needed some absolution. “I made a mistake and some evidence got leaked. Is that why you’re still so pissed at me?”

This time Maggie glanced at her. “It almost cost us the conviction.” She went back to the shot of Ginny Brier’s face, the eyes staring directly out at her. Something was different about this photo, about her eyes. What the hell was it?

“But it didn’t cost us the conviction,” Racine insisted. “It all worked out.” She wasn’t finished. “Sometimes I wonder…” she hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why you got so pissed at me.”

Now Maggie looked at her, meeting her eyes and waiting for Racine to get whatever it was she needed off her chest, although she had a pretty good idea what it was. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“Are you still pissed at me because I made a mistake and leaked evidence? Or are you still pissed at me because I made a pass at you?”

“Both were unprofessional,” Maggie said without hesitation and without any emotion. “I have little patience for colleagues who are unprofessional.” She went back to the photos, but she could feel the detective still watching, still waiting. “That’s it, Racine. There really isn’t anything more to it. Now, can we get on with this case?” She handed her the photo. “What’s different about this one?”

Racine shifted her stance, but Maggie could tell the woman wasn’t quite comfortable about moving on. “Different how?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Maggie said, rubbing at her own eyes and feeling the effects of too much Scotch from the night before. “Maybe I need to see the other crime scene photos. Do we have those handy?”

But Racine didn’t make an attempt to search. “Do you still think I’m unprofessional? I mean with this case?”

Maggie stopped and turned to face the detective. They were eye level, almost the same height. The normally cocky detective waited for an answer with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the photo on the table’s surface. She held Maggie’s eyes in that same tough stare she probably thought she had perfected, but there was something—a slight vulnerability in her eyes as they blinked, darted to one side then quickly returned, as if it took a conscious and silent reminder not to flinch.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” Maggie finally said. Then she relinquished a smile and added, “Yet.”

Racine rolled her eyes, but Maggie could see the relief.

“Tell me what you know about Ben Garrison,” Maggie said, hoping to get back to work, despite the nagging sensation she had about Ginny Brier’s dead eyes, staring out from Garrison’s illicit photos.

“You mean other than that he’s an arrogant, lying bastard?”

“It sounds like you worked with him before.”

“Years ago, he sometimes moonlighted for second shift as a crime scene photographer when I was with Vice,” Racine said. “He’s always been an arrogant bastard, even before he became a big-shot photojournalist.”

“Any famous shots I may have seen?”

“Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of
Time.
The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”

“Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”

Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”

“What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”

“Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”

“I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she
was
in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”

The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”

“Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”

Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up, Maggie knew she was right. Racine added, “He’s starting to forget a lot of stuff lately.”

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Early symptoms, but yeah.”

She looked away again, but not before Maggie caught a glimpse of vulnerability in the tough, wise-cracking detective’s eyes. Then she began sorting through Garrison’s stuff as if looking for something and asked, “What do we do about Everett? Everett and his little gang of boys?”

“Are the photos enough for an arrest warrant?”

“For this Brandon kid, I’d say definitely. We have these photos and an eyewitness that puts him with Ginny Brier in the hours before her murder.”

“If we can get a DNA sample, I bet we’ve got a match to the semen.”

“We’ll need to have the warrant served at the compound,” Racine said. “We might not have any idea what we’re walking into out there.”

“Call Cunningham. He’ll know what to do. It’ll probably require an HRT unit.” As soon as she said it, Maggie thought of Delaney. “Hopefully this won’t get messy. How long do you think it’ll take to get a warrant?”

“For the possible murder suspect of a senator’s daughter?” Racine smiled. “I think we should have one before the end of the day.”

“I need to make a quick trip down to Richmond, but I’ll be back.”

“Ganza said he needed to talk to you. He left a message earlier.”

“Any idea what about?” But Maggie was already headed for the door.

“Not sure. Something about an old police report and a possible DNA sample?”

Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time. Besides, maybe it was a different case. “I’ll call him from the road.”

“Wait a minute.” Racine stopped her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To try to talk some sense into a very stubborn woman.”

“D
o you believe this?” Racine said, standing over the pictures and shaking her head as if she was truly having a tough time believing it. “You think this is what happens to them?”

Without any more of an explanation, Maggie knew Racine was talking about the murdered women: Ginny Brier, the transient they had found under the viaduct and the floater in Raleigh. And now, after talking to Tully, they could add this poor woman whom the Boston PD had just identified as a stockbroker named Maria Leonetti to their list.

“Is it possible?” Racine continued when Maggie didn’t answer. “Could it be some savage initiation? Some rite of passage for Everett’s young male members?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie finally said. “I almost hope not.”

“It would sure answer a lot of questions. Like why they weren’t killed right away. You know. Some crazy game they play with them. And it makes sense that it would coincide with the rallies.”

“But there was no rally in Boston,” Maggie reminded her.

The two women fell silent again, standing side by side, staring at the photos scattered across the table, neither touching them.

“Why do you say you almost hope not?” Racine broke the silence.

“What?”

“You said you almost hope it’s not the way the murders happened.”

“Because I hate to believe one man can incite a group of boys to do something like this. That one man could convince a group of boys to rape, brutalize and possibly murder women simply on command.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time in history. Men can be such bastards,” Racine said, letting some anger slip through.

Maggie glanced at her. Perhaps her anger came from personal experience. Perhaps it came from spending several years on the sexual assault unit. Whatever the reason, it seemed a bit personal, and not something Maggie wanted to know.

“It means Everett is much more dangerous than we ever thought,” Maggie said, then added in almost a whisper, “Eve was right.”

“Who’s Eve?”

“An ex-member I talked to. Cunningham and Senator Brier were able to set up the meeting. I thought she was being silly for being so paranoid.”

“So what do we do now?”

Maggie finally began to sort through the pile of stuff Garrison had left behind when he’d emptied the duffel bag. He had been in such a hurry to leave that he had taken only his camera and a lens. She pushed aside the strange metal contraption, a smelly T-shirt and sweatpants and reached for the manila envelope. She opened it and spilled its contents—more photos—onto the table alongside the Boston ones. These all looked like shots from Ginny Brier’s crime scene. They had to be from the roll of film he had kept for himself—leftover prints from what he had sold to the
Enquirer.

“I still can’t believe I was so stupid,” Racine said as soon as she saw what the prints were. “Chief Henderson is so pissed.”

“You made a mistake. It happens to all of us,” Maggie told her without accusation. She felt Racine staring at her.

“Why are you being so understanding? I thought you were still pissed at me, too.”

“I’m pissed with Garrison. Not you,” Maggie said without looking over at Racine. Instead, she sorted through the photos of Ginny Brier. Something about the close-ups bothered her. What was it?

“I meant the DeLong case.”

Maggie stopped at a close-cropped shot of Ginny Brier’s face, but she could feel Racine’s eyes on her. So the DeLong case was still bothering her, too.

“You were pretty upset with me.” Racine wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she was feeling she needed some absolution. “I made a mistake and some evidence got leaked. Is that why you’re still so pissed at me?”

This time Maggie glanced at her. “It almost cost us the conviction.” She went back to the shot of Ginny Brier’s face, the eyes staring directly out at her. Something was different about this photo, about her eyes. What the hell was it?

“But it didn’t cost us the conviction,” Racine insisted. “It all worked out.” She wasn’t finished. “Sometimes I wonder…” she hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why you got so pissed at me.”

Now Maggie looked at her, meeting her eyes and waiting for Racine to get whatever it was she needed off her chest, although she had a pretty good idea what it was. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“Are you still pissed at me because I made a mistake and leaked evidence? Or are you still pissed at me because I made a pass at you?”

“Both were unprofessional,” Maggie said without hesitation and without any emotion. “I have little patience for colleagues who are unprofessional.” She went back to the photos, but she could feel the detective still watching, still waiting. “That’s it, Racine. There really isn’t anything more to it. Now, can we get on with this case?” She handed her the photo. “What’s different about this one?”

Racine shifted her stance, but Maggie could tell the woman wasn’t quite comfortable about moving on. “Different how?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Maggie said, rubbing at her own eyes and feeling the effects of too much Scotch from the night before. “Maybe I need to see the other crime scene photos. Do we have those handy?”

But Racine didn’t make an attempt to search. “Do you still think I’m unprofessional? I mean with this case?”

Maggie stopped and turned to face the detective. They were eye level, almost the same height. The normally cocky detective waited for an answer with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the photo on the table’s surface. She held Maggie’s eyes in that same tough stare she probably thought she had perfected, but there was something—a slight vulnerability in her eyes as they blinked, darted to one side then quickly returned, as if it took a conscious and silent reminder not to flinch.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” Maggie finally said. Then she relinquished a smile and added, “Yet.”

Racine rolled her eyes, but Maggie could see the relief.

“Tell me what you know about Ben Garrison,” Maggie said, hoping to get back to work, despite the nagging sensation she had about Ginny Brier’s dead eyes, staring out from Garrison’s illicit photos.

“You mean other than that he’s an arrogant, lying bastard?”

“It sounds like you worked with him before.”

“Years ago, he sometimes moonlighted for second shift as a crime scene photographer when I was with Vice,” Racine said. “He’s always been an arrogant bastard, even before he became a big-shot photojournalist.”

“Any famous shots I may have seen?”

“Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of
Time.
The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”

“Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”

Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”

“What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”

“Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”

“I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she
was
in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”

The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”

“Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”

Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up, Maggie knew she was right. Racine added, “He’s starting to forget a lot of stuff lately.”

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Early symptoms, but yeah.”

She looked away again, but not before Maggie caught a glimpse of vulnerability in the tough, wise-cracking detective’s eyes. Then she began sorting through Garrison’s stuff as if looking for something and asked, “What do we do about Everett? Everett and his little gang of boys?”

“Are the photos enough for an arrest warrant?”

“For this Brandon kid, I’d say definitely. We have these photos and an eyewitness that puts him with Ginny Brier in the hours before her murder.”

“If we can get a DNA sample, I bet we’ve got a match to the semen.”

“We’ll need to have the warrant served at the compound,” Racine said. “We might not have any idea what we’re walking into out there.”

“Call Cunningham. He’ll know what to do. It’ll probably require an HRT unit.” As soon as she said it, Maggie thought of Delaney. “Hopefully this won’t get messy. How long do you think it’ll take to get a warrant?”

“For the possible murder suspect of a senator’s daughter?” Racine smiled. “I think we should have one before the end of the day.”

“I need to make a quick trip down to Richmond, but I’ll be back.”

“Ganza said he needed to talk to you. He left a message earlier.”

“Any idea what about?” But Maggie was already headed for the door.

“Not sure. Something about an old police report and a possible DNA sample?”

Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time. Besides, maybe it was a different case. “I’ll call him from the road.”

“Wait a minute.” Racine stopped her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To try to talk some sense into a very stubborn woman.”