Catch Me

Chapter 40

D.D. CALLED NEIL AND PHIL into her office for an emergency meeting. In the next thirty minutes, she needed to report to her boss, the deputy superintendent of homicide, about the latest developments involving possible criminal actions taken by a fellow investigator, Detective O. First, D.D. wanted to get her ducks in a row.

She started without preamble. “Where the hell is Detective O, what did she do, and why didn’t we figure this out sooner?”

Phil went first. Given that O wasn’t answering her cell phone, returning official pages, or replying to requests for contact from police dispatch, chances were she’d gone rogue. They hadn’t issued a full BOLO yet, but word was out among Boston cops: if anyone spotted Detective O or her Crown Vic, they should contact HQ immediately.

In the meantime, Phil was blitzing his way through her official file. Given her young age and limited time on the job, it made for quick reading. O had joined Boston PD two years prior, transferring from a smaller jurisdiction in the burbs. Was known for her hard work and tireless dedication. Perhaps a bit rigid in her approach, perhaps didn’t always play well with others, but the sex crimes investigator also got results with some pretty tough cases in a pretty tough field.

Certainly, nothing in her annual eval suggested that she was a nutcase waiting to crack.

“On the other hand,” Phil reported, “she spent eight years living in Colorado, including the time frame when Charlene worked in Arvada dispatch, and Christine Grant’s body was discovered.”

D.D. sat across from her squadmates, totally poleaxed. “She did it. I’ll be damned, but O-or Abigail, or whatever the hell her name is-killed her own mother. Told me all about it, too. That she’d held a pillow over her face and suffocated her, just as her mother had suffocated her own babies.”

“Why?” Neil asked.

“When we find her, we’ll have to ask.” D.D. chewed her lower lip. “We need Charlene. We need more info on twenty years ago, and the final incident, which left Charlene nearly dead, and her mother and younger sister on the run. Only thing that makes sense. Something happened, maybe her mother snapped, actually tried to kill Charlene instead of just maim her. Then panicked, grabbed the younger kid, and hit the road.”

Neil spoke up. “I don’t get it. How did Charlene forget an entire sister? How did the police, investigating that ‘final incident,’ never figure out there was another kid?”

D.D. shrugged. “We know Christine Grant had two babies that were off the record. I’m guessing Charlene’s younger sister, Abigail, makes three. As for the police investigation, the comment that struck me most in the official report was that there was nothing in the rental house that indicated a family had even lived there. No toys, no clothes, no…stuff. Sounds to me like Mommy Grant wasn’t just psychopathic, but truly, genuinely bona fide crazy. As in not fit to take care of herself or others. I’m wondering more and more how much of that load eight-year-old Charlene shouldered. Only to then be stabbed and left for dead. I gotta say, I can’t really blame her for not wanting to dwell on those happy times.”

“So Christine Grant is whacko enough to murder two babies, but then sane enough to try to raise two others?” Neil clearly remained skeptical.

D.D. thought about it. “O asked Charlene if she was the good kid. She implied that maybe baby Rosalind and baby Carter were fussy and that’s why they had to die.” She looked at her squadmates. “Knowing what we know now, maybe that’s how the story was told to her, by their mother. Be good, and I’ll let you live. Act up, whine, defy me, and…”

“Except at some point, Abigail did turn against her own mother,” Phil said. “In fact, you just said she probably killed her.”

“Sure. Think about it. For the first eight years, Charlene served as her mother’s target of choice-to be broken and repaired at will. Want to believe that Mommy Grant gave up her Munchausen’s ways just because she lost her eldest daughter? I bet she simply picked back up with daughter number two. Meaning Abigail now got to eat shattered glass and drink liquid Drano. Meaning Abigail now got to learn just how much a mother’s love can burn.”

D.D. sighed, her voice turning somber. “Munchausen’s is most common with children who are very young. Babies, toddlers, who are unable to speak up in their own defense. Once Abigail reached a certain age, however, chances are she didn’t submit as willingly to having her fingers smashed in doorways. Chances are, she started to come up with some tricks of her own. God knows she learned from a master.”

D.D. turned back to Phil. “This is what we need to prove: how did Abigail Grant become Ellen O? Because before we accuse a fellow officer of being the real perpetrator of two separate strings of murders, we’re going to want to nail that down.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, knew you were gonna say that. In the,” Phil glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes you gave me with this project, I haven’t been able to answer that question. Assuming Ellen O is an alias, it’s a well-vetted one. I found a Social Security number, driver’s license, credit history, not to mention college transcripts from the University of Denver. My guess is, given the depth of the paper trail, Abigail Grant became Ellen O while still a teenager. Now, several ways that could happen: formal adoption, becoming a legally emancipated minor while also petitioning for a name change. Or hell, the witness protection program, for all I know. I’ll keep digging around in family court records, etc., but so far, no luck.”

“Wouldn’t she have real family or friends to rat her out?” Neil asked.

“Not according to her personnel form.” Phil held up a sheet of paper. “No family members listed, and as for her ‘emergency contact number,’ when I called it, I reached the holding company of her apartment building. I think it’s safe to say, Abigail…O…is officially alone in the world.”

“But why was she shooting pedophiles?” Neil asked with a frown. “Given the family history, I get her targeting Charlene and, okay, even Charlene’s best friends, as part of her ‘quest for vengeance.’ But why the pedophiles?”

“Think of it this way,” D.D. explained. “One killer, but two different crime sprees, driven by two different sets of needs. What Abigail did to Randi and Jackie, what she has in store for Charlene, is more intimate, more ritualized for her. She’s both seeking to punish the older sister who abandoned her and to exorcise a lifetime of taking her mother’s abuse with this ultimate method of seizing power. The pedophile shootings, on the other hand, are almost everyday stress management. Another case she can’t close. Another incident of a kid getting abused by a registered sex offender who just moved in down the hall…O accused Charlene of over-identifying with the victims, of hating to feel powerless. In hindsight, I think that was her way of telling us about herself. She also over-identifies with the victims, and two years on the job, she’s tired of feeling helpless.”

“What about the notes? Everyone has to die sometime…”

“According to Charlene Grant, that was an expression of their mother’s. A family mantra, so to speak. What’s more interesting, I think, is the note within the note, the secret message written in lemon juice-Catch Me. At first, I thought that might be some sort of taunt by the shooter. Now I wonder if it wasn’t a plea. Abigail wrote Everyone has to die sometime. While Detective O added, Catch Me. Two notes representing the two sides of her nature.”

“Good cop, bad cop,” Neil finished darkly.

“Exactly,” D.D. answered. To think of all the times she and O had sat alone in this very office, poring over those carefully executed notes, the handwriting analysis, witness statements. O had never given anything away. The level of compartmentalization necessary for that degree of subterfuge was just plain scary.

It also fit the expert’s profile of the note writer perfectly: someone rigid, anal-retentive, type A.

First thing D.D. had done, once she’d gotten off the phone with Charlene, was to run to Detective O’s desk and gather up three samples of the investigator’s handwriting. She’d laid them out on a cleared table, side by side with the three notes from the pedophile shootings. The handwriting wasn’t a dead-on match, at least not to D.D.’s untrained eye. O’s “natural” script was neat and precise, but hardly contained letters with flat bottoms and perfectly proportioned size. Maybe she’d written the notes for the shootings using a ruler, maybe even a stencil, to further obfuscate matters. Given that the notes all said the same thing, it would be easy enough to perfect those two sentences, a mere seven words, by practicing them over and over again.

But some of the author’s personality had still come through. Controlling, determined, psychopathic.

“The witness to the third shooting,” D.D. said now, “called this afternoon. The boy’s mother said he’d realized that the shooter’s eyes weren’t really demonic, but special contact lenses meant to look like blue cat eyes. They found a picture in a Halloween catalogue and dropped it by an hour ago as a visual aid.”

She pulled out the torn catalogue page, placed it before Neil and Phil. “I’m guessing O wore the contacts so she would better match Charlene’s general description of brown hair, blue eyes-”

“But why cat eyes?” Phil asked, shuddering slightly as he took in the array of creepy contacts.

“Does that freak you out?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly. Remember, O not only wanted the shooter to match Charlene’s physical description, but she also had to disguise her own appearance. I mean, just an hour later, she personally stood in front of this boy. She had on makeup then, her hair piled in big curls, a nice dress, wide trench coat. I remember thinking at the time she must’ve come from a date. But I think she was just trying to soften all the lines. The boy had seen a thin, gaunt-faced woman with tight hair and scary eyes. Then in real life, O did her best to appear the opposite.”

“But she’s not thin or gaunt,” Neil countered.

“Maybe she wears padding under her clothes.” D.D. looked down at her own chest, definitely no longer what it used to be during pregnancy. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Redheaded Neil blushed slightly, shook his head at her. “All right, assuming O transferred here two years ago so she could kill Charlene, how’d she know Charlie would be in Boston? Charlene didn’t even move to Cambridge till last year.”

“O probably didn’t know Charlie would be in Boston, and probably didn’t need to. Think about it: by moving to Boston, O arrived in the heart of New England. From here, it’s an easy day trip to New Hampshire, Rhode Island, half a dozen other states. She would’ve had to fly to Atlanta for Jackie Knowles, but even that’s just a couple of hours out of Logan Airport. Meaning regardless of wherever Charlie or her other victims would be on January twenty-one, O would have easy access.”

“I checked with her supervisor,” Phil spoke up. “Right now, looks like Detective O didn’t work January twenty-one last year, or the year before. She’s technically on duty today, but we can see how well that’s working…”

D.D. nodded, made another note for her presentation to Horgan.

Neil spoke up. “Why kill Randi Menke first? Why not just kill Charlie?”

“I think Abigail is looking for something more than a quick kill. If that were the case, you’re right, she could’ve driven up to New Hampshire and dispatched Charlene with a double tap to the forehead, just as she did with the pedophiles. I think she wants to torture Charlie first, make her feel just as alone and vulnerable in the world. As for why Randi versus Jackie…” D.D. shrugged. “Abigail had to start somewhere, and Randi probably seemed the easiest target. Lived only an hour outside of Boston, already traumatized by an abusive relationship. I imagine O drove down, maybe flashed her badge and said she was investigating Randi’s evil ex-husband. And just like that, Randi would’ve let her in.”

“But still didn’t fight back while she was being strangled,” Phil pressed.

“Details, details,” D.D. muttered, acknowledging his point. “As for Jackie Knowles…O would’ve had to fly to Atlanta, but no big whoop. She could’ve performed a routine background check in advance, determined Jackie’s occupation, place of residence, favorite restaurants from her Visa bill. Or just sat outside Jackie’s office, then followed her to the bar and set about introducing herself. She bought Jackie a drink or two, let one thing lead to another.”

“Got invited back to Jackie’s home,” Neil filled in. “Took out BFF number two, moving closer to final target.”

D.D. thought about it. “If you think about their mother’s psychosis, what these girls grew up with…Their mother didn’t just hurt them, she hurt them, in a highly ritualized manner. Maybe that’s what Abigail understands best. She’s not looking for death for her sister. She’s looking for suffering and acknowledgment. That’s something they both can relate to. Maybe, for Abigail, suffering even signifies love. Why does Mommy hurt you? Because she loves you so much.”

“But in both cases, Randi and Jackie didn’t suffer,” Phil said with a frown.

“Because it’s not their attention she wants. It’s Charlene’s. And the mysteriousness of those murders-no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle-definitely added to Charlene’s mental anguish, while helping capture her attention.”

“I don’t think Charlie will be that lucky,” Phil said.

“No, I don’t think she will be either. At least she has some training on her side.”

“So does O,” Neil pointed out.

D.D. pursed her lips. “True. And O stole Charlie’s gun earlier. Though maybe that’s for the best. That will lower her expectations of resistance, which might help Charlie in the end.”

“So now it’s a race?” Phil asked. “Do we, or does O, find Charlie first?”

“You didn’t offer Charlene police protection?” Neil asked in surprise.

“Offer it to her? Please, she won’t even return my phone calls. She called me once, told me her side of the story. She’s not so interested in our side of things. I’m thinking she doesn’t trust us much. Which may or may not have something to do with the fact that it’s one of Boston’s own officers who’s trying to kill her.”

“That’s why you didn’t pull the arrest warrant for her,” Phil said. “You still want her picked up, off the streets.”

“I think that’s safest for her, yes.”

“But no news.”

“Nada. The girl’s holed up good.”

“Hopefully,” Phil commented, “O’s thinking the same.”

“All right,” D.D. tapped the table. “Next up, I gotta meet with Horgan to secure permission to request a search warrant for Detective O’s apartment. Neil, I’ll need you to execute that warrant. Phil, I want you to continue to dig into O’s past. Anything we can learn about her-friends, hobbies, pets, food allergies-anything that might give us some insight to what she’s doing and how she might be doing it. I want time lines and facts, boom, boom, boom, including a list of all known firearms registered in her name. While you do that, I’m going to speak with her commanding officer.”

“More background?” Phil said.

“I’m working a hunch.”

“Care to share?”

She eyed him for a second. “Actually, I’ll go one better and give you the credit since you’re the one who got the ball rolling. Remember when I was going through the tox screen reports on Randi and Jackie earlier today, and I couldn’t find evidence of any drugs in their systems, and yet the only thing that makes sense is that they were drugged?”

He nodded.

“You said I needed to start thinking about drugs that didn’t leave a pharmaceutical fingerprint. Ones not covered in the tox screen.”

Phil thought about it. “Pretty smart of me. Did I mention which drug that might be?”

“No, but O did.” D.D. drummed her fingers. Of all the pieces of the puzzle, this one bothered her the most. That she had sat, shoulder to shoulder with a fellow investigator, and remained unsuspecting, even as O had leaked tiny insights into her homicidal game. Had she been reaching out, in her own way, another version of Catch Me? Or had she been simply taunting an older, more experienced detective, who should’ve known better?

“O told me about a case she’d worked as a sex crime detective: the evil stepdad was drugging his twin stepdaughters with insulin. Their blood sugar would crash, rendering them nearly comatose and unable to resist. Later, he’d bring their blood sugar levels back up by administering frosting.

“Insulin,” D.D. said softly. “Available over the counter. Easy to administer, just a quick prick to the back of the victim’s arm, into the subcutaneous fat. Within fifteen to twenty minutes, the victim would be rendered unconscious and O could do whatever she wanted. And there’d be nothing they could do to stop her.”

Neil stared at her. “Insulin,” he repeated. “Yep, that would do it.”

D.D. rose to standing. “We need to locate Detective O,” D.D. stated firmly. “And we need to find Charlene Grant. It’s three forty-three on January twenty-first, gentlemen. Abigail is once again on the hunt. And no amount of boxing or running is going to save Charlie, if Abigail, and her insulin, finds her first.”