Iceman

Buckhead Medical Park

“Doctor Lishness, I don't understand why you're being so unresponsive to me,” Eichord said, working to keep control of his temper. They had finally located Schumway's psychotherapist.

“I'm not being unresponsive."

“What would you call it, then?"

“What?” Unruffled. One of those icicle types. A face that reminded you of the younger Teddy in his senatorial bifocals. Was it a poseur's face?

“What would you call failing to respond to an official inquiry in a Homicide investigation?"

“I would call your manner irresponsible, for starters."

“Irresponsible. Do you realize this crazy son of a bitch has killed eight or ten victims—just that we KNOW about? Driven his own sister insane? Do you—"

“I've just told you that I cannot violate my code of ethics. The relationship one has with one's patients—and you should certainly be aware of this—is a highly confidential and privileged one. Unless people can rely on that total confidentiality, the system of health care collapses. Trust is an inviolable aspect of our ethical standards,” the psychotherapist said imperiously.

Eichord wanted to throttle him.

It had been a long day for Eichord. Yesterday's rocket from the deputy director of MCTF's crime lab on the DNA-matchup with the sperm traces from Heather Lennon had, in effect, cleared both Dennen-mueller and Freidrichs.

Jack was crushed by the circuit attorney's reluctance to immediately indict Alan Schumway, but the man had told him, “You don't understand the law, here. Look: the complexities of our statutes are unique to the state and, in fact, are in the process of being revised as we speak. But this is a new technology, and until it has survived some court battles, somebody's refusal to comply with a test doesn't begin to provide us with sufficient grounds to indict."

“So we'll trick our suspect. There are a dozen ways we could get blood, saliva, tissue—"

“Jesus! Jack, that's the last thing you want to do. Hey. Put a solid, concrete case against the scumwad together and lock down all the edges. That's what you need to do. Don't be counting on some lab magic to nail him. Not under these circumstances, with the current statutes and a relatively revolutionary—for us—technological breakthrough."

“The data I've seen on it is rock-solid. It's widely accepted by people in law enforcement, MIT, the—"

“You're in Buckhead County, Jack. Forget about what some egghead at the Massachussetts Institute of Technology says. Make a solid case against your man. You get some iffy DNA shit to go to trial with and the case stands a real fat chance of getting thrown out of court. Then you really will have messed in your mess kit, eh?"

Keeeerist, Eichord thought, forcing himself to breathe deeply. “Iffy DNA shit?” He thanked the C.A., por nada, and put his nose back to the grindstone.

The following day started out even worse. The composite of the suspects’ mug shots had drawn a total blank in Nevada. And Eichord had his morning ruined by a call from the Amarillo PD. They'd run the sheet by the old gentleman in Vega, and “he just couldn't be sure.” Did he even seem halfway about it? “Waffled” was the word they used in response. He waffled.

It was one of those times when as a law-enforcement peon you felt so much frustration. Schumway looked so good for it. Any why was he having so much trouble getting this Nicki Dodd interviewed? He had full-time surveillance on the house in North Buckhead and she hadn't come in or out for three days, for sure. Unless that prick Schumway had him some kind of secret tunnel. He wouldn't discount anything. One of the guys thought they might have seen a shadow at the window. Not sure.

If the woman was hiding in there, he had to find out. First—why? He could eliminate a lot of possibles with a face-to-face. He had to interview her and get it done NOW. Probable cause was the first thing. He didn't really have much, but he could throw something together, put her in a lineup, jack her around a little. See what fell into place. Main thing—he needed the house empty. He wanted in there when the place was empty. He'd get a search warrant first. No. He'd, uh, wing it.

Schumway as Spoda. It sure looked good. Especially the tie-in to Diane Taluvera in the Moss Grove bank. To reach out for somebody on probable cause was one thing; to apply for an arrest warrant from the circuit attorney's office, and to be able to give them an indictable package for trial—that was another smoke. This legal genius, Eichord, he knew all about such shit. He fumed, driving back to the station.

He'd go home and read his old depositions. Listen to the kid scream—the cartoons had stopped working, for no apparent reason. Just so he didn't dream about the trailer in Blytheville, Arkansas, and the silver platter of mean cuisine.

The night went just about the same way the day had. He went home and tried to work, trying to decide what to do, wondering which was the angle he'd missed, which was the one that was going to come back to haunt him, and all of this in one of Jonathan's loudest, ongoing tantrums. Then he and Donna got pissed with each other and he went to bed with that terrible sinking feeling in his chest, that sinking feeling that something was going to fuck him up once again, and then he'd see another page of The Journal of Retribution.

It was the one thing he never let himself think about. He wouldn't even admit it existed. It was too painful to remember the call from the nice chief down in Blytheville, telling him about the “scrapbook” they'd found when the particle-board flooring rotted out.

Hidden down under the flooring of the unmobile home was Mr. Owen Hillfloen's diary of blood. Explaining the crimes in twisted, meticulously printed phrases taken from the Scriptures.

Try as he might, he could not jerk his thoughts from the page where the old man detailed his punishment of the children, and Eichord visualized their last hours of torture. It was the page that explained why he'd taken their heads. What he'd done to them with the snakes before he killed and dismembered them.

Then he fell asleep. And in his dream he touches the filthy doorknob, turns, pushes, flashes the light around, finds the switch, hits it, sees the eyeball first as the stench overpowers him.

Some things never go away.