Secrets to the Grave

75

“He’s in surgery,” Mendez reported, handing him a cup of coffee.

Vince sat in a chair in the ER waiting area, drained and stunned. He had already replayed the entire scenario over in his head half a dozen times, trying to make sense of the things Zander Zahn had said.

What had he been apologizing for? Killing Marissa? Killing his mother? Killing himself? When had he been bad? Thirty years ago? A week ago?

Marissa, Marissa. Mommy, mommy.

Had he confused the two and killed Marissa? Or was he saying she had been the mother he never had?

“Wow,” Mendez said. “Brilliant guy like that ... I guess it’s true what they say about it being a thin line between genius and madness.”

“I guess,” Vince murmured.

“So he was in a dissociative state when he came out of that closet at you?”

“Something like that.”

“He sure as hell looked crazy. Do you think he snapped like that when he went after Marissa?” He snapped his fingers as a thought popped into his head. “I’ve got to get his blood type so we can match it to the blood on the sweatshirt—in case he cut himself during the attack.”

Vince said nothing.

Mendez looked at him, brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“We just closed our case, man. It’s all over but the paperwork.”

“The crazy guy did it,” Vince said with none of the enthusiasm Mendez was looking for.

“Well, he did,” Mendez said. “He all but confessed.”

Vince tipped his head. “All but.”

Getting irritated, Mendez got up and began to pace. “What the hell do you want? A fucking Perry Mason moment?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” Vince got up and threw his coffee in the trash.

“You’re not still thinking you pushed him over the edge?” Mendez asked. “He’d already killed two people before you ever met him, Vince. The guy is a wack job.”

“Forgive me if I’m not happy about that,” Vince said.

The doors whooshed open, and Cal Dixon came in, trailed by a dozen reporters all shouting questions at the same time. Dixon ignored them and motioned to Mendez and Vince. The three of them went into an exam room while deputies and hospital security chased the riffraff back outside.

Mendez told the story. Dixon stood with his arms crossed over his chest, intent on every detail. Vince sat on the exam table with his forearms on his thighs, and said nothing.

“So that’s it?” Dixon said. “Zahn went crazy and killed her.”

“And then he went crazy again and tried to kill Gina Kemmer,” Vince said. “And then he went nuts again and sent a box of breasts to Milo Bordain. And one more time when he tried to run her off the road for no real reason.”

Mendez sighed his frustration. “He lost it and killed Marissa, and tried to kill Haley. Then he had to try to cover it up, so he shot Gina and dumped her down that well. He walked that fire road every day.”

“You can’t pick and choose,” Vince argued. “He’s either crazy or he’s not. And if he went into a dissociative state and killed Marissa, it’s unlikely he would have had any memory of it after. He wouldn’t try to cover up something he didn’t know he did.”

“He had to know it when he found his bloody clothes the next day,” Mendez argued. “He knew he killed his mother. He told us about it.”

“And who told him? The cops, the psychiatrists, the social workers.”

“Maybe he’s not crazy at all,” Dixon ventured. “Maybe crazy is an act. It got him off before. Why not use it again?”

“You never met him. You never talked to him,” Vince snapped. “He isn’t an act.”

“Why are we chewing each other’s tails about this?” Dixon asked.

“Because it doesn’t fucking make sense, that’s why,” Vince said, irritated. “Why all the bullshit with Milo Bordain?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like her,” Mendez said. “Maybe to make it look like her son did it.”

“We’re talking about a guy who finds it too overwhelming to go to Ralph’s to buy groceries, but he would pack human breasts in a box and drive all the way to Lompoc to perpetrate a conspiracy on the Bordain family?” Vince said, incredulous. “What is in your fucking head?”

“He practically said he did it!” Mendez said.

“But he didn’t say it, did he?”

“He stabbed himself with an eight-inch chef’s knife!”

“And what happened to ‘Steve Morgan did it’?”

A stout red-haired nurse in scrubs pulled the door open and stuck her head in. “Shut the fuck up! People in Milwaukee can hear you!”

Mendez held a hand up. “I know. If Zahn mailed the breasts to Milo Bordain, somebody in that post office is going to remember him. You don’t meet that guy and then forget about him. Bill and I will go up to Lompoc and show them the photo of Zahn.”

“Good,” Dixon said. “It would be nice to have something besides conjecture to give the district attorney—if Zahn lives.”

“We’ll probably have his blood on that sweatshirt,” Mendez said.

“If he cut himself,” Vince came back, “then where are the wounds? He didn’t have any wounds on his hands.”

“If Gina Kemmer makes it, we’ll have an ID.”

“What’s the latest on her?” Dixon asked.

Mendez frowned. “Not very good. She’s fighting infections. They can’t seem to keep her blood pressure stable, and they don’t know why.”

Still agitated, Vince slid off the table and moved with purpose toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Mendez asked.

“To call Rudy Nasser. He should know what happened.”