Sleep Tight

Chapter 13

In the City Hall building Mary, Anthony, and Gillian made a beeline for the caf6 on the first floor, a place called Larry's Canteen. There they were able to grab snack food and beverages from the vending machines-enough to get them through the next couple of hours.

The meeting room was on the same floor. When they arrived, Mary was relieved to see that Wakefield had been able to round up several detectives from the Minneapolis Police Department, officers from the Hennepin County Sheriffs office, plus agents from the BCA. Also present was the press liaison-quite likely the most important person in the room at the moment. Ben Collins was also there, lounging in a chair, feet crossed at the ankle, looking sheepish. Elliot hurried in at the last minute, out of breath and carrying a sack lunch.

It was good to see such diversification. In the old days, lack of organization, competition, and jealousy, made for little exchange of information among bureaus. Over the last several years there had been a deliberate movement toward sharing on all levels, with the various departments agreeing that they were after the same thing: capturing the criminal.

Chairs were lined up in rows schoolroom fashion.

People grabbed and rearranged them until they were U-shaped.

"I want to thank all of you for getting here on such short notice," Wakefield said, perching on the corner of a full-size desk at the front of the room. "We don't have an official autopsy report on the latest victim- who's turned out to be the missing Canary Falls girl- but we do have information that could be crucial to the safety of our citizens. I also have lab results to pass along, but we'll get to those later. Right now I'll let Agents Spence and Cantrell explain their immediate concerns."

Remaining seated, Anthony detailed what had occurred during the autopsy. His voice was low but clear.

"Is it your belief that the same person committed all of the homicides?" one of the female detectives asked.

"We can't say about the badly decomposed body," Anthony related, "but the last three were killed by the same person."

"I don't get it. What about the eyes? If it's the same person, why didn't he remove the eyes? Why didn't he stick branches in her fingers?"

"Because the girl died too soon," Mary explained. "She never had a chance to fail or disappoint him. There was no reason for him to remove her eyes or try to graft her, because she was still an enigma to him."

"I've been thinking about that eye deal." Without removing his hands from his sweatshirt pockets, Ben wiggled higher in his seat. He seemed to have shaken off his earlier no-show shame. "It's like Santa Lucia."

"Lucia?" Wakefield asked, looking both annoyed and baffled.

"Yeah, you know. The saint who gouged out her own eyes."

"Not familiar with that story." Wakefield glanced at Gillian, the big reader.

"This guy liked her-a lot, especially her eyes," Ben went on. "But she didn't want anything to do with him, so she gouged them out and sent them to him. Haven't you seen that picture of her with her eyes on a plate? At first you think it's just a couple of grapes she's offering somebody, but then, when you look closer, you see they're eyeballs."

People laughed, mostly at the inappropriateness of Ben's contribution.

"Isn't Lucia a Swedish celebration?" Mary asked, willing to follow Ben down his path. "I wonder if that in some way might tie in with the blond hair. Did all the victims have similar eye color?"

Several people flipped through paperwork and reports. "All blue."

"Ben may be on to something," Anthony said. "At this point I'm not sure what, but it's good to throw all ideas out there. You never know where it might lead or what kind of connection might later be drawn."

Wakefield checked his watch. "Okay, let's move on. What about the method in which the eyes were removed? We have one done with almost surgical precision, another torn out. How do you find a correlation there?"

"The removal itself is the correlation," Mary said. "How they were removed directly reflects the killer's emotional state at the time. With one he was cool and careful. With the other, angry and sloppy."

"What about the surgical precision?" Wakefield asked. "Your profile says nothing about the guy possibly being a surgeon."

"Nothing points in that direction. Although remember that a profile is only an educated guess. He's obviously proficient with a blade, has a fondness for roses, and could even be into propagation."

"We've got Records running the profile right now, matching it to people on our extended suspect list. We should have it narrowed down in a few days. As soon as that happens, I'll get copies to everybody."

"The city and surrounding areas need to be on high alert," Anthony said. "I don't want people to panic, but this is a grave situation. He could strike again at any moment."

"The department's scheduled a press conference in two hours," Wakefield said. He got to his feet and passed out lab results. "Here's what we've got so far. They found the same navy fiber on both April Ellison and Bambi Scott.

"The dress worn by the Ellison girl is a vintage 1960s number," he added. "We figure it's something the guy had around the house-maybe belonged to his mother, aunt, grandmother-or he picked it up in one of those little shops around town. We have people looking into that prospect, but so far no results. They've hit the vintage shops; now they're working on charity places like Goodwill."

Wakefield continued. "This guy just isn't leaving much in the way of clues. And I'll tell you something-Walgreen's can't keep dark hair color on the shelves. Light-haired women all over the place are dyeing their hair." He looked around the room. "Anybody got anything else?"

Gillian opened her folder. "Unfortunately, the BCA hasn't made much progress. We've reviewed the surveillance tapes from the mall hundreds of times, but can't pull anything together. We've had our experts enhance the visuals, coming up with several faces we've finally matched to names. None of them have fit the profile, and all of them look clean. Right now, we're hoping for a tip from the public."

The group broke up, with Gillian and Ben heading back to St. Paul to report the most recent findings to the BCA. Elliot remained at City Hall. The mayor wanted to speak with him and Wakefield before the press conference. Mary and Anthony exited the building through the Fifth Street doors, moving toward the Third Avenue ramp where Anthony had parked his car.

"I've got to get something substantial to eat, how about you?" Anthony asked.

"There used to be a little pub up two streets."

They headed in that direction.

It was still there. People were getting off work, and the pub was dark, crowded, and intimate. The hostess put them at a small, highly varnished table near the front window.

They ordered sandwich baskets and iced tea.

The waitress brought their drinks, placing both glasses on small square napkins. Mary smiled at her and nodded her thanks.

"How's the arm?" Anthony asked.

"Almost normal. The anti-inflammatories seem to be working."

Mary was dressed in a dark blue suit Anthony recognized, along with a white top. Her skin was almost flawless, her mouth, even without its present touch of color, was perfectly shaped. She was lean and tall. He liked that.

She squeezed lemon into her drink. Evening light filtered in, illuminating one side of her face. Green eyes. That always surprised him about her; under most conditions her eyes looked brown.

"As one trained in the art of acute observation, I can't help but notice a certain amount of tension whenever your sister's around," Anthony said.

She gave him a pained, I'd-rather-not-talk-about-it look. "We have some unresolved issues I'm trying to put aside so I can remain focused on this case." Her voice was dismissive.

In the time they'd been partners, he couldn't recall her ever volunteering information about herself. Anything he'd picked up had been sifted through casual conversation. But then, he'd never told her much about himself either.

He sensed that Mary was struggling with something Gillian had done to her, and Anthony knew forgiving someone for past grievances wasn't easy.

"Did I ever tell you my father was a football coach?" he asked.

Mary looked up, and he could see she thought he was joking. His family's obsession with football had been the crux of his childhood. He'd been a stranger in a strange land.

"It's true," he said. "I come from a real rah-rah family. My father coached, my three brothers played football, and my mother drove them all over the country to their games."

She leaned closer, chin in her palm. "Where did you fit into this picture?"

"I didn't. One of my earliest memories is of my dad trying to teach me to throw a football. I had no interest in it. I kept tossing it down and walking away. That lack of interest only intensified with age."

"That must have been alienating."

"That's the word for it. For years my father and brothers tried to shame me into playing until I eventually refused to attend any games." He took a swallow of tea. "We lived in a small town. Only one high school. Their rejection of me was contagious. I couldn't go anywhere without some redneck saying, 'Hey, Spence. Why ain't ya' playin' football? Are you afraid of hurtin' your wrist?' That line almost always called for a dangle of the hand. Then the guy and his buddies would fall all over themselves laughing."

"Is your dad still coaching?"

"Semi-retired."

"And your brothers?"

"They went on to play college football until injuries sidelined them." He nodded at the familiarity of the story. When he was a kid, it had seemed unique. Now he knew it was a plot that had replayed itself in towns across the country. "Of course, they're all proud as hell of me now. Last time I was home for a visit, the guy who started the limp-wrist thing was practically kissing my feet."

She was watching him with sympathy and understanding. "And you resent that."

"Hell yes." He smiled even though the subject was one that still filled him with bitterness. He'd been robbed of his childhood, while the very people who should have supported him were the bullies leading the attack, condemning who he was. Had something similar happened to Mary? If so, he could understand her reluctance to work with her sister. Yet he also knew bitterness was crippling and served no purpose.

"This is all very enlightening, but I'm suspicious. Why are you telling me your life story right now?"

He shrugged. "The atmosphere seemed conducive. Two people sharing a meal in a dark pub."

She was watching him with a half-smile-she wasn't falling for it. She wasn't going to show him her scars just because he'd shown her his.

As if to signal a change of subject, Anthony banged a long metal spoon around in the tall glass. "What are you doing tonight?"

She gave him a strange look, and he could tell she was wondering if he'd just asked her out on a date.

He could see the idea develop, see the instant it was dismissed as preposterous, see her finally pick it up again only to end with lingering confusion.

He put her out of her misery. "I was wondering if you could look over the details of the Texas case I'm working on. J've run into a couple of rough spots."

She relaxed, back on secure ground. "I'm going to be busy earlier, but how does nine o'clock sound?"

"That'll work." He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, holding it lightly in his. "Cat?" He ran a finger across the angry red scratch that showed up starkly against her white skin.

"No, I was out in the woods."

He sensed her discomfort with physical contact and held her hand a little more tightly. "You've never struck me as the outdoor type. Does this sudden interest have anything to do with the current case?"

"No."

"What about Fiona Portman?"

She pulled her hand away and, to discourage any attempt to renew contact, moved it to her lap under the table. "What do you know about Fiona?"

"That she was a friend of yours who was murdered when you were seventeen. Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Sometime?"

"It's over. It happened years ago."

The longer you were around somebody, the easier that person got to read. Mary was hiding something. "Are you sure it's over?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Then why were you in the woods?"

She tossed down her napkin and got to her feet. "I have to go to the ladies' room."

Anthony watched her walk away. Blythe had given him a general explanation of Fiona Portman's death, but he had the feeling she'd left out some important details. He and Blythe should have another talk, he decided. After all, getting information was his specialty.