Point of Origin

  She nodded. “We met for an hour.”

  Lucy was getting increasingly restless.

  “Before you get into that,” I said, “could you give us as much of her background as possible?”

  “Absolutely. And by the way, I have dates and times for her appointments, if you need all that. I’d been seeing her on and off for three years.”

  “Off and on?” Marino asked as he sat forward in the deep seat and starting sliding back into its deep cushions again.

  “Claire was paying her own way through school. She worked as a waitress at the Blockade Runner at Wrightsville Beach. She’d do nothing but work and save, then pay for a term, then drop out again to earn more money. I didn’t see her when she wasn’t in school, and this is where a lot of her difficulties began, it’s my belief.”

  “I’m going to let you guys handle this,” Lucy abruptly said. “I want to make sure someone’s staying with the helicopter.”

  Lucy went out and shut the door behind her, and I felt a wave of fear. I didn’t know that Lucy wouldn’t hit the streets alone to look for Carrie. Marino briefly met my eyes, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing. Our agent escort, Ginny, was stiff on the love seat, appropriately unobtrusive, offering nothing but her attention.

  “About a year ago,” Dr. Booth went on, “Claire met Kenneth Sparkes, and I know I’m not telling you something you’re not already aware of. She was a competitive surfer and he had a beach house in Wrightsville. The long and short of it is they got involved in a brief, extremely intense affair, which he cut off.”

  “This was while she was enrolled in school,” I said.

  “Yes. Second term. They broke up in the summer, and she didn’t return to the university until the following winter. She didn’t come in to see me until that February when her English professor noticed that she was constantly falling asleep in class and smelled of alcohol. Concerned, he went to the dean, and she was put on probation, with the stipulation that she had to come back to see me. This was all related to Sparkes, I’m afraid. Claire was adopted, the situation a very unhappy one. She left home when she was sixteen, came to Wrightsville, and did any kind of work she could to survive.”

  “Where are her parents now?” Marino asked.

  “Her birth parents? We don’t know who they are.”

  “No. The ones who adopted her.”

  “Chicago. They have had no contact with her since she left home. But they do know she’s dead. I have spoken to them.”

  “Dr. Booth,” I said, “do you have any idea why Claire would have gone to Sparkes’s house in Warrenton?”

  “She was completely incapable of dealing with rejection. I can only speculate she went there to see him, in hopes she might resolve something. I do know she stopped calling him last spring, because he finally changed to another unlisted phone number. Her only possible contact was to just show up, my guess is.”

  “In an old Mercedes that belonged to a psychotherapist named Newton Joyce?” Marino asked, adjusting his position again.

  Dr. Booth was startled. “Now I didn’t know that,” she said. “She was driving Newton’s car?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally, but certainly I know his reputation. Claire started going to him because she felt she needed a male perspective. This was within the past two months. He certainly wouldn’t have been my choice.”

  “Why?” Marino asked.

  Dr. Booth gathered her thoughts, her face tight with anger.

  “This is all very messy,” she finally said. “Which might begin to explain my reluctance to talk about Claire when you first began to call. Newton is a spoiled rich boy who has never had to work but decided to go into psychotherapy. A power trip for him, I suppose.”

  “He seems to have vanished in thin air,” Marino said.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary about that,” she replied shortly. “He’s in and out as he pleases, sometimes for months or even years at a time. I’ve been here at the university for thirty-some years now, and I remember him as a boy. Could charm the birds out of the trees and talk people into anything, but he’s all about himself. And I was most concerned when Claire began to see him. Let’s just say that no one would ever accuse Newton of being ethical. He makes his own rules. But he’s never been caught.”

  “At what?” I asked. “Caught at what?”

  “Controlling patients in a way that is most inappropriate.”

  “Having sexual relations with them?” I asked.

  “I’ve never heard proof of that. It was more of a mind thing, a dominance thing, and it was very apparent that he completely dominated Claire. She was utterly dependent on him just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “After their very first session. She would come in here and spend the entire time talking about him, obsessing. That’s what’s so odd about her going to see Sparkes. I truly thought she was over him and besotted with Newton. I honestly think she would have done anything Newton told her to do.”

  “Possible he might have suggested she go see Sparkes? For therapeutic reasons, such as closure?” I said.

  Dr. Booth smiled ironically.

  “He may have suggested she go see him, but I doubt it was to help her,” she replied. “I’m sorry to say that if going there was Newton’s idea, then it most likely was manipulative.”

  “I sure would like to know how the two of them got hooked up,” Marino said, scooting forward in the papasan chair. “I’m guessing that someone referred her to him.”

  “Oh no,” she replied. “They met on a photo shoot.”

  “What do you mean?” I said as my blood stopped in my veins.

  “He’s quite enamored with all things Hollywood and has finagled his way into working with production crews for movies and photo shoots. You know Screen Gems studio is right here in town, and Claire’s minor was film studies. It was her dream to be an actress. Heaven knows, she was beautiful enough. Based on what she told me, she was doing a modeling job at the beach, for some surfing magazine, I think. And he was part of the production crew, the photographer, in this instance. Apparently he is accomplished in that.”

  “You said he was in and out a lot,” Marino said. “Maybe he had other residences?”

  “I don’t know anything more about him, really,” she replied.

  Within an hour, the Wilmington Police Department had a warrant to search Newton Joyce’s property in the historic district, several blocks from the water. His white frame house was one story with a broken-pitch gable roof that covered the porch in front at the end of a quiet street of other tired nineteenth-century homes with porches and piazzas.

  Huge magnolias darkly shadowed his yard with only patches of wan sunlight seeping through, and the air was fitful with insects. By now, McGovern had caught up with us, and we waited on the slumping back porch as a detective used a tactical baton to break out a pane of glass from the door. Then he reached his hand inside and freed the lock.

  Marino, McGovern, and a Detective Scroggins went first with pistols close to their bodies and pointed to shoot. I was close behind, unarmed and unnerved by the creepiness of this place Joyce called home. We entered a small sitting area that had been modified to accommodate patients. There was a rather ghastly old red velvet Victorian couch, a marble-topped end table centered by a milkglass lamp, and a coffee table scattered with magazines that were many months old. Through a doorway was his office, and it was even stranger.

  Yellowed knotty pine walls were almost completely covered with framed photographs of what I assumed were models and actors in various publicity poses. Quite literally, there were hundreds of them, and I assumed Joyce had taken them himself. I could not imagine a patient pouring out his problems in the midst of so many beautiful bodies and faces. On Joyce’s desk were a Rolodex, date book, paperwork, and a telephone. While Scroggins began playing messages from the answering machine, I looked around some more.

  On bookcases were worn-out cloth and leather volumes of classics that
were too dusty to have been opened in many years. There was a cracked brown leather couch, presumably for his patients, and next to it a small table bearing a single water glass. It was almost empty and smeared around the rim with pale peach lipstick. Directly across from the couch was an intricately carved, high-back mahogany armchair that brought to mind a throne. I heard Marino and McGovern checking other rooms while voices drifted out of Joyce’s answering machine. All of the messages had been left after the evening of June fifth, or the day before Claire’s death. Patients had called about their appointments. A travel agent had left word about two tickets to Paris.

  “What’d you say that fire starter thing looks like?” Detective Scroggins asked as he opened another desk drawer.

  “A thin bar of silvery metal,” I answered him. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Nothing like that in here. But the guy sure is into rubber bands. Must be thousands of them. Looks like he was making these weird little balls.”

  He held up a perfectly shaped sphere made completely of rubber bands.

  “Now how the hell do you think he did that?” Scroggins was amazed. “You think he started with just one and then kept winding others all around like golf ball innards?”

  I didn’t know.

  “What kind of mind is that, huh?” Scroggins went on. “You think he was sitting here doing that while he was talking with his patients?”

  “At this point,” I replied, “not much would surprise me.”

  “What a whacko. So far I’ve found thirteen, fourteen . . . uh, nineteen balls.”

  He was pulling them out and setting them on top of the desk, and then Marino called me from the back of the house.

  “Doc, think you’d better come here.”

  I followed the sounds of him and McGovern through a small kitchen with old appliances that were layered in the civilizations of former meals. Dishes were piled in cold scummy water in the sink, and the garbage can was overflowing, the stench awful. Newton Joyce was more slovenly than Marino, and I would not have thought that possible, nor did it square with the orderliness of Joyce’s rubber band balls or what I believed were his crimes. But despite criminalist texts and Hollywood renditions, people were not a science and they were not consistent. A prime example was what Marino and McGovern had discovered in the garage.

  It was connected to the kitchen by a door that had been made inaccessible by a padlock that Marino had handily removed with bolt cutters that McGovern had fetched from her Explorer. On the other side was a work area with no door leading outside, for it had been closed in with cinder block. Walls were painted white, and against one were fifty-gallon drums of aviation gasoline. There was a stainless steel Sub-Zero freezer and its door, ominously, was padlocked. The concrete floor was very clean, and in a corner were five aluminum camera cases and Styrofoam ice chests of varying sizes. Central was a large plyboard table covered with felt and here were arranged the instruments of Joyce’s crimes.

  Half a dozen knives were lined in a perfect row, with precisely the same spacing between each. All were in their leather cases, and in a small redwood box were sharpening stones.

  “I’ll be damned,” Marino said, pointing out the knives to me. “Let me tell you what these are, Doc. The bone-handled ones are R. W. Loveless skinner knives, made by Beretta. For collectors, numbered, and costing around six hundred bucks a pop.”

  He stared at them with lust but did not touch.

  “The blue steel babies are Chris Reeves, at least four hundred a pop, and the butts of the handles unscrew if you want to store matches in them,” he went on.

  I heard a distant door shut, and then Scroggins appeared with Lucy. The detective was as awed by the knives as Marino was, and then the two of them and McGovern resumed opening drawers of tool chests, and prying open two cabinets that held other chilling signs that we had found our killer. In a plastic Speedo bag were eight silicone swim caps, all of them hot pink. Each was zipped inside a plastic pouch with price stickers that said Joyce had paid sixteen dollars apiece for them. As for fire starters, there were four of them in a Wal-Mart bag.

  Joyce also had a modular desk in his concrete cave, and we left it to Lucy to access whatever she could. She sat in a folding chair and began working the keyboard while Marino took the bolt cutters to the freezer, which, eerily, was precisely the same model I had at home.

  “This is too easy,” Lucy said. “He’s downloaded his e-mail onto a disk. No password or anything. Stuff he sent and received. About eighteen months’ worth. We got a username of FMKIRBY. From Kirby, I presume. Now I wonder who that pen pal might be,” she sarcastically added.

  I moved closer and looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through notes that Carrie had sent to Newton Joyce, whose username horrifically was skinner, and those he had sent to her. On May tenth he wrote:

  Found her. A connection to die for. How does a major media tycoon sound? Am I good?

  And the next day, Carrie had written back:

  Yes, GOOD. I want them. Then fly me out of here, bird man. You can show me later. I want to look in their empty eyes and see.

  “My God,” I muttered. “She wanted him to kill in Virginia, and do so in a way that would insure my participation.”

  Lucy scrolled some more, and her tapping of the down arrow was impatient and angry.

  “So he happens upon Claire Rawley at a photo shoot, and she turns out to be the bait. The perfect lure because of her past relationship to Sparkes,” I went on. “Joyce and Claire go to his farm, but he’s out of town. Sparkes is spared. Joyce murders and mutilates her, and burns the place.” I paused, reading more old mail. “And now here we are.”

  “Here we are because she wants us here,” Lucy said. “We were supposed to find all this.”

  She tapped the key hard.

  “Don’t you get it?” she asked.

  She turned around and looked at me.

  “She reeled us in, here, so we would see all this,” she said.

  Bolt cutters suddenly snapped loudly through steel, and the freezer door sucked open.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Marino shouted. “Fuck!” he cried.

  23

  ON THE TOP wire shelf were two bald mannikin heads, one male, one female, with blank faces smeared black with frozen blood. They had been used as forms for the faces Joyce had stolen, each one laid over the mannikin’s face, then frozen hard to give his trophies shape. Joyce had shrouded his mask-like horrors in triple layers of plastic freezer bags that were labeled like evidence, with case numbers, locations, and dates.

  The most recent was the one on top, and I robotically picked it up as my heart began to pound so hard that for an instant, the world went black. I began to shake and was aware of nothing else until I came to in McGovern’s arms. She was helping me into the chair where Lucy had been seated at the desk.

  “Someone bring her some water,” McGovern was saying. “It’s all right, Kay. It’s all right.”

  I focused on the freezer with its wide-open door and stacks of plastic bags hinting of flesh and blood. Marino was pacing the garage, running his fingers through his thinning strands of hair. His face was the hue of a stroke about to happen, and Lucy was gone.

  “Where’s Lucy?” I asked with a dry mouth.

  “She’s gone to get a first aid kit,” McGovern answered in a gentle voice. “Just be quiet, try to relax, and we’re going to get you out of here. You don’t need to be seeing all this.”

  But I already had. I had seen the empty face, the misshapen mouth and nose that had no bridge. I had seen the orange-tinted flesh sparkling with ice. The date on the freezer bag was June 17, the location Philadelphia, and that had penetrated at the same time I was looking, and then it was too late, or maybe I would have looked anyway, because I had to know.

  “They’ve been here,” I said.

  I struggled to get up and got light-headed again.

  “They came here long enough to leave that. So we’d find it,” I said.


  “Goddamn son of a bitch!” Marino screamed. “GOD-DAMN-MOTHER-FUCKING-SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

  He roughly wiped his eyes on his fist as he continued to pace like a madman. Lucy was coming down the steps. She was pale, her eyes glassy. My niece seemed dazed.

  “McGovern to Correll,” she said into her portable radio.

  “Correll,” the voice came back.

  “You guys get on over here.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “I’m calling our forensic guys,” said Detective Scroggins.

  He was stunned, too, but not the same way we were. For him, this wasn’t personal. He had never heard of Benton Wesley. Scroggins was carefully going through the bags in the freezer, his lips moving as he counted.

  “Holy God,” he said in amazement. “There’s twenty-seven of these things.”

  “Dates and locations,” I said, mustering my reserved strength to walk over to him.

  We looked together.

  “London, 1981. Liverpool, 1983. Dublin, 1984, and one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven. Eleven, total, from Ireland, through 1987. It looks like he really started getting into it,” Scroggins said, and he was getting excited, the way people do when they are on the verge of hysteria.

  I was looking on with him, and the location of Joyce’s kills began in Northern Ireland, with Belfast, and continued into the Republic with nine murders in Dublin, and neighborhoods such as Ballboden, Santry, and Howth, and also a murder in Galway. Then Joyce had begun his predation in the United States, mainly out west, in remote areas of Utah, Nevada, Montana, and Washington, and once in Natches, Mississippi, and this explained a lot to me, especially when I remembered what Carrie had said in her letter to me. She had made an odd reference to sawed bone.

  “The torsos,” I said as the truth ran through me like lightning. “The unsolved dismemberments in Ireland. And then he was quiet for eight years because he killed out west and the bodies were never found, or else never centrally reported. So we didn’t know about them. He never stopped, and then he came to Virginia, where his presence definitely got my attention and drove me to despair.”