Dan laughed.
“None of them were Christ-centered. Really, I don’t know. Guess I never found the right person.”
“Like me.”
“No, not like you,” she said. “I’m looking. You’re not.”
“I thought most professional, independent women denied that they were looking.”
“Well, I could lie. But there’s nothing I’d like better than to fall head over heels in love and get married and have children and live happily ever after. I know it isn’t politically correct, but I don’t make apologies for it. All my life I’ve wanted that, and someday I’m going to have it.”
He turned back to her and met her eyes. She saw the gentleness there, the sweetness, and her heart reacted despite her better judgment. “Well, I hope you do,” he said.
She leaned her face back against the glass and looked out on the courtyard again. A man and woman, both in scrubs, sat on a concrete bench. The woman leaned her head on his shoulder, and he held her and stroked her hair. Jill yearned for that kind of human warmth. It was too bad Dan felt the way he did. He had seemed so gallant, so masculine, so caring. And he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, either.
Which was exactly why he wasn’t her type. He went for anorexic blondes with beauty titles, she mused. Not plain-Janes with law degrees.
The doors to ICU opened, startling her, and she looked up and saw the others milling out, some with tears in their eyes, others laughing in relief and joy. Allie trailed at the end, her eyes tired but hopeful.
“He’s awake,” she said. “Dan, he wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” Dan asked. “Why?”
“I told him that you came instead of a bodyguard, so I guess he wants to give you instructions or something.” She grinned and lifted her eyebrows. “I’m trying to humor him. You just have a few minutes.”
“All right,” Dan said, and started through the doors.
“I have to go with you,” she said. “That’s one of his rules. Come on, Jill. You come, too.”
Jill felt awkward as they went through the doors and around to the cubicle where Mark lay. She caught her breath at the sight of him, then told herself that a man who’d been shot in the head probably had a right to look pretty rough. His eyes were closed.
She hung back and let Dan go to his bedside, as Allie took the other side. “Mark, here’s Dan,” she said. “And Jill.”
Mark opened his eyes and saw Jill at the foot of the bed. “How’s it going, Jill?” he asked weakly.
She smiled. “Great. You feeling okay?”
“Been better.” He looked up at Dan and reached for his hand. “Hey, buddy.”
Dan leaned over and lowered his voice. “Man, I thought you were ugly before, but I think you could win the championship tonight.”
Mark laughed. “You try a one-on-one with a bullet, see how you look.”
“No thanks, man.”
Mark’s face sobered, and his eyes grew more serious. “Well, you hang around us long, brother, and you might wind up doing it. No kidding.”
“I’m okay with that,” Dan said.
“I appreciate it. And I’ll pay you, man.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. I’m paying you, or I’ll call T.J. myself. I know he’ll take my money.”
Dan laughed. “What are you gonna do? Get up and go to a pay phone?”
“Don’t test me,” Mark said. “I can do it. Now do we have an understanding?”
“Whatever you say.”
“And you gotta promise me that you won’t leave her side, not for a minute. I know you’ve got to sleep, but if you sleep out there in the waiting room, keep one eye open, will you? No kidding. He’s after her. I don’t even think he’s afraid of getting caught. You’ve got to watch over her, man, because I can’t.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this under control. I’m not going to sleep tonight at all. I brought a book to read, and I’ll sit right next to her and keep my eyes on the door.”
“And the windows. Are there windows? What floor are we on, anyway?”
“We’re on the third floor. I won’t let anything happen to her, buddy.”
“Promise me.”
“I can do that. I promise.”
Mark seemed to relax. “What about the killer. Have they got any leads yet?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Stan today.”
“Man, they’ve got to. Pray, okay? Pray hard. With your eyes open.”
Dan chuckled. “I will. Now get some sleep. We expect to see you looking a lot better in the morning.”
Allie kissed him good night, and they all headed back into the ICU waiting room, where they were given blankets. The lights were turned down, and Jill took a seat and tried to get comfortable in her recliner.
Dan sat between her and Jill, reading a novel.
As she drifted into a light sleep, Jill told herself that no harm could come to Allie here. Dan was watching over them both.
Chapter Forty-One
Our man may be one of your firefighters.
The words played over and over in Stan’s mind as he took Celia to stay with her Aunt Aggie. Once he was sure they were both safe and settled in, he drove back to the police station and sat at his desk. Not one of our firemen, he thought. It couldn’t be.
The bunker coat could have been stolen. It didn’t mean that the killer was one of theirs.
Besides, why would the killer wear something so identifiable? What was the logic? He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. Maybe the uniform gave the killer anonymous access to places he couldn’t normally go. It had gotten him onto the airport tarmac without a security check. After he’d fired on Mark and Allie, he had escaped during the confusion. Anyone who’d seen him probably thought he was responding to the emergency and ignored him.
But that didn’t mean he was a firefighter. It only meant that he owned a uniform. These days, any yahoo off the street could walk into a specialty shop and buy any uniform he wanted, without authorization.
Stan needed advice. He needed to know what kind of person he was dealing with. Maybe his old friend Jake Logan, a psychology professor at Tulane who specialized in criminal behavior, could help. Jake had helped New Orleans police with profiles of murderers before. He could help Stan put together some kind of psychological profile on this killer. Stan dialed information and got the man’s number.
He checked his watch. It was nearing midnight, but he couldn’t wait. The phone rang once, twice—
“Hello?”
“Jake, this is Stan Shepherd. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, Stan. In fact, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I was going to call tomorrow to see if I could offer any help on this serial killer case.”
“You sure can, man. I don’t know what I’ve got on my hands here. That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’ve been following the case,” Jake said. “I’m particularly interested in the pattern of the murders—he kills them first, then sets them on fire. My guess is he’s trying to tell us something with that pattern. It means he’s a thinking man, and in my experience, I’d say that he feels some sort of high purpose for what he’s doing.”
“High purpose? Like what? How can anybody justify what he’s doing?”
“I didn’t say he was thinking rationally. Just that he’s thinking, planning. It’s very important to him to follow the murder up with a fire.”
“I figured he just wanted to destroy the evidence.”
“Then why didn’t he burn the Broussard house down? No,
I think it’s more than that. It could be that he’s involved in the occult in some way, and that he considers these to be sacrificial murders. When you find him, you’re likely to find evidence of obsession of some kind. A collection, maybe, of clips and articles about the fire department, or pictures of the women he’s targeted, or some sort of evidence of occultism, or books on a certain subject. I studied a case once where a guy killed six 7-11 workers i
n three states, because he believed in his heart that 7–11 stores were part of a conspiracy for Iran to take over our country. He believed he was killing for his country. At his home, they found stacks and stacks of articles from the Internet about conspiracies and attempts to overthrow the government. He felt he had a mission to fulfill, and he set out to do it.”
“Would people know about this obsession?” Stan asked. “I mean, would the people he’s around every day think he’s strange? Would there be clues?”
“Maybe not. Serial killers often live very normal lives, and later their friends and acquaintances are stunned to learn that they’ve done such brutal things. But in this guy’s case, I’d say he’s going to start making mistakes soon. One would almost think that he wants to be found out, judging by the way he went after that couple in broad daylight at the airport. If I were you, I’d be worried: his carelessness means that he intends to keep his agenda, whatever the cost to him.”
Stan rubbed his forehead, trying to process all of this. “There’s one new development, just between you and me,” he said. “It seems that the guy at the airport was wearing a Newpointe firefighter’s uniform. I’m trying to figure out if he’s one of our guys, or if he’s just using the uniform. I know all of our firemen, Jake, and I can’t think of one that would do something this bizarre.”
Jake was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Stan. It doesn’t make sense that he’d steal or buy a uniform, unless that was one more piece in the puzzle. Part of the statement he’s making, if you will. Is there any other evidence that it really could be a firefighter?”
“Well, he uses diesel fuel to start the fires, which is safer for the arsonist, because the fumes don’t rise as fast as gasoline. Not everybody knows that, but firemen do. He knows when the husbands won’t be home. And today he knew where to find Mark and Allie. Seems like it’s someone who knows them well. And why are the firemen’s wives the target? Why no one else?”
“Do you have any bitter widowers who’ve lost their wives, so they want to deprive everyone else of theirs?”
“Well, yeah. We have a couple of widowers.”
Jake was getting excited. “Were either of their wives shot or burned to death?”
Stan frowned. “No, I’m sure they weren’t.”
“Oh.” Stan could almost hear the wheels turning in Jake’s brain. “That blows that theory. I thought maybe these were murders of revenge—a firefighter who had a vendetta, and wanted his coworkers to pay for something. Maybe not.” He thought for a moment. “Did the fire department lose anyone in the last couple of years? Fire victims, I mean. Anyone they didn’t save?”
Stan thought for a moment. “Yeah. Three people. A few months ago two kids died of smoke asphyxiation before the fire department got to the scene. And before that, probably a year ago, a woman burned to death in a fire.”
“The father of the children!” Jake said. “Where is he?”
Stan saw where Jake was going with this and shook his head. “The mother was single—as in, father unknown.”
“Okay, what about the husband of the woman who died?”
“Dead. Was killed a few months ago, too, in a car accident. I think we’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Stan wondered if he was any closer than he’d been when he made the call. “Look, I appreciate your help, Jake. Can I call you back if I get anything new? Maybe you can help me brainstorm some more.”
“I hope you will,” Jake said. “This is fascinating. Simply fascinating.”
“Yeah, well. Look, keep that bit about the fire uniform between us, okay? I don’t want that leaked.”
“You mean, don’t make this a case for my classes to solve?” He could hear the smile in Jake’s voice.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off.”
“Will do. I won’t say a word until you’ve locked the guy up.”
When Stan hung up, he walked out the back door of the police station, where a full moon painted the bayou behind them in grays and blacks. He looked into the yard behind the fire station. Two of the guys were out there now, one of them smoking a cigarette. He watched the red, glowing ember blaze more brightly, hang in the darkness as the man puffed, then drop to the grass where it was ground out with the toe of a foot.
Not a fireman, he thought. It couldn’t be a fireman.
He went back to his desk. Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct the events on the day of Martha’s and Jamie’s murders. There was the parade first…He got a pen and began to jot down the names of all the firemen he remembered seeing in the parade. That was difficult since they’d been made up like clowns, so he moved his thoughts to Martha Broussard’s house, and the people who had been on the scene while they were sifting through the rubble. He had seen Mark Branning and Cale Larkins and Ray Ford, all men whose lives would be irrevocably affected by the events that began on that day. He remembered seeing Craig Barnes, and Nick Foster had been there—without makeup, since he’d been on the skeleton crew at the fire station that day—and Dan Nichols and Junior Reynolds had been with him. He closed his eyes tighter and tried to remember the others—which ones had gotten there sooner, which ones later, who they were standing with, whether they were in uniform, civilian clothes, or dressed like clowns.
Could one of them have been the one who’d shot Martha Broussard, dragged her out to a storage house, and set fire to her? Could one of them have been the one who came into Jamie Larkins’s house at night and killed her, then buried her in flames? Had one of those men shot Susan? Then Mark?
The thought made him shudder, so he tried to think clearly, despite the fatigue that made his entire body ache. Since most of the firemen were accounted for on Fat Tuesday, he discarded the process of elimination. He tried a different tack: Did the evidence point to anyone in particular?
And then he remembered the other night, when Dan Nichols had been caught with a crowbar in his hand at Allie’s shop, and the building had almost been broken into. Had Dan lied? Had he been the one breaking in?
And then there was Craig Barnes, who had gone into Allie’s home the night of the stakeout. Had he lied about what he was doing? Did his suspicious behavior make him a suspect?
He rested his face in his hands and tried to think. First, he needed the personnel records of all of the firemen on the force. Maybe just examining their histories, their job performance, their beefs, their reprimands, could help him finally eliminate some of the firemen and target others as possible suspects. The first two files he would look at would be Dan’s and Craig’s—with the hope that he could rule them out.
But how would he get those files quietly? If the press heard that the detective on the case was asking for firefighters’ personnel files, they’d have a field day. It would destroy the whole investigation and jeopardize their search for the killer. Even if he did it in private, he’d have to get those files through Craig Barnes.
He looked around the room. Ah—LaTonya Mason, the skinny little rookie cop who was always looking for something important to do. He slid his chair back, went to her desk, pulled up a chair, and sat close enough to her to speak in a low voice without being overheard. “I need your help,” he said.
She looked up at him, her black eyes suspicious. “Oh, yeah? Whatchu want?”
“I need for you to get some files for me first thing in the morning. I want the personnel files of all the firefighters in town. But I don’t want anyone to know who requested them. I want it to seem routine. Tell the chief we’re ready for another round of drug testing, and we need the files so we can decide who to test. Got that?”
“Sure.” She wrote down what she was to say, then looked up at him, folding her fist and propping her chin on it. “So what’s the real reason? Somethin’ to do with these murders?”
“I can’t say just yet,” he said. “But this is all confidential. You’re not to talk about this with anybody, even another cop. That clear?”
“Sure.”
“And whatever you do
, don’t let Barnes know that I requested it. If he asks you, just say that you don’t know who will be doing the testing. That’ll be evasive enough.”
“Do we always request all the files before we do drug testin’?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest idea,” Stan said. “But if we don’t, we should. Tell him we’ve decided to start.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, LaTonya. Put them in a closed box on my desk, and I’ll see them when I come in tomorrow.”
“Yeah, if you go home in the first place. Everybody worked like you, we wouldn’t need shifts.”
Stan headed back to his desk. What LaTonya had said was true. But it was hard to go home and sleep comfortably when two friends were fighting for their lives in the hospital, and at least a few more were on some killer’s hit list.
Still, he was exhausted. Since he couldn’t get those files until morning, maybe he should go home and sleep. Besides, he was worried about Celia. Even though she wasn’t a fire wife, he was uneasy. Presumably, the killer knew Stan was on the case. What if he decided to hit Celia, too, just to slow Stan’s investigation? The thought, as unlikely as it seemed, plagued him.
He went home, punched in the phone code that would forward calls to his cellular phone, and went to Aunt Aggie’s to be with Celia.
Celia was already in bed in the guest room. Stan got undressed, set the phone on the bed table, and climbed in beside her. She snuggled up to him, her warmth giving him more comfort than he’d had in days. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep.
The phone chirped, startling Stan out of sleep. Forgetting where he was, he glanced groggily to where the clock should be. How long had he slept? It rang again, and Celia stirred. “I’ll get it.”
“No, I’ve got it.” It was still dark, not morning yet. Fumbling, he reached for the cell phone.
“Shepherd.” He reached for the light, turned it on. His watch read three A.M.
“Sorry to wake you, Stan, but I thought you’d wanna know.” The voice belonged to LaTonya Mason at the precinct. “There’s been another murder.”